I wrote about her in the past, here. She'd just been released from the hospital after a suicide attempt, and her computer had been stolen, and she'd just lost her husband of thirty years. It wasn't her best day, but we had a good conversation, and I ended the trip wondering if I'd see her again.

That was many moons ago, but certain faces etch themselves into the memory. They live in the shadow of your afterthoughts, surfacing in the solitary intervals. You look through the distance and wonder. It seemed no great surprise to see her again this morning, huddling underneath a shelter with her walker. Today she was about half the weight she was when I'd seen her last, but her face was still instantly recognizable. She knew who I was at once. We were outside Central Base, and another driver, D--, was keeping her company. D-- is awesome, and had just finished up her shift on the 358, in which our friend, on D--'s bus, had fallen asleep; now D-- was waiting with her for a returning bus, to make sure she got back to where she needed to go. 

Our friend, whose name I don't know (henceforth called Barbara Jo Ann), was lamenting the fact that she'd fell asleep for two full 358 trips. I can't believe it, she moaned.
You musta needed that rest, I say. And you, D--, you must be smooooth on those brakes.
"My friend once woke up and he was locked inside the bus on the yard in the middle of the night," says Barbara Jo Ann, laughing.
I express surprise, and D-- tells how she's had that happen on her own bus three times in her career.
Me: What did you do?
"Shoot, I just gave 'em a ride home in my car."
"Wow! Wow!"
"Tha's kinda crazy," says Barbara Jo Ann. "Actually, that sounds kinda dangerous..."
"Oh, I don't really care," says D--, a squat, unassuming woman in her sixties. "If it's my time to go, it's my time to go, and there's nothing I can do about it. So, you know. Whatever!" 

Cracking a smile at us both, a genuine one, the bells on her santa hat tingling softly.

I say it again- wow!- and marveled at her freedom. The implication is more than simply not being afraid of the unknown, but of also having squared everything away, as it were. One must possess a certain awareness of self and satisfaction with one's life and actions to find such a headspace. 

Whenever I'm standing around outside Atlantic/Central Base, I always get caught up in conversations with other drivers. Here comes Kirk. Here's Mike and Whats'-His-Name, with the hair and stubble. We all pile onto the 41, us drivers and Barbara Jo Ann, and I chat happily with Kirk for a bit, but who I really want to talk to today is Barbara. Who knows when I'll see her again.

Whats-His-Name, a grizzled old timer, is somewhat nonplussed as I move over to sit next to Barbara Jo and catch up. We make an odd pair, older black woman in a bandanna and hoodie, clutching her collapsed walker and wiping tears from her moist eyes, and me, with my crisp uniform, dirty driving hands, and bright demeanor. 

We find a way to see the sunny side of the fact that all her clothes were stolen this morning, and that she missed her appointment up at THS. Mainly, I'm just thrilled that she's alive. Based on how she looked those months ago, I didn't have high hopes. And yet here she is, in dramatically better shape, somehow hanging on, exuding just enough strength to keep going, wandering forth on this path through life, this path we presume to know something about.

Someone once asked Michael Caine if he believed in God. He answered that anyone in his position would, because the odds of his life turning out the way it did are, in his words, "kind of minimal." With the success- in many senses of the word- that he's experienced, of course he does, he said. But what's really impressive is when someone is able to comprehend a just universe- whether that means theistic or godless- when they've been dragged through the ringer. 

When Barbara is sitting next to me, and telling me that she "be keeping up the attitude just because it make sense," staying mentally strong through unimaginable hardship, seeing each new day as an opportunity to surpass the previous one, significantly or incrementally...

Let us not pigeonhole this great way by calling it faith or religion or lifestyle or attitude. 

How does the human soul possess the ability to continue, in light of what it is subjected to? How is it that we, the great collective human organism, find ways to grow ever onward, searching and not finding, but somehow compelled to keep believing in ourselves, believing in the world, grudgingly, haltingly, or ebulliently? How can we have the nerve- the gall- to get up again after being beaten down? The answers we come up with for this subtle and far-reaching mystery are simplistic, only partly true, or reductive. There is simply the fact that we do. And this is good.

