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.

The Ride Free Area died tonight not with a bang, but with a whisper. I have no tumultuous stories involving its demise, which took place at 6:59pm today, ending a 38-year tradition. Like many large events in one's life, it was defined not by a cataclysmic parting of the seas but rather by the simple and pleasant banality of everyday existence. I drove down Third Avenue, and all was as it always is, me throwing open all three doors and welcoming the whirling masses, glancing in the mirror as my friends the service workers, thugs, nurses, students, janitors, bankers, managers, grandmothers, engineers and freeloaders stepped on, slinking through the back doors and looking this way and that, ascertaining which was the best seat for them. It was just like any other day on the street- only there was the thought inside me, and perhaps in others too, that it won't ever be like this again.

Some have defined the sublime as the intersection between the mundane and the transcendent. I'm not about to say that the end of the Ride Free zone was sublime, but many of the great moments on the bus fulfill that definition.

I was driving the last trip on my 7, and a middle-aged African-American man was thanking me profusely, ostensibly for the transfer I gave him, but that wasn't really it; I think what impressed him more was this warm, shared spirit we had built, lighting up the darkness of a dimly lit bus on Rainier Avenue. Some of those old Bredas are dark inside, as not all the interior lights work (drivers: you know, where the switch goes both ways but neither turns on all the lights, only half), and that, combined with the ever-present litter on the 7, odd smells, stained floors and knife-scratched windows and seats- all this combines to form an atmosphere that could easily tip into a very unpleasant realm. In fact, it almost seems ideally suited for that.

But here we are, having built the happy bus, what with friendly hellos and waves and announcements- it isn't important that they understand what I'm saying into the mic so much as they hear the tone of the driver's voice- that the guy in charge of this thing is happy, kind, welcoming, whatever label we want to give it. He's in a good mood. That's what I'm really saying when I say that the next stop is Andover Street, close to Safeway.

The most unlikely people say thank you, and the timbre of their voices carry a strength of meaning that humbles me. A hispanic man, always dressed in black, with an interesting face, a face you'd want to photograph, quietly saying, "you have a wonderful evening, bro." Self-proclaimed ghetto boys taking a moment to be genuine. "You have a good rest of your shift." To hear such a thing blows my mind. Kindness towards another, for no gain. I know they have that in them, of course, but the surprise is that they choose to show it. A young African man, thirties, speaks softly, with an unexpectedly clear accent, thanks me and wishes me a good evening with an earnestness that bespeaks tremendous mutual respect.  It's an honor to be counted as an equal among these people.

After the fellow who was profusely thankful for the transfer and the goodwill stepped off, the man getting off right behind him turned to me and said, "you're rare." He's tall, thin, forties, black American, with shades and clean athletic sweats. Something about this fleeting exchange hits me, and I remember the moment lasting longer than it did. His bald head and shades catch what little light there is, this tall human form lurking in the half-light above me, kindness, and respect for kindness making themselves known in the dark. "You're rare," he says again. Maybe he wants to make sure I heard him. "Keep it up."

It's these small, fleeting moments that live on in your memory. The details. Today was my last day on the 7, and on the wire in general, for a while- you probably know that I was forced out to North Base for Winter shake-up- and I've been savoring these last days for the great life experience that they are. Being out there, amongst people who know me, a city I've become part of. I unfortunately can't write about something that happened earlier this week, but for those of you who were there, that was fantastic. You live for moments like that- small and unremarkable when retold, but massive in a personal way.

Today was no more or less different than a typical day on the 7 for me. It was lighter than usual, and there was minimal Friday night madness in the Valley. As I said earlier, there were no monumental climaxes to be had. And yet- there were, as there always are, those moments, which tonight took on a pathos of things ending, color drifting away in the fading light. A couple street perennials and I on the sidewalk at inbound McClellan, joking around together as I wait for my schedule to catch up. Me, interrupting the automatic talking lady to do my own announcements. Turning right onto 7th from Virginia, making sure I have enough momentum to clear that deadspot. A young man and his Caucasian girlfriend at Holden, standing at the front, listening and talking with me briefly but eagerly, happy to be a part of it all.

