A sort of smorgasbord of moments that have turned into memories-

I'm at a red northbound at Third and Seneca, and there's a 17 express in front of me. I think the great Ivan's driving it. That's Ivan Alexander, as in Ivan the Terrible, Alexander the Great. On impulse I throw on my brake and sprint up to his bus and yell, "Ivan! Heeeyyyy! I don't have anything important to say, I just wanted to say hey!" I'm high on something- life, the 4, saying hi to people. He gets it. He laughed at the absurdity of it as I sprinted back to my bus in time for the green light.

A stumbling man, at Rainier and McClellan, sauntering on, clearly intoxicated, insisting on one rule: "I want no lyin'! No lying on this bus!" I think that's a great idea, and wholeheartedly agree with his slurred wisdom. "I'm gonna stop lyin' right now."
"Good."
"There's not gonna be any lyin' on this bus tonight," I declare with false seriousness. "I can't make no guarantees for the rest of the world, but in here, we got you covered."

On the 7- lollygagging down Third because I'm having conversations at the front- talking with Miranda of Wendy's, yelling a wave out at Real Change Willy, asking a passenger about his curious ringtone ("it's R2D2, from Star Wars," he explains in a precise voice). It's the feeling of getting into a slower rhythm, just sandbaggin' it, listening and laughing and chiming in, talking with the front of the bus and waving at the buses outside. And okay, paying attention to the road. There's something pleasing about this total lack of rushing, of taking the time to be there, to be present for every detail of this many-faceted moment- the timbre of the conversation, my friends I'm waving to, being safety-conscious all the while, enjoying the act of driving this route- all of it. This isn't always the case, but sometimes it's such a sensory overload that you have to slow down. Take it all in. It's the attitude of, "let them come!"

Inundating the north end passengers to the Nathan Way- these guys have never ridden my bus before. An older black man, street gent, says, "That was on. I love your enthusiasm, man, I love your take on it! Got a great attitude." An older woman, office worker or attorney perhaps, last passenger on the bus, comes all the way up from the back to say much the same, using different jargon but with the same warmth. "That was the most personable and entertaining ride...." The vernacular is a contrast, but the meaning is shared.

Then again, even though we're way out in the hinterlands, there's still people who recognize me. On my first day on the 358, I heard a friendly voice say, as I was taking over the vehicle, "on't let that boy drive this bus! He don't haaa' no license!" Incredibly, it was one of my semi-regulars from the 7. Typical. What he was doing way out here in Shoreline I'll never know. No, he didn't get off at THS.

Another man, a young father who I remember from the 4, bounds on with his daughter and girlfriend in tow. He wears an oversized heavy sweatshirt with the hood up, and sagging black denims. His glance is a smiling half-welcome, like he wants to say more. I think he recognizes me, but can't tell if I do him, and thus he hesitates. I give the 358 people the same type of ride I do on all the other routes; there's a satisfaction in getting a regular rider on a new route, where you sense that they're in on your whole schtick, they know how you roll and they like it. I see him in the mirror, looking toward me with mild amusement as I do my thing. When he gets off I say, "good to see you again!" and we devolve into a cacophony of overloud pleasantries and truisms, making fistpounds and gestures of welcome I don't even know; breathing enthusiasm into the dark night.

358 number Nine variable, outbound. Coach 2425.

I'm not sure if I should share this, because it has a little too much to do with me and not enough to do with my wonderful passengers. It's probably not too interesting to read, but I'll put it up for data reasons. It's a record of everything said into the mic, for one trip (last week, Tuesday, I believe). A line break indicates a pause- a red light, a movement to the next stop, people getting on, etc. Inbound trips have more "here we go"s and "hang on tight"s, simply because I only say those or variations of those when people are walking in the aisles; this outbound trip is mostly dropoffs. I don't include all the stuff I don't say in mic- conversations, etc. It was a relatively quiet evening on the 358, all things considered. I think I only used the lift two or three times. We finished early; this trip took just under an hour.