It's very dark now, and watery puddles zip by in the night, reflecting what they can. Northbound on Aurora, heading home, and here's a biker outside marvelling aloud to a pedestrian- "three in a row!" 

They're watching us pass by, us three- actually, four- 358s, leapfrogging our way up Aurora. I'm one of the guys in the back, alternating between second and third coach in line as we all drop off passengers. The 358 runs every 6 minutes during peak-period, peak-direction rush hour, and such bunch-ups are inevitable. Incredibly, people still run for the bus, operating on a logic that is beyond me, even though the next bus is either visible or around the corner. 

This typically causes the bus in the lead to overflow, and the one at the head of this line is doubtless packed, but inside my bus, the atmosphere is different. It isn't a busy commute for these guys. It's the morning after Christmas. Four, maybe five passengers in here, and we're sprawled out, plenty of room for everyone. It's peaceful. On the 358! What is this strange twilight zone? I don't feel any urge to drive fast tonight- just a gut feeling. I take it an expedient but leisurely pace, perhaps in keeping with the post-holiday atmosphere inside the bus. It's too relaxing in here to be stressing and speeding.

Northbound at 120th, where it's pitch black- and pitch wet- a white four-door sedan in the left lane, just ahead of me, swerves in but too late- or too soon... what is that out there?

There's a shape jaywalking across the dark street, a dainty shape with women's boots and wavy hair, and a small puffy jacket- and how is it now, that the shape is spinning up into the dark air, the white sedan slamming on its brakes just a second too late, the white bumper smashing into her knees and catapulting her into a somersault, her big purse bag upside down too, slow motion as everything spills out- lighters, makeup, coins, pencils falling everywhere, revolving, her hair dangling straight down, beneath her head- she's perfectly upside down for an instant, a reverse of how she stood a moment before- keeps on turning- and then SPLAT as she lands on her back, 270 degrees later. 

The car contacted her at a slight angle. It swerved right at the last moment, into my lane, and because of the angle in which it hit her, gave her room to rotate fully before hitting the ground. This in itself is a minor miracle. A head-on frontal hit would have forced her under the car or separated her lower legs from the rest of her body as she contacted the car's hood. The fact that I'm lollygagging up Aurora with a passenger load that would fit in my Chevy Tracker, in no rush whatsoever, is also a minor miracle. Otherwise I'd have hit both the car and the woman. Additionally, that segment of the roadway was, until today, a part of Aurora where I liked to get some speed, because it's a longer distance between zones there (10 blocks rather than the usual 5). 

All of that happens inside of one second. I stop the bus with no danger of hitting the body or car, and tell my passengers I'll be right back. I saunter out to the fallen woman. Is she okay? Can I call someone? I want to help. Can I please help? Can she move- yes, she can move. She's already getting up. No, I can't help. Miraculously, she's in perfect shape. "I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine," she tells me. "Thank you." She's shaken, but she's fine fine fine, and she doesn't need any help, and she especially doesn't need me to call anyone for help. She grabs a couple of things, tosses her hair just so, and walks into the dark night. She isn't even limping.  

The driver in the car stops having a heart attack, and speeds off like there's no tomorrow. A few of my passengers glance around, confused, and return to their books (yes, one of them was reading a real paperback book!). I get the bus moving again, and a minute later there's no indication anything even took place. Just a second too late or a few degrees different, and lives would've crumbled and shifted irreparably; but it's a secret now, and a fortuitous one. The only evidence is the litter of an abandoned handbag, mascara pencils and lighters scattered across the lanes, memories being flattened out by smoothly flowing Aurora traffic.

