I wanted to check in and remind you all that progress on the upcoming show is going quite well, and that I hope to see you all there. As mentioned earlier, it's a mixture of photography, illustration, writing, and film, a few other small surprises, all topped off by a talk I'll give on the bus universe you and I have come to know so well via this blog. Details on the show here.

I would absolutely love to see you there. If you come to one show of mine, this is the one. 

After it opens, on June 13, I look forward to continuing this blog at full steam!

Well, folks, there you have it. The hiatus begins. I had actually written two more stories I had intended to post before ushering in the great sabbatical- I can't seem to stop myself- but I've decided to withhold them for the show, where I'll display them along with other heretofore unseen stories. 

As stated earlier, the purpose of this hiatus has nothing to do with lack of interest or story material, and everything to do with making my upcoming show as exciting and worthwhile as possible. I have every intention of getting "back in the game" (to quote the passenger below) after the show opens. This (solo) show will be a tongue-in-cheek "retrospective" featuring quite a sizable body of work in multiple mediums and areas of interest; I strongly encourage you to come to the opening. There will be much to enjoy, discuss, eat, view, and laugh about. 

Details are forthcoming, but for now, pencil in the date- which, by amazing chance, marks the anniversary of this blog: 

Thursday, June 13, 6pm-9pm, at the Blindfold Gallery (1718 E. Olive Way)!

I'll continue to update the site with comment responses and new batches of photos. As always, I do respond to every single comment made on the site- feel free to air your thoughts at length anywhere and everywhere.

See you soon!

The following day, on the 4 again, it's still a reunion party: I'm full, I'm late, and I'm cycling the lift who knows how many times. It can make a difference when you throw in little gestures of respect. As I load two wheelchairs downtown, and some street guys move out of my way, I say, "you guys are gentlemen. Thanks." I tell the fellow in the wheelchair what I'm doing- "don't mind me, I'm just gonna reach in here," to strap in this seat belt- and the approach makes it all easier. Awkward silences and assumptions begone. Another wheelchair comes by later, and he's one of my favorites. It's the African gent with the trinkets and toy animals all over his vehicle. We can always understand each other's words just well enough. I exclaim, "you have a different hat! But you still have your fishes!"

A sullen teenage couple sits at the very front, watching me interact with all the incoming people, and I take pleasure performing at my best in front of them. Especially the guy. It's me sending an implicit message to him: from one young person to another, you don't have to be a pissed-off badass to be respected. You can just be. In fact, you can be the opposite of a pissed-off badass, and open up to all these strangers and treat them kindly and be happy- and still be respected, often by the same guys you're trying to win over by looking pissed off. 

"Alright now. There it is," I say to two thugged-out B-boys hulking beside me, preparing to deboard. We're pulling up to their stop.
"Good-lookin,'" says the first.
"Ey, thanks, man," says the second.
"You have a good night!"
"You too!"

The pissed-off guy looked confused, and left the bus in sullen bewilderment. 

At 20th outbound a girl stepping off comes up and says, "I just wanna say, you are like the best bus driver ever." Someone seated affirms it, and this unlocks what has been a somewhat quiet ride. Voices start popping up, and there's a back-and-forth between myself and those around at the front. I try to brush off the compliments, and we're chuckling. I've already completely pulled out of the 20th zone, back on the road, when the 3 behind me honks, as if to transfer passengers. 

My mood has me predisposed to feel generous, and I pull over under totally egregious circumstances, blocking everything, not even sure what's going on here; I'm thinking to myself, "would that 3 really be honking to transfer people after I'd already long left the zone? He has to know there's just a snowball's chance that I would even stop..." I ask some folks on the sidewalk if any passengers are running up to my bus- it's dark by now- and yes, someone is, here she comes-

"Heeeyyyy!" I say, recognizing the woman boarding as she recognizes me and grins, out of breath. She another bastion of the community, along with Dee and Favorite. An older woman, light-skinned, with big brown eyes and a sharp outfit and hat- as per usual for her. She's most easily identified by her bright, warm smile.