"Here we go.
Alright, comin' up next is James, Third and James, Jefferson, Yesler Way. Right by the King County Courthouse, Upper Pioneer Square, Triangle Park, all right here.
Once again James. Next stop after this is, uh, Marion.
We're movin' out.
Okay, comin' up next.
Comin' up next is Madison Marion. This is by the Wells Fargo Tower, Ferry Terminal, Seattle Public Library. After this will be Union.
Hang on tight.
We got Union University, right here by the post office, good for Benaroya Hall Seattle Art Museum. It's Union. Next one after this is Pine.
Time to roll out.
Here's Pine Street next, Pine and Olive by Westlake Center, Westlake Station The Monorail Pike Place Market. Gimme a second to pull forward.
There we go. Thanks for waiting, Pine Street once again. After this will be Virginia.
Have a good night.
Let's roll outta here.
[through the window:] AHMED!!!
Alright, let's do Virginia Lenora, by the YWCA, DSHS, Worksource; makin' a stop at Virginia Street. Next stop after this is at Bell.
That's the bell for Bell Battery next, Belltown. This is our last stop on Third Avenue, 'cause this is a 358. Next stop after this, is Denny and Aurora.
We're movin' out.
Next one. Looks like Denny Way. There's Denny and Aurora, by the Elephant car wash, also transfer to an 8. This is a 358, goin' up the street, all the way to the county line.
Alright, here's the express part of the route. Next stop is up at Broad.
Okay Broad and Mercer; this'll be as close as we get to Seattle Center, that's on the left. Stop after this is Galer.
Hang on tight.
There it is, Galer. By the overpass. After this one is Lynn.
Alright, we got Lynn. It's Lynn Street, last stop before the bridge; next stop isn't until 46th;
We're makin' a stop at 46th street. Forty sixth, transfer downstairs to a 44; that'll take you to Ballard. Or the U-District. Have a good night, be safe. Remember, you can use both doors, it's okay to use any door.
Okay, movin' out. Next one is way up at 64th.
Okay, 64th and Woodland is next, this is Green Lake. Watch your step here, be careful.
We have a stop at 68th.
Next one 72nd at Linden.
How 'bout a left turn, back onto Aurora here. Next stop will be at 75th.
Once again 75th. Have a good one.
Rollin' out.
It's 80th. Transfer to a 48 goin' East, to the U District, Central District.
One more time 80th Street. Kinda close to Green Lake Way.
It'll be 85th next. Transfer to a 48 goin' West, to Loyal Heights.
Alright.
There's 90th.
And 95th.
Getting close to 100th, by the movie theatre.
And next one, there it is, 105th. 105th and Northgate Way, transfer to a 40. If you don't know what the 40 is, we have a couple schedules up here. Have a good one, take care.
There's 112th, by the cemetery.
And, 115th. It's the Home Depot stop. Also good for Northwest Hospital, both a those on the right.
Let's see here, 125th, right by Lowes.
And we're gonna do 130th next, 130th, by K-Mart. Transfer to a 345.
Comin' up here, we got 135th, right next to Social Security. St. Vincent de Paul.
There's 145th Street. Leaving the city limits here. 145th is by, uh. The Post Office. And Walgreens.
Here we go.
Time for 152nd.
There's 155th, across from Sears, Safeway. Also get on a 330 here.
It's 160th, walking distance to Shoreline Community College, that's on the left side.
Looks like 165th.
Alright 170th. Across from THS.
Let's do 175th. This is good for the fire station.
It's 180th, by the thrift store. Take it easy.
Up ahead there, that's 185th, pretty good for Fred Meyer, Department of Licensing up there on the left. Grab a 348 here, 185th. This is also close to the District Court.
Alright 192nd, our stop for Shoreline Park and Ride, comin' up on the left side here.
Hang on tight.
There's 195th.
And, 198th, last stop before the turn.
It'll be 200th next, right around the corner.
Alright here it is, 200th.
All right. Next one is Aurora Village Transit Center. We made it to Aurora Village. Transfer to Community Transit, or get buses to Kenmore, Northgate. Once again Aurora Village, by Costco. We're pullin' in about 8 minutes early today. Have good evening, everyone. Take it easy tonight. Time is 6:40."

