I'm a passenger, riding the 41 home after work. The evening runs are always packed; oddly, Metro only runs the service every half hour after 8pm, creating overloads and passengers turned away every night besides Monday. As we pull up to Westlake Station, the seething masses await- people of every stripe, ready to go home to the North End. These aren't the 9-to-5ers; this is the rest of the world, us folk who work funny hours or have multiple-transfer commutes home.

I'm sitting where I always sit when I ride the 41 home after work: first forward facing seat pair, door side. It's the Nathan seat. I have the picture window on my right, I have the front right windshield to look out of, I'm close to the front of the bus so I can get off easily, and I'm part of the front "lounge" area- I kind of like being in that open section where people sometimes talk. Plus there's a place to put your right foot that's comfortable but hard to explain. If you've sat there, you know what I'm talking about. As the seething masses board, I often glance up out of curiosity.

Right now there's a young Caucasian boy walking on, early twenties, underweight, with thick glasses and pale skin- the type that doesn't see daylight often. Before technology became the prevailing currency of our lives, he'd be the type begging to made fun of (have you noticed how "geek" and "nerd" have largely lost their derogatory overtones over the past 10 years?).

And, just behind him, is a dark-skinned fellow of similar age, well-proportioned, dressed in dark layered clothing. Headphone paraphernalia hangs from his neck, and he swaggers on in what Tom Wolfe famously calls the "pimp roll." He brushes past the young white boy, saying "watch out," not quite knocking him off balance.

Thick Glasses stands for a moment unfazed. The other guy, bent on getting to the back lounge, had vanished into the crowd in a flash, but our friend at the front says after him, in the voice of an ornery schoolteacher, "the proper word is excuse me!" Then he sits down in one of the side-facing wheelchair seats, right in front of me.

Seated across from Thick Glasses is a middle-aged Filipino man, with a physique verging on Samoan. He has an intimidating, authoritative physical presence, and, were he an actor, could play a pretty terrific tribal leader/samurai patriarch/aging bouncer. You get the picture. Anyways, he stares down at Thick Glasses for a long time. No one else has responded or commented on Glasses' passive-aggressive truculence. Glasses feels the stare, and glances up from time to time. There is the feeling that a verdict is about to be given in the front lounge; either the youth's comment will be laughed out, or his attitude will be criticized, or maybe just ignored.

Finally Samoan Leader says, in a reflective voice, "that's true."

Thick Glasses looks up again, vindicated. It's a strange moment. Enough time had passed in the Samoan's silence that Thick Glasses looked like he felt ignored or silly. To have confirmation from the intimidating tribal bouncer created a synergy between the two of them that was special. They were no longer "antiquated-old-guy-that's-both-cultural-outsider-and-past-his-prime" and "future-billionaire-nerd-that's-too-geeky-even-for-the-Geek-Squad;" no. No, that wasn't it. The walls collapse, and they're two people, friends by default of the fact that they share the experience of living this life; friends with appearances that don't matter, born worlds and generations apart but who are now here, yes, on the same plane, agreeing about standards of basic human decency, something they both think about. They talked a bit more. I lost their conversation in the darkening roar of the express lanes, but you read the important stuff on their faces. Woefully different superficially, but whatever, we're here now, sharing ideas together, seeing this stranger not as "the other" but just another voice, not so different from my own.

This is one of my favorite things about the bus. It is the great leveling plane. In no other space in society do all classes, especially here in Seattle, where the full 99% rides the bus- nowhere else is the vast, all-singing, all-dancing spectrum of humanity existing together, without preference, talking together, and- more often than we give credit for- getting along together.

At some jobs, you can have a pretty good idea of what you'll be doing this time a week from now, or a month or year from now. At this job, you don't know what'll be happening in the next five minutes.

