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.

Hello, friends. I'm on vacation for the week, so I'll leave you with two posts, this being the first. This is the first half the route, traveling northbound, and Part Two will be the remainder of the route.

---

Ah, yes. It's the very start of the route. I love coming around the corner onto Jackson, making that huge turn off of 5th, and there's everybody, people getting off their haunches and walking toward the head of the zone, the ritual of it all, first stop on the route everyone wants. Some street guys pile on, familiar faces, getting out of the rain. Half of them are just going up the street to James. Other folks are in it for the long haul, going way out to the boonies with me. We roll slowly through the vast puddles of water. Fourth and Jackson is a lake. I see people walking to their trains or taxis, I see commuter buses going by with their well-behaved if sullen crowds, I see car drivers sitting in traffic- I could be doing those things, but there's really nowhere I'd rather be right now than at the wheel of this behemoth of a route. Why not go all out? There's a mad appeal, a craziness and warmth about being here, with these people, that gets me going.

"This is a 358," I say, trying to conceal my excitement.
"Oh yeah, baby." It's one of the James Street guys, older guy, sitting behind me.
"It's the beast!"
"That ain't no joke." He looks like B.B. King, fallen on hard times.
"I like it," I say after a pause. He concurs with time-worn enthusiasm. He gets it.

At Marion the Complaining Lady gets on. Her name is Kelsey, and she once called in a complaint on me because I pulled to the head of the zone (as I'm supposed to) and was friendly to passengers. I think she enjoys being unhappy. Sometimes you find people who take unhappy solace in rigidly clinging to rules, almost wilfully making their life difficult, in this world where there's an exception to every one. I know her name because today, there was a fellow hitting on her (politely) the whole time. She looked a little like a female version of Ozzy Osbourne with too much makeup, mixed with Goya's grotesque rendering of Maria Luisa in La Família de Carlos IV, but hey, that's just me. To each his own. I give her a big hello and go about my business, being just as friendly as I always am, and pulling to the head of the zone as I always do.

"You look way too young to be drivin' this bus," someone says at Union. I've never heard anyone say that before.

Once, doing an early morning run on a 13, a guy appeared out of the darkness at Virginia, with a face so harshly craggy you'd think he'd never smiled before. "You way too, you look way too young to be driving this," he said.
"I am," I replied with a serious and worried face.
"That's not funny, man," he said through his mask of hate. Bus drivers get extremely good at telling whether or not someone is mentally stable. This fine fellow wasn't.
"I agree, it's not funny at all." I spoke in a conspiratorial voice, like what I was saying was true and important. "We should probably do something about this. I shouldn't even be out here. Don't know how they let me on this thing."
I didn't break the illusion at all. He was freaking out. If at all possible, his face looked even angrier than it did when he boarded. He's the only fellow who's ever taken issue with my being too young to drive. Everyone else means well.

That guy's not there at Virginia today. Instead is a driver in uniform who runs up to my door- I don't recognize her, so she must be Ryerson Base- and she says, "I just wanna say you, you are the awesomest awesome bus driver ever, the most coolest..." I don't deserve such praise! I'm humbled and invigorated.

"Once again folks, this is a 358, I tell them, making the wide turn onto Battery. "The one and only. We're gonna drive out to Aurora Village tonight. Goin' all the way to Aurora Village."
"Man, you sure you wanna do that?"
"It's gonna be an epic adventure."
"I heard that!"
"We'll have gone through thick and thin by t'time it's over!"

Mercer Street, where we have another passenger with: "What are you, 16? They let you drive this bus?"

We stop at 46th, and most of the commuters clear out. A bright smile replaces them- "Oooh, hey, you're that one cool-ass bus driver!" It's a young guy, mid-20s, dressed in large black clothing, and you sense the excitement of his youthful energy, the sense of unbridled possibilities. He hasn't given up yet. He and his Caucasian girlfriend are staggering under the weight of their groceries. I help them get their cart up the stairs. They have some good-looking stuff in there. "We gotta get you home 'fore this ice cream melts," I say, involuntarily getting hungry. I'm trying to avoid sugar completely, but how do you say no to Dreyer's Slow Churned? 