Bam. Done. I'd kind of like to keep going, but I'm supposed to take it back to North Base. Oh well, alright!

Note: As stated before, I preserve the integrity of the language used by my friends on the road only out of a desire to more accurately present the totality of the experience. I am interested in documenting what happens with accuracy, and hope this is not offensive.

---

Full house in the morning. We're on the 2, going east towards Pill Hill. The 2 draws a good mixed crowd. We have our friends the methadone recovery people, on their way to the clinic at Summit for their daily appointments; we have the nurses interested in Swedish and Virginia Mason; there are youngsters headed to Seattle Central, Seattle U, the Madrona School, Seattle Academy, and so on; and then there are joyriders and freeloaders sitting in the back doing loops on the 2, riding the bus to stay warm, or just for fun (as I have).

In the chat seat today we have an older fellow headed to the Clinic. He and his compatriots are seated around him, and, all of them having been on the same bus the morning prior, feel comfortable talking to each other. I listen in for a while, and then we get a half-decent conversation going, he and I, chatting about the trolley bus, the 2 schedule (infamously tight), the free zone and so on. At Ninth, a young woman- late twenties perhaps, Caucasian with a ponytail and scuffed jeans- leans in towards me and asks quietly, "do you know where the ER is?"
I hesitate, because we're surrounded by ER's. I think about her best options, and am about to question her further.
The older gent in the chat seat says, "where she wanna go?"
I say, "she wants to find an ER."

That was a mistake.

Old guy: "You're on the wrong bus!"
The young lady turns toward him slowly. "Good thing I'm not talkin' to you," she says.
He retorts with, "lady, you're on the wrong bus. You wanna go to Harborview!"
He's trying to be helpful, but he doesn't grasp that there's been a violation in the conversation- her question to me was a private one, and not for the whole bus. I shouldn't have brought him into it. Nor does he realize he's the final straw. If anyone on the bus was drifting off, they're wide awake now-

"How the FUCK do you know where I wanna go?" She screams at the top of her lungs. "Good thing nobody FUCKIN' asked you! What the hell do you know about the shit I'm goin' through?"
She is short, but she is taller than his seated form.
"You're just an old ass piece a shit thinks he knows what the fuck is right! Stay the fuck out of my business before I fuck you up! Tryna tell me where to go. Who the fuck asked you about my personal shit?"

Pins could drop, and you'd know how many.

I tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. She turns toward me, thinking she knows what I'm about to tell her. I say in a calm voice, "let's continue our conversation. We were talking about finding an ER."
"Okay." Calm.
"There's three of them right around here. D'you need a specific one, or just the closest one?"
She makes an effort, directing no anger toward me. "I just need any one."
"Okay. We already passed Virginia Mason, but we still have Swedish- hold it- (stopping the interrupting old man mid-syllable)- hold it- we have Swedish, two blocks to the right, and then there's Harborview."

She and I discuss the pros and cons of those two facilities, and I keep her focused with me. I marvel at her ability to keep her fury checked. Usually when someone gets angry, they get angry at everything around them. She's angry only at the old man. Her anger is a hurting anger; there is not braggadocio or arrogant insecurity on the edges of her voice, but rather a bald, mutilated sadness. Who knows what trigger he stepped on, what open sore, what long-lost memory he scabbed open in his innocent remark. Whatever it was, it prevented her from hearing his intention- to help- and only took in the condescending tone.