As I pull off of Aurora to make the stop at southbound 46th, I hear a the yelling hoarseness of a loud, gruff voice. A regular commuter is standing there, in a blazer and slacks, holding a briefcase. He's listening to the gentleman standing next to him. This second gentleman is clad in an oversized- and we do mean oversized- Seahawks jersey, blue jeans that look older than I am, and items on his feet that you, long ago, could call shoes. His presence is strong, and formidable; his Adam's apple, oversized in much the way his Seahawks jersey is, adds depth and range to his gravelly voice.

His face is a few inches away from the commuters', and he froths and gesticulates at him with wild abandon. I'm reminded of the Norman Rockwell painting, "Abstract and Concrete;" except here, the commuter is the square-looking gentleman, and the frothing Adam's apple man is the Pollock-esque painting in front of him. Also boarding is a squat, nondescript woman in dark clothing, carrying a few bags of odds and ends. She's quiet.

In a rare turn of events, it's the commuter who chooses to sit further back, and Adam's Apple who sits towards the front by me. I'd never seen the guy before, but this didn't stop him from giving me a fistpound as he gruffly blared, "you're a good bus driver!"

Squat lady vanishes from view. As we cross the Aurora bridge, I listen to Adam's Apple continue to yell hoarsely. Who is he talking to? Is he bothering other passengers? I can't tell. Nor can I ascertain what he's saying- the low, rumbling frequencies of his voice line up a little too well with the dull roar of Aurora traffic. At Lynn I turn around and ask him if he's talking to me. I'm thinking to myself, this guy looks just like Jackie Earl Haley. He says no, holding up his phone, explaining in a voice that manages to be both stentorian and guttural at once-
"I'm talkin' to my girlfriend you wanna say heeyy?"
Of course I want to say hi to Jackie Earle Haley's girlfriend. "Heeyy, how's it goin," I say, pulling out of the zone. It's a relief to make contact. He's coherent. I love it when they're like that.

Less than a minute later, passing Aloha, Squat Nondescript Lady comes up from the back, stands next to the wheelchair seats, and returns to the rear of the bus. As she does so, I think to myself, why I am suddenly smelling the overpowering stench of liquid paint?

"Did somebody just spill some paint?"

Jackie Earle Haley is on it. He helpfully explains the situation to me as I try not to sideswipe cars at Mercer: "Get that bitch outta here, dogg! Hell yeah, she spilled paint everywhere, look! She be huffin' that shit back there, I see you right now, bigass bitch! Somebody get that lady off a this bus 'fore we all get hella high! That shit'll wipe out your brain cells for life!"

The man has a point.

"Plus that quiet-ass bitch has a machete! Call the cops dude, let's open some windows in this motherfucker!"

All very astute ideas. Other passengers get on board with opening windows. I throw the doors, call the coordinator, and explain the proceedings. Commuters quake in their seats as Jackie Earl Haley and myself attempt to rein in the situation. The coordinator doesn't try to avoid helping, and is proactive about sending assistance. "Let's get everybody outta there. We don't want anybody fainting," he adds, possibly more to himself than me.

The gold paint, splattered on the floor and seats, is amazing in its potent, foul odor. Overwhelming. I tie up the bus on Wall Street, calmly explaining to the passengers what needs to be done. I reflect that Jackie Earle Haley, formerly known as Adam's Apple, wasn't the problem passenger at all, as I might have worried when I first saw him haranguing people at the bus stop. He ended up being a help. We fistpounded again as he left. No, it was the regular-looking chubby gal in a hoodie who kept to herself. I watch her slinking away, machete in one hand and cans of paint in the other. As per Metro rules, I don't attempt to detain her. After all, I don't like having arguments with people carrying three-foot long razor blades. Just a preference of mine.

This is on the 7. I'm on Third, slowing down for the wire at Cherry. A thin, older African-American fellow stands up and says in a reedy voice, "can I tell an innocent joke?"
"Please!"
"You make riding the bus a pleasant experience."
That was all. He meant it. I didn't think this statement qualified very well as a joke, but it was definitely innocent. I looked at the man's face, and on it was an open, bald honesty I almost never see. He had the long gaze older people sometimes have, but there was something else too.