Jerome likes it when I relieve him. My afternoon shift begins with me standing around on the barren plains of Aurora Avenue, outside a drugstore next to a public storage facility and tire repair center. Aurora has a texture all to its own, a milieu unfound anywhere else in the city. The wide, 7-lane expanse, bordered by diners, used car lots, fleabag motels, detox centers, lumber stores, rehab facilities...ah, yes. I breathe the air in deeply, savoring the many-splendored scent of Club Cuckoo-Land, awaiting my 'living room'- let's make that 'bus'- that will soon arrive. 

Eventually the unmistakable shape of the 358 appears over the distant horizon. It rises out of the hazy distance, gently reminding us that the world is round, and soon it is here, and Jerome, the driver, can't help but smile. It's his nature, but it's also at the spectacle of seeing me in an absurdly good mood. This is the place I most want to be right now. "Jeroooomme," I say in a low rumble, as he opens the doors.

During my first days at North Base, he would look at me with something approaching wonder: as in, who the heck is this guy, and why is he so happy? Is there something I, Jerome, need to be briefed about him? Jerome would pull up, and I, Nathan, would swagger up to the bus, backpack in one hand and seat cushion and base car keys in the other, unable to stop smiling at the "awesome pile" I was about to take over. 

North Base has the least overall mileage of any base, so it gets all the old buses, and the shortage of working vehicles- and maintenance workers to fix them- is so dire that some operators can't pull out buses from the base on time anymore: there aren't any working buses on the lot. They have to wait around- 5 minutes, 90 minutes- until some driver on the road finishes his shift, returns the base, and, on the hope that that bus works, the new driver can then turn it right around and take it back on the road again. About 30 broken hybrids are sitting at North, untouched since the beginning of shakeup, unable to be repaired because of a severe lack of resources. But I'm digressing. The point is, North still has the old 2300-series artics (pictured above), and I love them. They're the Breda of diesels, and they make me happy. I specifically picked a 358 shift that uses one. Why would I want the accoutrements of a newer vehicle- low-floor, air conditioning, a ramp instead of a lift, electric assist for the engine, automated announcements, automated signage...please, no! That would be too easy!

The 2300 has a history to it. It's been around the block. It has more seats than any other Metro bus, and it has the great chat seat, enabling easy customer-driver interaction, and it has front and back doors that are the same size, which pleases me, though I have no idea why. The 2300 is not as comfortable, it has no AC, its lift is slow, but- it's been around the block, and it is awesome. I grew up riding it, and its predecessor, the 2000 series, on the 174. I suppose I am susceptible to the nostalgia bug. Plus it can make sharper turns than a hybrid coach, and it doesn't have the great and terrible "elbow thing" that the hybrids have (drivers will know what I'm talking about- I'm referring to that pesky modesty shield crap that hits your elbow all the time. I'm turning it into a bigger deal than it is, but don't tell me you don't hate that thing).

Anyways, here's Jerome, with the Awesome Pile, and he's got leftover snacks for me- a pear, plus a couple of Slim Jim pepperoni sticks. What a guy. I wish him a good afternoon, and we hit the ground running. "Put a fuckin' muzzle on it, asshole," says one passenger to another, in a discussion involving each other's dogs, who are also on board. "You need to learn how to control your shit." There was a time when I would be stricken by such an encounter, but today I am amused, without knowing why. 

"Gentlemen," I say in a stern voice, as if speaking to two lovable but misbehaving nephews- but it's of minimal use. 

The two dog owners are at odds with their cherished dog-rearing beliefs, and are unable to reach a common ground. "Lemme out right here, before I have to kill this motherfucker," the first dog owner loudly suggests, bringing a close to the dog-rearing discussion. I'm grateful. He's making excellent use of his fight-avoidance skills. What a guy. After he leaves, a frothing mouth of anger on the sidewalk, his choice fingers and red-faced yells receding into the distance, the other dog owner and myself begin laughing. I realize what's funny- the idea that a conversation about muzzling vs. not muzzling dogs could arouse such ludicrously outsized anger in anyone. But, even though they disagreed on "how to control your shit," the angry man was kind enough to refrain from "killing this [non-muzzle-believing] motherfucker." Talk about manners! My nephews are behaving well today.