The bus laughs at my elated response, and as she settles down we, the bus, continue our conversation. 
"He's so cute!" Somebody says, referring to me. I roll my eyes.
"Oh, I don't know about all that!" 
"Yeah you are," she repeats. I'm a little glad I can't see who it is.
"I'm gonna let you guys decide that!" I say as they laugh. To change the subject I ask the warm-smiling older woman how she's been.
"I've been great, and how are you? You're back! Are you back?"
"I am back! I've been trying to get this route a couple times now, but it wasn't happening. I was on the 7 for a while- which I like, and then I did the 358, which I also like, but now I finally made it back here and this is beautiful..."
"That's probably what he says to everybody!" she says to the captive audience.
"No, no, no," I say, beaming. "I keep comin' back to this route over and over, that's how you know! That's how you know it's true!"
She admits there's a certain logic there.
"Why?" a woman behind me inquires. I pull up to the red light at 23rd and Jefferson. 
"This is just the most fun route. There's a sense of, community, out here that other places just don't have," I say, turning around and catch the eye of an older brother with designer glasses. He smiles and nods, understanding completely. "Like this, all this conversation we're having," I continue, "people talking to each other, knowin' each other's names, you're just not gonna find that anywhere else." I look at Warm Smiling Lady: "See, I am telling the truth!"

"Food smells good," I say to a wheelchair caregiver and his bag of takeout.
"Egyptian," he says proudly. 
"Where's the restaurant?"
"Lake City." He says the name, which sounds monosyllabic, but I don't catch it.*

I still do my own announcements, as many of you know; at one point the automated voice tries to start talking right before I interrupt it to do it myself. Sometimes I wonder what passengers think about this- I don't usually interrupt the robot if she's already started talking.
"See, he turns off the automatic thing," the older brother's ladyfriend says to him. 
"Yeah, I like to do them myself," I say. 
"Uh-huh."
"It keeps me awake!"
"I know tha's right!"
"Yeah, it keeps me sharp, helps me remember what I'm doin.' Plus, man, listening to that robot lady talk for eight hours..."
They die laughing.
"She be all talkin' about 'orca card vending machines-"
"Yeah yeah-"
"And it's like, we already know that stuff!"

A middle-class Caucasian passenger- the only one- has been smiling along the whole time, occasionally commenting, feeling right at home amongst all of this. She's in her fifties, dressed smartly, and it feels like we're in a special room, or a holiday of sorts, where race doesn't exist and there is simply the universal human culture we all build from, dressed and realized in different ways. I see her and the light-skinned Warm Smile Lady discussing something. "You've been an absolute delight," she says to me as she steps out. 

Back at Harborview, a man wanders over from the Emergency Room and boards. "How are you today?" I ask.
"Oh. Crazy."
"Hey, you and me both!"
"Hell yeah!"
"Yeah man, that makes two of us!"
"In order to be a bus driver, you gotta be..."
"Completely nuts. Like I am! I love this place!"

Oh, it's great to be back. It begins. See you all soon!

---

*Can any of you help out here? I'm at a loss to recall any Egyptian restaurants in Lake City. There's the Import Market at 12528, but I don't they cook meals. Any ideas on what he might have been referring to?

The faces are there, and smiling. I'm having trouble doing anything but grinning from ear to ear.

"So you back on the 4?" A brother asks.
"Yup! Back in the game!"
"'The game' is right for this route!"

I'm back on the 3/4, and it's been a long time coming. I did it for nearly two years straight, and then lost hold of it; I gave it up voluntarily for a 7 I wanted, and it was taken over by an excellent operator just under me in seniority. That was fine. But later on, every shakeup I would try to pick it, and it would be snatched out from under me. This doesn't make sense. Drivers are not supposed to like the 3/4. Unless you're completely nutty, like I am, and love lifts, overloads, hills, deadspots on hills, bad schedules, tight turns and narrow roads...please. My friends. Just let me get in there and do my thing. I need that stuff in my life. I don't like being in 3/4 withdrawal.

Anyways, I finally got my baby back, after probably the best non-trolley shakeup ever (on the 358), and boy, it's good to be here. Drivers at Atlantic are a little closer knit, since we have to look out for each other, and it feels good to be part of that family again; walking into the base is a welcome series of excited hellos as I see my wonderful colleagues after a long time away in the far North. 