We continue our quiet conversation, she and I, her standing at the front next to me. We settle on an ER for her, and she says, "thank you." Then, as she's stepping off at Boren, she turns to our older friend and hollers, "Fuck you!"

Underneath the staccato noise of hate, you can hear it- a brittle, burning pain.

You hear her trying to cover it up. "You're fuckin' lucky, dumb shit! You're lucky I'm not beating your ass with my motherfuckin' cane, cause you know I could-" in the midst of all this, she remembers to say, again, "thank you, bus driver!" as she walks away. There's no act in her thanks; that part's real, and you feel it. I hope that's the part of this incident she remembers.

Meanwhile, I need to get this bus back to its happy place. The crowd is positively stricken. They have no idea what to think. Time to hit the mic with an overzealous announcement:

"Alright folks, here we are, getting ready to make a stop at Summit. It's Summit Avenue, right by the Clinic! Time today is 7:24, just in time for a 7:30 appointment. This is also good for Swedish main campus, that's two blocks to the right. Once again, makin' a stop to Summit here. Guys, let's have a good day today, good safe day. Maybe see you on the way back!"

We're on the 358, inbound from Aurora Village. Way out there. On long routes like this, you need to get along with people, because you might be with them for a solid hour. You know how long five minutes can be on the road. At 180th ("that's by the Thrift store; and the skating rink"), an older woman who looks to be in her sixties (59, it turns out) gets on and sits in the chat seat. Aside from her eyes, which are unfocused and one of which is wandering, everything about her seems normal. From the outside. We begin chatting- she initiates this time- and I'm thankful for the full five, possibly even ten minutes we have before she brings up my age. We then have the obligatory "you look young to be a driver" conversation ("How old are you?" "Seventeen." "Oh.").

She seems a gentle, but fearful soul, and today she's concerned about the impending conversion of the 358 into a RapidRide. I tell her in a calm voice that the RapidRide will follow nearly the exact same routing and make almost all the same stops as the current 358.

In a diminutive and frightened voice, she asks, "How will I know it's the RapidRide bus?"
"It'll say RapidRide on the front."
"But how I will I know it's going to Aurora Village?"
"It'll say Aurora Village on the front of the bus."
"Really?"
"Truly."
"But will it stop at Deseret Industries?"
"It will stop at Deseret Industries."
"Will it stop at Deseret Industries at 180th?" She sounds terrified.
"You know, it will stop there."
"At 180th? By Deseret Industries?"
"Uh-huh. Yeah, it's gonna stop at Deseret Industries at 180th."
"Cause that's where I get on."
"That's right."
"At Deseret Industries."
"Yeah, it's gonna stop right there for ya."
"Wait. At 180th, by Deseret Industries?"

I love this type of thing. There's my linguistic fascination with the number of ways a certain statement or idea can be expressed, the inherently repetitive nature of spoken conversation, but more significantly the opportunity- the rare opportunity- just to have a conversation like this. It's a terrific patience builder- to remain calm, and kind, and informative, for the duration. It also makes me smile inside.

She has another question-
"Bus driver, is the RapidRide gonna stop at, at, at,"
"At Deseret Industries at 180th?"
"Yeah!"
"It will stop at Deseret Industries at 180th." I attempt to inform her further- "you know, it'll be pretty much the exact same bus. The route will be the same, the frequency will be the same, the stops are almost the same- it's just that the bus will be red instead of blue."
This additional information is only mildly interesting to her. What she really wants to know is- well, you probably know by now-
"What about at 180th," she asks. "Will there be a stop there?"

Where else am I going to get to have a conversation like this? Honestly. Where else will she get to be reassured, so many times, on this particular issue? Today is her day to get this Deseret Industries question completely and utterly solved. I can see that she's genuinely terrified, as her large, wandering eye flips back and forth, and as she leans forward attentively to hear my answer each time, praying to hear an answer in the affirmative.