"This'll be the one that finally wipes that happy grin off your face," a driver- definitely not Jerome- once told me upon learning that I'd picked the 358. We were standing outside the Central Base parking garage. You can't help but feel anxious when people stay stuff like that- they've been there, after all, and you haven't. But the thing is, they haven't been me. And man, these 358 passengers are only slightly less crazy than I am. 

I eat the pear on my break at 5th and Jackson. I look at the remaining pepperoni stick and decide it would be better enjoyed by someone else. I've just finished my book (Tom Wolfe's latest), and am considering staying inside my bus for the remaining 10 minutes- no. I'll troll about on Jackson Street for a few. It's a feeling in my gut. "When you gettin' back on Rainier [Avenue]," a street guy asks me. We chat for a moment. Eventually Cyrus shows up, driving the 36- great guy with a great attitude- we drove the 7 together last summer- and I give him the pepperoni. It's a fine moment, though nothing earth shattering, but then- who's that, getting off his bus? It's Gabrielle, that Gabrielle, from the 7, the one with the sublime understanding of positivity. Haven't seen her for months. She's found a new living situation that she likes, and her confident, gentle happiness is radiant. Palpable. Like Julia, the woman on the plane in the prior post, hers is a presence of being that doesn't insist on itself. They're not trying to shove anything in your face, or make you change your ways- no, not at all. They are simply being themselves. This is a what, a relief, an inspiration, a sublimating uplift- a reminder.

There are, at any given time, a couple of ongoing citywide conversations taking place in the city of Seattle. One revolves around transit. Everyone has a bus story, about the crazy person who sat next to them, and people share with each other their ideas about routes, drivers, vehicles, and neighborhoods. I enjoy listening to and being part of this conversation. 

Additionally, everyone has a solution for fixing all the transit problems in King County. I'm guilty of this myself. One is reminded of the national conversation during our days under Bush II, when everyone you spoke with knew exactly how to solve the Iraq war. It's human nature. 

The other great conversation in Seattle is the ongoing discussion of The Freeze. You're familiar with the Seattle Freeze- the idea that people in Seattle are uniformly standoffish or afraid of talking to strangers. 

Here's how the Freeze conversation usually starts. Two people who are strangers to each other meet inadvertently. They're at a bus stop. They're at a gallery opening. A friend's birthday party. They do not know each other, and were not trying to meet each other, but, incredibly, unbelievably, they did, violating all notions of The Freeze. How on earth did this happen? In a city possessed by the Great Freeze? At some point in the conversation, they realize this, and together marvel that they even began talking, since the Freeze would seemingly dictate that such things simply do not happen. But wait- it did. How amazing! 

The interesting thing about this hypothetical conversation is that it happens all over the city, all the time. The Freeze, though discussed and believed in daily, can be elusive. It is violated with abandon. You can avoid talking to people very easily in Seattle, but you can't help observing that the Freeze is not a hard-and-fast rule. 

There are a couple interesting points I want to make note of, though I am not entirely sure to what conclusion they lead:

-Most people who have the above conversation, in my experience, were not born and raised in Seattle. In the true spirit of America and the idea of America, Seattle is overrun with people, like myself, who originally came from other places. Specifically, it seems overrun with people from California (also like myself). Hope you guys don't mind. We just really love the place. 

-The Freeze does exist, but it exists in any city where there are also people. To what extent does it exist? Is it like the rain here, existent but overly dramatized? Or is it really as pervasive as everyone says it is? Moreover, why does the Freeze exist in Seattle? The popular theory is that it gets cold here, and people get used to being indoors- "indoors" meaning carousing with only yourself or people you already know. You become uncomfortable with strangers because you're inside all the time trying to stay warm. After all, it's bloody freezing out there. That theory sounds like it makes sense, until you remember that New York and Seattle have roughly the same latitude, and nobody thinks New York is crippled by a Freeze. 