On the street, I have trouble containing myself. The first day was a mellow President's Day; it isn't until the following day that the onslaught is really there. An old Korean lady recognizes me at Union. She used to ride nearly everyday, and apparently still does; for some reason I've never talked to her. Today we discover our common heritage and language. I ask if she's finishing work, but she's actually just been eating, at her son's restaurant at the Market. "I have to eat," she says. She has a point.

"It's a number 4 for ya," I yell out to Jenny and her dog. She has a huge, genuine smile. I've never seen her wait for the 4 before.
"Oh good, a driver I know!" she says, upon hearing my voice. 
"Now, normally I see you on the 7-"
"I moved!" Jenny's excited about it. It's an easier commute. "Don't have to take that 7 no more," she enthuses. We've hardly talked before, and you can tell she wants to speak further, but isn't sure what to say. She's just happy to be here, in a comfortable space.

Behind her is Dee, headed home to the Central District. Dee's an older woman with an inspiring, vibrant presence that defies her age. She stopped using the 4 after I left it a year ago; for some reason unknown to either of us she took it by chance today, and is amazed to see me again.

"You're back," she exclaims, with an air of surprise at the impossibility of it all. 
"I decided to come back to work!"
"Where you been?"
"I been hangin' around, where you been this whole time?"
"I've been takin' that 27."
"Oh, you went over to the other side!"
"That's 'cause you weren't around!"

She's sitting halfway back into the bus. We have no business shouting like this, but we do it anyway. The others are smiling.

"You don't wanna mess with that now!" I say, about the 27. I mean, why ride the 27 when you could take the 4 and go past Harborview?
"Yeah, it aint' got nothin' on this!"
"Plus the 27's got that funky reroute."
"Yeah!"
"Yeah, Dee, you don't need that in your life!"

Jenny laughs richly from her seat a short ways back. I ask her about her new place. Jenny can't see, but she hears everything, and the three of us continue catching up, as the rest of the bus looks on smiling, laughing, and occasionally joining in. Riders who don't know me look nonplussed but excited; something is happening here, and they're new to it, learning what it is. 

It's at Harborview that the bus erupts. Familiar faces abound, and I'm practically assaulted with good vibes. Even though it's been close to a year, they somehow remember me. "Shantae!!!" I yell, as Shantae says my name in surprise. Next to her is Favorite. I don't know Favorite's name, but she always calls me Favorite, and I gladly return the favor. She's an older black lady with a rich sense of humor, and in the past would always thank me "for my guided tour" of the Central District. "Are we gonna get to see Elvis Presley's house?" She'd ask, and we'd riff off each other in the afternoon sunlight.

Shantae asks if her sister can ride for free. Of course she can. "Just for today," I add in a mock serious voice, though my reputation precedes me- does anyone in earshot actually think I would turn someone down for a ride? Shantae smiles wide. It's good to be here. I feel like I don't deserve all of this. 

Favorite and Dee move to sit by each other. It's clear they haven't seen each other since I was last around. I listen to Dee asking after Favorite's grandkids. Out here in the Central District, I'm reminded, people know each other. In the Judkins section, I wave at a Latino family's house that I haven't gotten to wave at in a year. The grandmother inside the window can't believe it.

"You still gonna make that stop at Alder?" Dee asks me. Back when I drove the route, there was a stop there, and after they took it away, I would occasionally keep using it- I learned from Metro that the stop was eliminated for political reasons pertaining to Garfield High School, and is in no way unsafe. It was always one of the silliest stop eliminations on the route. 

"Oh, you know it!" I say. "We got you covered!"
"And how about Lane?" asks Favorite in her wonderfully gentle voice.
"Lane?" Lane Street was never a stop in the past. 
"Yeah, you wanna make a stop down by Lane?"
"Ahm, lemme think about that," I say to an eruption of laughter. They know what that means.
"But what if I say like my granddaughters do and go, 'pleeeeeease?'"
"Oh, well now I feel terrible!" I say, laughing.
Jenny pipes up: "or like my grandkids do- 'pleasepleaseplease?'"
"Oh, that hurts!"
"You know," Favorite continues, "you could even just turn right on Lane and go three or four houses down,"
"Uh-huh?"
"Yeah, just if you really wanted to."
"Ooh. Temptation!"