It was the sincerity you get from a child who hasn't been hurt yet, who doesn't yet know the pain of wearing yourself on your sleeve. A sentiment from another world, one without irony, without cynicism and all the rest. And yet, looking at the wrinkled lines framing his eyes, the leathery hands and fading silver hair, you knew this person had seen things, been hurt and loved, and experienced the glorious and terrible extremes of life in the modern age. He was not a child. But he had the ability to be fully open before the world, wide-eyed, without the protective armor of anger or resignation. Such a thing is not easy. I admire that.

Just wanted to let you know that I've updated the Photography section. This time it's a selection of photos from various musical/performance sessions~

Just a few people left on the bus as we drift down Third. Two dear friends of mine have just sat down toward the front, and a young woman in black is seated halfway down, an audience watching, smiling and laughing, as a gentlemen comes up to the front and settles into the chat seat. He's got something to say, and we get it said, at high volume-

"Hey man,"
"Hey!"
"Hey, I wanna tell you something,"
"Hit me!"
"I wanna tell you something for real."
"I'm ready-"
"I been watching you, and I jus' wanna say,"
"Tell me,"
"I just wanna say, I been payin attention to your style up here, and man, you got somethin' goin on. I been watching the way you treat the people, man, and you got a great attitude."
"Oh, you're too kind!"
"No, man, don't gimme that. I'm serious. I'm a tell you- as a black man-"
"Yeah!"
"As a black man-"
"Oh yeah!"
"I'm a only say this one time. Cause I mean this. You got common sense."
"Oh, I try!"
"You know what common sense is?"
"A definition of common sense?"
"Yeah, common sense."
"Well, being reasonable, for one,"
"Listen, man, you can't be throwin' this away. I'm a only tell you this one time, cause I mean it."
"Okay, okay-"
"I'm a marine!"
"-respect-"
"I'm a marine! And I'm tellin' you, as a black man-"
"Aw yeah, do it-"
"Listen now. You are honest, and sincere, and you care about people, and you got life in you!"
"I try. I'm a try- I hope I can live up to those words-"
"Dog, don't throw this away. I'm tellin' you somethin'. You know have those things inside a you, and that-"
"Listen, listen-"
"You got to acknowledge the great things about yourself."
"Thank you. You're awesome."
"No, you're awesome!"
"But listen, it goes both ways. If you sense it in someone else- if you feel it, you got it!"
"Don't be turnin' this shit around."
"You're very generous!"
"You have an effect on people. You have an attitude,"
"Thank you."
"And I can tell you ain't fakin' it."
"Thank you. To get this kinda feedback, man, for you to say this, means-"
"And I'm tellin' this to you as a black man- what's your name?"
"My name is Nathan, what's your name?"
"Black Man!"
"Black Man, it's a pleasure!!"
"I'm a only tell you this one time!"
"Okay!"
"I'm tellin' you- as a black man! I don't say this stuff to everybody. You got a beautiful thing goin' on, man, you keep it up!"
"I'm a keep it up. I'm a do my best!"
"I say this to everyone- naw, just kidding!"
"Listen, my friend, thank you. I'm honored."
"I see you laughin' back there, girl, don't you be laughin'!"
"Hey, thank you."
"My name's Ray."
"You're awesome, Ray. Have a great day!"
"I already am, Nathan. You too!"

"Aurora and 130th: "Take it easy," I say to one of the motley crowd getting on. She's maybe 60, dressed in blue and red, with a plastic top hat that Lincoln might have worn if he played at Woodstock. "That's the only way to take it," she sighs with a smile.