-Nobody- and I mean nobody- actually likes the Freeze. Without question, any discussion of the Freeze is by definition a negative evaluation of the Freeze. There isn't a single person out there who thinks the Freeze is just fantastic, and anytime it's brought up, most of all in the hypothetical discussion outlined above, we all take a moment to note how appalling the concept of the Freeze is. As in, if only this darn city didn't have a stupid Freeze. Which of course begs the question- if everyone thinks the Freeze is so terrible, who are these nebulous souls who keep it up?

-In the discussion over whether or not Seattle is friendly, let us not confuse being friendly with being talkative. Being friendly involves actually thinking about what you're saying. And no, I promise I'm not trying to make snide comments about the East Coast. It only sounds that way! 

-If you strike up a conversation, the other person is usually receptive. 

-If Seattle has a freeze, there are other places that handily qualify as Pleistocene glaciers from the last great Ice Age. "This would never happen in Brussels," a girl from Brussels told me when I asked her about the book she was reading. She explained how people keep to themselves to a fault, ostensibly out of politeness. Seoul is the same. Try starting a conversation with someone on the subway in Los Angeles. Or better yet, walk the length of the car, just to see if anyone is talking to each other.

-Certain sections of Seattle are less frozen than others. Any discussion about cities will involve generalizations.

Yesterday I found myself on a plane flying into Seattle. The lady next to me, Julia, was coming home, like myself. She's been  teaching elementary school for a long time and loves it; she was as warm and kind a presence as I've come across. In the space of ten minutes a person can impress upon you a living warmth that doesn't insist upon itself, but invigorates you all the same- the good works that you have inside of you stir into awareness. What does it mean, to be kind? Radiating off of you, your gentle and complete essence. You don't need walls to hide behind. The night air is still crisp, but the cold doesn't bite anymore.

Also like myself, she once lived in LA, but has chosen Seattle as her home. I asked her what she liked about the place. She voiced two big reasons of my own- "For one, the people are friendly. And there's nature. You can go outside." How's that for a different view from the Freeze reasoning outlined above?

"Seattle is how LA used to be," she mused. It's a great migration of sorts. We remember a way, a time when things were still growing, and we keep searching for that, finding and claiming it eventually, here in this great city. 

People do talk to each other in Seattle. More often than not, they enjoy being talked to, and like all humans, they enjoy being listened to. The only thing is, you have to be the one who starts up the conversation. 

UPDATE: THIS SHOW IS CANCELLED as of Today, Tuesday, Dec. 11. Graces 5, a once excellent restaurant and local artist showcase,  was shut down on Monday, another victim of the recession.  Check back for future shows!

Did you miss the last Redmond show? Well, there's another chance to check out the images! Stop by at GRACES 5, the new restaurant in downtown Redmond, already known for its attention to atmosphere and healthy eating, where I have 15 framed images for sale through the month of December. Many of them were at the Soul Food show, but there's a few newbies as well. Reactions have been overwhelmingly positive so far; and the food is great!

Graces 5 is located at 8110 164th Ave NE in Redmond. My photos will be there till the end of this month. This will be the last show on the Eastside for a while, as I start to get back into filmmaking for 2013-14.

For more information on Graces 5, their location, and their menu, visit http://www.graces5.com or call (425) 636-8151.

Let's see, where were we-

Northgate Way: "You got a license to drive this thing?"
"Hell no, just a learner's permit!"

A dark-skinned young man, styling himself as an aloof badass, saunters off at 90th. Inwardly I hesitate, wondering if I'll get a response, but I go for it anyway: "Have a good one."
"You too," he says in a tone of mild surprise. Oh, I love it. I love it.

We move further and further out, deeper into the dark knight. Water splashing on the roadway, windshield wipers marking a rhythmic time. Sometimes the sheer mass of humanity moving up and down this corridor astounds me- each with their own lives and stories and loved ones, with their complaints, their sorrows and joys.