There is one other thing she wants to clear up-
"Is it gonna stop at Macy's?"
"Yes, the RapidRide will stop at Macy's."
"Macy's downtown?"
"That's right. The RapidRide will stop at Macy's AND at Deseret Industries. Just like the 358."
"So it's not gonna stop at Macy's?"
"It will indeed. There'd be riots in the streets if they took away the Macy's stop."
"How will I know it's the RapidRide?"
"It'll be big and red and say RapidRide."
"But it won't stop at Macy's?"
"It's good that you ask. Actually, it will stop at Macy's."
"How about at 180th?"

This conversation continued in this vein from- no exaggeration- from 180th to 75th!! We spent more than a hundred blocks talking about how the RapidRide will stop at both Deseret Industries and at Macy's! I was in heaven. Inwardly, I was laughing endlessly- not at her, but with her- at the total absurdity of continuing a conversation like this, in respectful, gentle tones, for a full forty minutes. It's totally ridiculous, which makes it great. It was also a great exercise of patience, a terrific source of humor, and of course a chance to quell an old lady's intense, deep-seated fears about bus stops at Deseret Industries and Macy's. I can only wonder what all the passengers sitting around us were thinking. Maybe that we were both totally, certifiably insane in our own special ways. That sounds fine by me.

On my last night at Atlantic, after I ran back to the base following another glorious night on the 7, an operator came up to me and said, "You're Nathan, right? Nathan Vass? You drive the 7?"
"Yeah, that's right. How did you know my name?"
This guy's brand new. Somehow you can tell when people are brand new- by how they try to hide it, by how they don't- no matter. They're new. And that's fine. He continues-
"They tell stories about you. I've heard them talk about you, over at Ryerson Base."
"What?"
"Yeah, they talk about there's this driver looks like a teenager, and he only picks the worst routes, but he loves doing them, and does them over and over again..."
"Yup, that's definitely me!" I said, laughing. It turns out he was a passenger on my route 5 two years ago, and was one of those passengers who asks how to become a bus driver, who loves buses and knows about them, and would love to give the job a try, and so on- it's a story that you, as a driver, hear often. But this was the first time I've ever seen one of those fellows pull through. It was good to see him again.

I offer that story by way of prelude. On Tuesday of this week, first week on the great 358, I pulled up alongside Fred on Third Avenue. He was doing a 70. He knows me, and would sometimes ride my 7 back to base. He'd watch me interacting with the passengers, and at the base ask me, "so, you really pick that 7 all the time?"
And I'd say, "yeah, man, that one really does it for me. I just, I don't know. I really like the people."
He'd shake his head and smile. He has a good attitude. We'd wave out big when we both had the 7.

Anyways, here is today on the 70, at Third and Marion. I notice that it's Fred, so I pull alongside, open my doors, and say, "FREEEDDD!"
He responds in kind and is momentarily surprised to see me in a diesel bus. "What are you drivin' now?"
"358s!"
Of course. Fred bursts out laughing, and laughing, and laughing. He can't handle it. That this kid would not only actually pick this 'garbage,' but genuinely love it. It's a gleeful hysteria, laughing with my madness, as in, "of course you are, you crazy boy!"
"How is it?"
I say, "it's fantaaastic!"
He smiles in wonder, saying, "you really are fucked up!"
He means it in a loving way. Sometimes people can't tell if I'm being sarcastic or not when I say I love the 4, etc, but he knows.

I'm reminded of a time when, on a 7 stopped at Third and Union, driver Alan noticed me across the street. He was off work. Alan likes easy commuter routes like the 212. We'd had conversations before where we acknowledge each other's radical differences in route preferences. I like routes that he can't stand, and he likes routes that make me fall asleep. He would say, "Nathan, do you realize that there are routes that are ten times easier than what you're doing? This guy," he would continue, gesturing to me while talking to others at the base, "has the seniority to be driving the easiest work in the system (East Base commuter routes), and he drives the what? The 7? I don't get it! Nathan, you are one seriously sick bleep!"
I burst out laughing. I love Alan. We get along well despite our complete differences.
Anyways, that day at Third and Union, he yelled across the street, hands cupped megaphone style: "Nathan! You're a sick fuck!"
There were maybe 200 people within hearing distance, and they all heard him, and him and me laughing, but only the two of us understood what he was talking about, or that the statement was- what? Intended with kindness!?!