3rd and Virginia: An older lady, sitting in the chat seat, asks me an important question: "Do you drink soda pop?"
"I never drink soda pop."
"How come you don't drink soda pop?"
I realize that this is the gal who asked me about 180th street over and over for 40 minutes. I like her. I respond to her question-
"'Cause I don't wanna become one of those, uh-" trying to be diplomatic- "bigger bus drivers."
"You don't wanna gain weight?"
"No, I don't."
"Can you gain weight if you don't watch what you eat?"
"You can!"
At this point a lady with interesting glasses who's been listening in tells me I'm a delight, and that this 358 has been the best of the five bus rides she's taken today. I melt. I can't help it. What else can you do?

3rd and Pike: "Thanks Brudda," he says pausing before asking rhetorically: "Is he a DJ or is he a bus driver?"

3rd and Spring: A silent guy gets off. He moves one his headphones so his ear is exposed to the world. He's a bigger guy, dressed in oversized clothing, a beanie, with glasses and a couple jackets. Quietly he turns and says, "you're doin' a good job."

5th and Terrace: There's only one more stop left on the route. I wait for a running man, something I might not normally do, on the strength of his smile of recognition. I don't know it yet, but he knows me. "So, no more number 7?" he says. People ask me this more than I expect. A short time ago, walking around 5th & Jackson on my break (I was going to Uwajimiya to look for miso soup), and a brother in a jumpsuit interrupted his friends to ask me more or less the same thing- "you don't drive number 7 no more?" At Atlantic Base recently, where I stopped in on a break, I greeted another driver, a mainstay on the 7 who I've waved at for years. "Hey, number 7!" "Hey, now. They're askin' about you out there," he says. I tell them all I hope to be back soon.

Jackson and 5th: A fellow gets on with a styrofoam container filled with potatoes, gravy, steak, and collard greens. It looks great. "That looks great," I tell him. He asks about the Shoreline Park and Ride.

In film direction, often the best way to fine-tune an actor's performance is to make a suggestion that circuitously accomplishes what you want, without being on the nose. For instance, if an actor is using his hands too much during a line reading, you might ask him to do a take while holding a knife and fork. It allows you to get what you want without interfering with his mental approach to the scene.

In vaguely similar fashion, I want to tell this man not to spill potatoes and gravy all over the back of my bus. I'm not gonna tell him not to eat on the bus. If you were looking at a long bus ride to Shoreline on the 358, would you really sit still holding a warm plate of mouth-watering steak and potatoes for fifty minutes? Of course not. Nobody holds steak in their lap for an hour without eating it. That's not natural. So I tell him, "we got paper towels right here if you need them." It's another way of saying, "be mindful of spilling things." I've got my fingers crossed, hoping that will work. He goes and sits down.

Aurora and Galer: A fellow with glasses, perhaps mentally disabled, is friendly enough. His attitude is interesting, though. He's pretending that he knows Paul Bachtel, the Union President- and for all I know he does, but he only offers information that I've already mentioned in the conversation. It's highly questionable, but I enjoy talking to him. Well, maybe except for when he goes, repeatedly, "I sound like I know a lot about the Union, don't I?"
"Everybody knows something," I say. He reminds me of a fellow who's definitely not a service planner, but pretends to be one. I stump that guy on route questions regularly, but I don't call his bluff. You can still be a nice person and pretend to be a service planner, after all.

64th and Woodland: "Okay, I'm just gonna ask you," says a lady up front after a prolonged period of silence. She hadn't spoken to me yet. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
She instinctively grabs onto the stanchion for extra safety.

Aurora and Northgate Way: A lady of indeterminate age with a friendly face, hiding behind glasses, hair, and a bike helmet, tells me about her scuba class that she's about to go teach. The blue interior lights make the front of the bus dim at nighttime; her smile lights up the space. The energy is hers, and now it belongs to both of us, growing with all the people we touch.

Aurora and 145th: A construction-looking fellow gets on and says to no one in particular, "guy looks like he's sixteen." Of course he's talking about me. We laugh and have the you're-too-young conversation. "I should be at home doin' chores!"
"Take us to Vegas!" he says.