"That's where I lost my leg," a man says to his friend, pointing to the intersection outside. "Lady in a Mercedes, crashing through with not a care in the world." For some of these guys to say they're doing well, to tell me and others that they're happy to be alive- that's an easy thing for me to say. But they say it and mean it. That puts you in your place. I'm thankful that they even tolerate my ebullient energy, let alone enjoy it.

"Hey man, how's it going?" It's the guy who was hitting on Ozzy Osbourne. He's perhaps 40, with long hair. "Are you half Asian?"
"Yeah, wow, how did you know?"
He doesn't answer. He has other designs: "I'm giving you this card 'cause I'm into 16 year old boys."
Wow. Just Wow. I don't have a response prepared for that. Did I "forget" to take his card with me when I finished my shift? Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I may have.

"Thanks for the epic adventure," a passenger says at 170th.

There's a wheelchair that gets on northbound at 192nd. He's in a manual wheelchair, not an electric one, and he goes to the YMCA every day to work out. His being in a wheelchair is a new development- it's been less than a year. He has a drive to get out of that thing that is tenacious. The guy, at least 70, logs a full 8 hours at the Y, lifting weights, getting in the pool. There is a shame, too: he believes he was made for more. He is actually going to 185th, which is just one stop south of where he gets on at 192nd. Why is he going north, the opposite direction?

"I feel like an idiot, wasting the bus's time by getting all strapped in just to go the one stop. I can't wheel myself up there because it's a huge hill, but I can't bear to bother everyone, the driver, the passengers to only go one stop, so I go all the way up this way and come back down the other way."
"My friend, that's ridiculous. I'm happy to take you one stop. That's why I'm here. Forget about the other people, man. If you see me, I'm always happy to take you up the street. The time, I don't care about the time, it doesn't matter."
He's thankful for the consideration, but his desire to get out of that chair is overwhelming. He purposefully chose a manual chair to stay in shape. I'm inspired. Hopefully I can write on this blog a year from now that he walked onto my bus without a care in the world.

For a long section of the route there's a woman at the front seat asking questions that are vaguely unpleasant. Sometimes moreso. She doesn't realize how annoying she's being, and I field the conversation as best as I know how, keeping things civil and friendly. The conversation was a bizarre one, at times funny for me, definitely a test, and I had intended to write it down here when I got home. But I discovered a curious thing- I couldn't remember it.

Then I was reminded of something I and a driver spoke of a few years ago: "I say, hang onto every little positive thing that happens. Let the negative stuff roll away. Don't take it in and internalize it, just let it bounce off you, like refracting light. Learn from it, decide what you would do next time, and then, man, just forget about it. When you go around telling people bus stories, don't just talk about the bad stuff. That makes you remember it, and you forget all the great things that really do happen out there."
"But everyone only wants to hear the bad stuff."
"Well, what I mean by bad is, I don't mean people throwing up or breakdowns or other weird crazy stuff happening. I consider those good days."
"Whaa-?"
"Because they're an opportunity for you to be at your best. A bad event is people embarrassing themselves- by threatening to kill me, or some guy sitting there bragging about all the women he's beaten up- I'm not gonna learn anything by harboring that. It's interesting only because it's morbid, 'cause it's a dead end."

I still feel that way. "Let it [bad stuff] go;" "Don't take it personally-" these are phrases we're familiar with. I used to be terrible at it. I was happy to discover that, for the life of me, I really couldn't recall the details of that lady's unpleasant conversation. For myself, I feel like it's possible to do even more; I suggest considering the implicit flip side of these phrases we hear so often. As in, Hang on to the Good Stuff. Don't depend on it, but retain it, and let it inform your worldview.

PS- A shoutout to Mark McLaughlin, assassinated Nov. 26 fourteen years ago while driving the route down Aurora. He was one of the friendly drivers.