They're not giving me a hard time. They're happy to get off at the real bus stops. We're just having fun. I look at them in the mirror and think, these are the icons of decency. I see them on towering billboards. It's the altruism and persevering ardor in this trio of older women and people like them that I look up to. They deserve to be known- but maybe that would ruin the beauty of it.

"Man, Nathan, there hasn't been this kinda talkin' or laughin' on this bus since you been gone," Favorite says.
"Oh, I don't believe that!"

At my layover, I see Jimmy walking out of the Center Park Projects. I open the doors and leap out my bus, yelling: "as I live and breathe!"
"Nathan!"
"Jimmy!"
He's one of the building managers there. I've tried to convince him to take my bus many times- it goes where he's going- but he favors walking to the light rail instead. Getting stuck in traffic on top of First Hill is apparently low on his list of favorite ways of getting home, and I try to make him see the error of his ways. "I know how badly you wanna sit at that red light with me at 9th and James," I remind him. I've spent up to 20 minutes stopped there in the past. I was able to get him to ride my bus all the way once, which bodes well: if you've get 'em once, you can get 'em again. 

Ten minutes later I fire up the coach again to begin heading back north. It's close to 10am. Peak hour is long over, and it's now my favorite time of day to drive buses- everyone's already at work, and lunch hasn't started yet. Stores are opening, and the commuters are gone; it's mostly a miscellaneous cast of characters crawling out from the woodwork- the poor, the users, sleepers, dealers, the recovering, the elderly, truants, the tired, and the hungry.

This is why I work this job.

I turn the corner onto Jackson slowly, savoring every second. I'm mildly nervous, having never done the 358 at this time of day, but exhilarated at the chance to perform at my best. When people tell horror stories, it's always about their last trip of the night, or their last day on the route. You can't check out early. People can sniff that a mile away. You've gotta stay on, right there with everyone, until you pull back into base and turn the motor off. 

I pull up to the Home Depot boys at Madison, the day labor folk, and I'm there for them. Eye contact and a smile. A sullen black man regards me with unfocused animosity as he trickles in change, but I win him over when I hand him his transfer saying, "lemme get you a little somethin.' 

The man behind him hears this and smiles, saying, "ey, gimme a little more, dogg!" Meaning a longer transfer. My transfers are huge, in part because of the long route- you calculate them from the end timepoint.
"Aw, my friend, that's four hours!"
He laughs and gets along.

The lady at the front has been watching me. "You jus gotta great attitu,'" she says with motherly affirmation. "Even the way you handled that little thing right there, that could easily ha' gone south if you made it that way." I tell her she's too kind, but she won't have it- "I'm not bein' kind, I'm jus' callin' it out like I see it. Bein' truthful is all, that's how I go through this worl'. I'm just observing. Like my uncle John says..." We discuss the virtues of patience and perspective. Her Uncle John is a longtime operator at Metro. She then says, looking at me, "you're what, lemme guess, half Korean half white?"

This is such a complete about face from Will.i.am and Slur, earlier, that I practically stop the bus as I say "how did you know that?" I'm English no longer, dark hair be damned. 

"Pretty cool penguin hat," I say to a senior with such a device perched on his head. "Take your time today," I remind him as he hobbles around. "We got no rush." Behind him, getting on the bus, is an Eastern European girl with blazing blue eyes. She's on her way to class at UW, and like Tuberculosis Man above, we find ourselves getting in depth after talking about bus routes and commute schedules. She's majoring in Business ("ah, serious!") and headed to Communications this morning. You get into their world, their moment, for a few minutes. 