152nd: Drunk G, dressed entirely in oversized black denim, steps on. He's in good spirits tonight. He sense an affinity in me, and our greeting to each other is warm. Don't know if I've seen him before. He goes and sits next to Potatoes and Steak man, who he seems to know. The two of them and another man nearby begin talking. I'm reminded of the 7, where people simply know each other.

155th: I slow to a stop in the bus lane behind a slowly merging car that's blocking my way. It seems like the right thing to do. Construction Guy says, in a kind voice, "oh, it's okay to go through using this lane."
I say "well, I want to, but I don't wanna run this guy over."
"Oh, there's a guy there. I see."
"Yeah, I hear it's frowned upon."
"Yeah, I've hear that too. Okay. Probably a good idea. Carry on!"

160th- Myself, Construction Guy, Guy I Can't See Because He's Sitting Behind Me, and Guy Who Pretends to Know Paul Bachtel enjoy a spirited conversation amongst each other. I forget the subjects covered, but everything was periodically interrupted by Guy Who Pretends to Know Paul Bachtel, who would chime in with, "I'm gonna put in a good word for ya with Paul." He would say this even if the conversation had nothing in the slightest to do with Paul Bachtel, which was most of the conversation. Example:  "Do they still have power motors on those lawnmowers?"
"I'm gonna talk to Paul Bachtel. Put in a good word for ya."
"When's that tire store gonna reopen?"

Everything went smoothly until I heard the code words for conversation disaster. The code words rhyme with Bit and Omni, or Arrack and Bahama. "Please, no conversations about the White House," I say as if in pain. "I don't wanna go down that road."
"Good call, man," says Construction Guy. Guy Who Pretends to Know Paul Bachtel had been muttering praises for Bit Omni, and I wasn't about to have it. No way. Let's get back to tire stores.

165th: Potato Steak Man comes up and says in a quiet voice, "I'm in need a those napkins." I tell him they're right over here, with the timetables. He takes them and completely cleans up the mess he's made, without being asked, all by himself. Frankly, I'm impressed and excited. It worked. Later he comes up to put the trash in trash can. I ask him where he got the food at, because it really did look terrific, but he just laughs, thinking I'm joking. Me: "You're makin' me hungry!"

180th: Drunk G says, "I'm gonna go talk to the redhead." He walks toward a seated street woman in her 60s, who's blonde. "I'm tired of that ghetto talk," he says to her, attempting to sound sincere. Maybe he is. They share an amiable conversation that thankfully doesn't go off the rails. You can tell she's been in situations like this before. She's off at 185th.

200th: Drunk G and Potato Steak Man begin to get off. G gives me a fistpound and thanks me for being myself. Potato Steak asks if this is Aurora Village. I say that it isn't, that the next stop is better. Drunk G, now on the sidewalk, hollers at his friend, "let's get off here! I can see the Transit Center right over there!"
Potato Steak Man: "Dogg! I'm not listenin' to you, I'm listenin' to the bus driver! It's one more stop!"
Me: "Yeah, don't leave me yet!"
He looks hesitant. I seal it with, "yeah, man! Party's not over!!"
He comes bounding back on with a smile. I doubt many bus drivers have asked him to not leave the bus before.

Aurora Village Transit Center: An older guy with pure white hair, tied in a ponytail, wiry fellow with a paperback novel under his arm, comes up for a fistpound, saying with amazement, "you're the man!" I say, "no, you're the man!" He's like a happy boiling pot that's about to explode. "Dude, no, you're the freakin' man! That was awesome!"

Construction Guy comes up with a congrats and a handshake.

Now it's time for Drunk G and his pals to really get off. We enthusiastically shake hands, and he compliments me and the ride. He ends by declaring loudly, "BUS DRIVER BY NIGHT..." -he pauses, thinking, as I wonder what he'll say next- "...PIMP BY DAY!"

We all fall apart in laughter. What I found funniest was that he had chosen to designate the bus driving aspect for nighttime and pimping as the daytime activity!