The passenger next to me and I talk about her weekend plans. Her boyfriend works at the Rusty Pelican in Edmonds, and she's spending the weekend over there. She's excited. When she leaves I talk to Jonathan (I think that's his name) and his friend Maggie. There's a warmth in their eyes- two young people, one working long hours, the other looking for a job, standing up front here inside a crammed bus on a rainy night, but possessing of an enthusiasm I deeply admire. Jonathan explains his strategy for keeping your socks dry when it's raining. There is something ineffable we share as we talk, and you see glimpses of it- in them, in the other people around us- an essence, a humanity that mysteriously has the energy to continue and prosper, regardless of the circumstances. This ability to touch the goodness in yourself. Maybe it's too sacred to talk about. Hope I can hang onto that across the years.

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

Names people have called me while on the job:

Doogie
Chief
Ma'am
Bruce Lee
Nathan
Boss
Number 7
Brotha
Baby
Dipshit
Chief
Babyface
Full Meal Deal
Mister Positive
The Kid
Tha BEAST
Most Polite Bus Driver Ever
Motherfucker (as a term of criticism)
Motherfucker (as a term of endearment)
Cutie
Favorite
Advanced
Big Money
Awesome Bus Driver
Fuckin Asshole
Black Man
Ching A Ling

(Photo by Tim Willis)

Down at the bottom of the Valley. Everyone's always excited to have finally made it to Rainier and Henderson. You can't really streamline the 7 without ruining the point of the route, and it's a longish ride. "We made it to Henderson. This is Henderson Street, right by the High School, Elementary School, got the Community Center here, also grab a 106 or 107..."
"You goin' all the way to Prentice?" someone yells. Oversized jumpsuit and shaved head.
"Oh, yeah! Goin' all the way!"
"All right!"
"Yeah! We made it this far, we're not gonna give up now!"

He settles back into his chair, laughing. A girl in the corner smiles.

Interactions like this might sound utterly negligible in written form. I told someone where the route goes. Great. Or consider me greeting a "straight-up gangsta" with a "hey, how's it going?" and to hear him respond in kind and then say, to himself, "I like that;" it might read like a tiny, throwaway moment, over before it's even underway. I beg to differ. As Hugo wrote, "there are no small moments." The interactions above may have been brief, but they did happen; and what they reflect is something real going on inside the heads of the people involved. There was a shift in their minds, excited, calmed, awakened by an unexpected kindness.

I'm willing to bet that Straight Up Gangsta was not anticipating a courteous hello from the 7 driver. But he got one, and that gesture, though small, indicated something larger- an unexpected attitude coming his way, a lack of judgment perhaps, of being treated on a neutral plane- whatever it was, he was into it. The gestures are transient, but they all mean something. The energy in your eyes, the timbre of your voice, the way your tear that transfer off the cutter- those are not what make people happy or angry. It's the attitudes those actions reveal. I don't need all the passengers to feel happy, but I want them to feel accepted and relaxed. Acknowledged.

Basically, I want the place to feel like a living room.

In the spirit of taking note of small moments, here's a smorgasbord of them from the 7-

"SVI Lady" breaks off from her dealer friends at Martin Luther King when she sees me pull up. We do our special handshake. She's putting her life back together. Whenever we meet, she always tells me how her time at the Vocational Institute is going. Some months afterwards I ran into her again at 5th and Jackson; I have a short break these days there on my 358, and I like to wander around the plaza there and chat up the familiar faces. A lot 7 passengers and drivers pass through there. "You know I be makin' that money, baby," she informed me last week. She had finally got her certificate and a well-paying job in construction.

A guy at 8th and Jackson, pretending to give me a hard time about fare before revealing that "he just messin' with me," as he knows me from before.

James Street, outside the Morrison: "I like that thing you do, man," a dark-skinned middle-aged fellow tells me. "I don't know how you do it." His friend says, "you a little bit too nice!" I help up a man with leukemia off the floor; he doesn't have the strength to use any of his limbs.