So, how is the 358? My immediate answer is, it's too early to tell. It's only been three days. However, commenting on those three days themselves, what I can say is that they were all fantastic. I just love this stuff. I'm not sure I want to quantify why, either- sometimes it feels like the magic of it would then be gone. Maybe I'm as crazy as the crazy people I like to spend time with. Maybe I feel more valuable, doing a difficult route and making people feel better on it, making them feel better in the darker corners of the city, where they're not expecting it. Maybe I like the anachronism of a happy bus driver liking god-awful routes, and am drawn to that dichotomy. Maybe I feel like I'm accomplishing more than if I was doing something easy. We have to scrape the ceiling of what we're capable of. Maybe I love the camaraderie built out of doing tough work with my coworkers.

All of these are suppositions after the fact, though. They're all true to an extent, but none of them are the single reason. I can say with confidence only that, well, I love this type of stuff. I genuinely like the people on the routes. At East sometimes drivers would tell me, "you'll be dealing mostly with commuters," when they're telling me about a new route I'm about to go do. I think they were trying to reassure me, and I can understand where they're coming from. There's just one thing.

The thing is, I don't want to deal mostly with commuters.

In my experience, upper-class and upper-middle class commuters are the most unpleasant passengers in the system. The snobby, snappish, entitled, bristling, insecure attitudes some of them bring onboard is just too much for me. Not all of them (not even close), but some of them. Hopefully I've had disproportionately bad experiences with them and that such is not always the case (Commuters out there- please, reverse my opinion!). My worst shakeup ever was a commuter route (the 229, my first picked shake-up) that had a daily passenger who fit all of the above adjectives, and my desire to get away from that attitude has not ceased. To this day I go for routes that don't have commuters or regulars, or stay mostly in working or lower class areas. To be blunt, the people are nicer. You get to have a great time.

Looking forward to tomorrow,

He's one of the street guys you see around Martin Luther King- sometimes Walden, sometimes Forest. There's a few of them. This guy is bald, missing a few teeth, always with a ready smile. African American, 50, thin, with a lanky gait and wearing a couple of sweatshirts. "My son!" he yells when he sees me today.
"Heeeyyy!" I respond, playing along. He sits in the wonderful chat seat and is overwhelmed by the positive energy making itself known on the bus.
"Every time I get on his bus," he says, talking to the others gathered around the front. It's hardly a bus in times like this; it's a living room, and we're relaxing on upholstered couches sharing popcorn, watching the game. "Every time. I never seen another driver make people so happy. I get on here, and I just feel good, man. I see you smilin,' I get up in here," he continues, pausing, searching for the words, interrupted by his own surge of well-being. "If I can make someone happy, make somebody smile, then I've fulfilled my purpose."
"'Cause that's huge."
"It is huge. It's inspiring. Look at this guy," he says to the others, pointing at me. "He's my son."
Two Caucasian high schoolers look at me, then at him: "Is this your token white son?"
"Hell yeah. My kids could be white."
"It's the 21st century," I say.
"That's right."
"It's all happening."
"I got two daughters, one of 'em's 5'9", the other one 6'7".
"Six seven?!" I reply, and we continue talking about his family. He has two tall daughters, and he's the short one. They're both in college. He was in the service. The tall one is doing computer programming. We cruise through the neighborhood, streaking along the wire, dotted lane lines flitting by on either side. Darren drives his 7 past the other way, looking amused at my too-big smile. It's a beautiful night.