I stayed with her in the conversation, asking about class, as we talked about retaining customers in a business environment when they believe they've been slighted on your account. For example, a hypothetical old lady purchases bonds that turn out badly, and believes you, the broker, instructed them to buy said bonds. "The question," she told me with her blazing blue eyes,  "is how would you resolve a conflict with her without losing her business." First there is the matter of recalling the tapes of the conversation, relaying to the lady that you never actually told her to buy those bonds, but finding a delicate balance- proving her wrong will merely drive her away. "You have to be showing that the lady was incorrectly remembering the conversation, and then make that seem unimportant. You stress the positive elements of retaining her with a second paragraph that buoys her up again..."

She's going to spend much of her day thinking about dilemmas like that, and that fascinates me. It's a world so far from my own.

Soon she is gone, to be replaced by another woman who is older. She's just moved into a new apartment east of Green Lake that she likes, and we talk about different ways of getting rid of mold, and what percentage of bleach and water to use. At 85th is a wheelchair who signals me like those men on the docks of aircraft carriers, marking where the planes should stop; he motions toward an imaginary line in the pavement. I almost make his stop bar, but am off by a few inches. He ribs me good-naturedly. The fog is now completely worn off, and sunlight streams into the morning with a benevolent force that warms everyone's mood. The wide spaces of Aurora recede into a baby blue sky, and here and there an airplane's contrails carve out a path of travel, a roomful of lives up there, traveling a world away.

"We must be getting old," the wheelchair says to the lady up front. "Oh, don't say that!" I say. I know they're talking about me. We all laugh, and they continue their conversation, with me intermittently joining in. The two of them know each other. The mood is that of a relaxing Saturday morning, in a living room with no worries; pure, quiet joy on a half-full bus. A benevolent sleeper nods into himself behind me, emitting a pungent odor that keeps us awake. Nine hours later I would see him again at the stop where he's about to get off, still wandering around in a pleasant daze. 

Into the microphone: "Alright, let's make a stop at 165th here. This is our first stop for THS. Guys have a good one, be safe today."
"I've never heard a driver call out THS before," the wheelchair says. 
"Hey, it's where we're goin,'" I say. There's good people everywhere, methadone or no methadone.

At 185th it's the man with big glasses and turquoise shorts again. I ask him if that 301 worked out. It did. He needs the lift, and starts to say "sorry,"
"Oh, don't apologize! That's why it's here, man. I like using the lift!"
There's no reason this guy should be apologizing for wanting the lift. It only takes a minute. I hope other drivers haven't been giving him a hard time, but all I can do is offer him a comfortable space, here, now. We do what we can in the series of moments called life. 

My last inbound trip of the day, at 5pm, is like what all the other trips of the day have been like- busy, loud, involving, and invigorating. It's my last day at North Base, and I feel blessed to have been assigned double shifts on the 358. Why would I want to do anything else? Every trip has been a dream, and I work through the day in a mild state of wonder- how is everything so perfect? Moment after moment, snowballing on top of each other, an endless collection of slices of life, helping people, answering questions, rockin' the lift, making my goodbyes to departing regulars. 

On a route like this there is so much being asked of you, all at once, and when you can perform at that level and not only stay above water, but excel, even if just barely- here is the exhilaration of a six-minute mile. 

Jim, a passenger, and myself, talking ferries, commuting, and Korea, where a friend of his lives; Willy, a daily commuter who wishes me well with a generosity that floors me; Kevin, going out of his way to come to the bus and say goodbye. He didn't even need to ride that day. They and so many others walk into the disappearing twilight, fading into the humming morass of the human collective. The very last trip is one of those Twilight-Zone runs with no passengers, and I spend it reflecting goodness I've been able to be a part of. The humanity of a person who takes that moment to smile, or nod, or speak as he comes up the steps; these actions may not make us a better person, but they bring out the good we already possess. It's been a long, huge day stuffed with all the above and more, a collection of "small" interactions that makes me marvel at how I'm so lucky as to experience all of this. It is one of the best days, ever, and this post does it only a paltry justice.

At the end of the day I look down at at my bundle of transfers. I usually save one and scribble notes on it if it's been a particularly great day. Today, I have no words. I walk back to the base and try to live in the memory of all of it, savoring the joyous cacophony of the day in my head. The parking lot is quiet. Up above is another plane, its contrails perfectly straight against the rich, deep blue.