A runner, yelling. "WHOA WHOA WHOA," he says. I open the door with my hands in the air. There is a stress in me- I don't care for people yelling at me- and I try to quell it internally. "Dog! Hey, you don't gotta yell at me, my friend! I was already gonna stop!" He gets it, nodding and thanking me as he catches his breath. Then he looks at the passengers and says, "Man! You got so many righteous people on this bus!"

Brian Jobe is driving the 14. I see him pull up at 5th and Jackson, with a full house inside. I hop on for a moment, saying hi to him; then I stare down the aisle at all the passengers. It's a good mixed crowd. Before I know it I find myself speaking to them all: "Guys," I say loudly, with mock seriousness, as if I'm saying something important. "This driver is gonna be Operator of the Year. He's the best driver in the system. Be nice to him, say hello on your way out. He's a good guy." Brian's cowering away from the mirror, laughing. He's not Operator of the Year, but he ought to be. Hope I didn't embarrass him too much.

The Great Mr. Webb is driving the 14. Same thing, different day. He's having a spirited conversation with someone at the front- no surprise there. People start to file onboard. This time I get on, interrupting everyone, yelling "Weeeebbbbb!"
"Nathan, what the hell are you doin' out here?" He's laughing already.
I don't even know why I'm smiling so much. He has an easygoing, offhand sense of humor that jives well with my enthusiasm.
"I don't even know, man! Lez get outta here! Let's go for ride!!"
I can't really do that, of course, because I have to drive my own bus in less than a minute, but he closes the doors and moves the bus forward a few inches. "Alright man, we're doin this, let's go!"
"What the heck are you doin," I say with mock surprise.
As he opens the doors to let me out, I holler out, "Thanks for that great ride, Mike!"
"Yeah, we'll do it again!"
"I had a really good time!"
I say bye to the crowd on the bus. Some of them recognize me. Hopefully they don't mind me clowning around.

Saying hi to Smiling Phil, one of the resident Belltown characters. Sometimes he'll ride a round with me to stay warm. He's a book lover. His little cart carrying his belongings has a broken wheel. I help him haul it on. Later I learned that another operator who knows him bought him a new cart for his birthday (Subsequently, I found out that cart broke as well! Phil, this is getting outta hand!).

Once again, I'm on my break at 5th and Jackson, taking up space. Today the timing is perfect; I'm absurdly late- just late enough to see my old 7 route, the same trip and everything, pull up. William, the driver, recognizes me and I leap on. William has more seniority than me, which is how he got this 7 before I could snatch it at the pick. But nevermind; I'm exuberant. It's my old baby! I know the two passengers at the front, and yell surprised hellos that threaten to sound scary; but I'm honestly just that excited. Again, the source of this ebullience is a bit of a mystery to me. Why is this so exciting? Who knows, but it is. Getting back in my old living room, I guess.
"How's the 358?" William asks.
"AMAZING," I respond. He laughs. "It's unbelievable. Crazy. Almost as good as this. Man, I can't even tell you, I so badly wish I still had this piece on the 7, but I'm glad you got it, cause you're a good man and we want a good man on this thing-"
"Oh, Nathan- you can have it!"
We both laugh.

"I'm gonna be a father soon," a Caucasian man tells me at Rainier and Brandon. He's young, tough, with sun-scarred skin, a lot of sharp edges and tattoos. But his voice is as gentle as can be. "Congratulations," I said at the time. Over a year later I saw him on the 358, clear on the other side of the county, and I recognized him instantly. With him was his girl and a baby basket. "Heeyyyy, dude!" I say. He lights up.
"Is this the new baby?"
"Yeah!" he says, still the same odd amalgam of genial roughneck. He lifts up a blanket to show me the baby, who is cute, pudgy, and sleeping. He doesn't say too much else, but his happiness is palpable. You feel him growing into himself.

While not bus-related, I wanted to share with everyone the latest set of photographs in the Photography section of the site. Hope everyone's enjoying the holiday.