Ah, yes. Not a bad way to pass the time.

I'm sitting at a red, at Cedar and 4th, eastbound. A sports car convertible flies across the intersection and slams to a halt just opposite me, blocking traffic. The driver, a man in his 40s, leans out of his open top and says to me:

"What day is it?"
"It's the 20th."
"That's right. Thanks."

And then he roars off, slamming to another stop when he reaches the end stop sign at of the block.

---

Not all of my 7 passengers are people I would invite over for dinner. We'll put it that way. I love the guys, don't get me wrong, but I only have enough groceries to go around. My place isn't that big. The transitory nature of the bus can be a virtue- you do have to learn how to hang out with everybody, but you only have to hang out with everybody for a set amount of time. On routes like the 12, if you've got someone being bothersome, it's not a huge issue, because they'll be gone in 10 minutes. Big deal. On the 7, however, they might be there for an hour. It's a long ride to Rainier Beach.

One such lady shows up periodically. Like many problem passengers, she's cordial to me and rude to the riders. American, dark-skinned, 50s, not too many teeth, perennially drunk, hair covered with a wrap-around shawl. Today she responded to my greeting in kind ("I'm doing excellent!"), and reminded me that she loved me, and that she "got me covered, anytime you need anythinganytimeyouneedfivethousanddollars I be there for you." I thank her and tell her that I might be calling her up for that five thousand. Beer, spilling out her jacket pocket, soiling her pants and dripping onto the floor. It flows back and forth, forming rivulets in those non-slip grooves on the Breda floor. Fleetingly, it crosses my mind that a biologist would have a field day with the floor of one of these beasts. The tactile residue of a million stories, evidence of happiness, sadness, anger, greed, love, sympathy, loss and all the rest.

She slurs, "I got it for you 'cause I love you bus driver, I got five thousand ten thousand whatever you need just call me twenty thousand. Don' gotta worry 'bout nothin.'"
"Now that's really generous of you."
"I got, I got,"
"I might have to take you up on that. Might have to give you a call."
"You need something twenty thousand," she yells bodily, getting excited. "I take care a you!"

Later she sits down near the front and argues with a few passengers. She's larger than life, a beast in the cage of unhappiness, or an embryo pushing out, clawing at the walls of its shell. Manic energy and no place to go. When the passenger next to her gets up to sit further away, she says, "yeah, walk away. Act like you scared a me. Retardo." She adds the label at the end as if it's a devastating and terrible revelation. You know, like revealing someone to be a communist sympathizer in the 50s.

I can't help but smile, and glancing in the mirror I see two young African girls watching me, watching the situation, with rapt attention. These are the days memories are made of. Our friend continues to badger the people around her, and they're skilled at this sort of thing- you get the impression they've been on the 7 before. They ease her away from conflict as many times as she steers back into it. Her open beer can somehow shifts, turning upside down in her jacket and guzzling out, recoloring her groin and shoes.

When she finally gets up to deboard ("lemme off the bus here, driver," she says to my relief), clear down at Orcas, I can feel the entirety of the bus paying attention. I remember the whites of the eyes of the two girls, watching and wondering what the driver will do, and what she'll do. But there is no explosive confrontation. She simply yells, "I got no bus transfer today baby," and I say "hey, I appreciate you telling me. Thanks for bein' honest."
"Oh Ah always be real wit' you, bus driver, you don't gotta worry 'bow me."
"Well thank you for stoppin' by."
"I always like your bus. I got no money," she adds, forgetting her prior offer of twenty thousand dollars. You wonder if she's trying to goad you, by bringing up her lack of fare again. I'm not falling for it.
"Hey, I appreciate you bein' honest. Le's put it on the tab, how's that sound."
"Aw thank you bus driver," she says, in a way that somehow just doesn't endear. Maybe it's the beer on her pants.
"Yeah, we'll put it on the tab." As she stands there listlessly, I 'tell her to leave-' that is, I say- "I see you next time!"

After she leaves, the tightrope slackens off, and you can feel a collective sigh of relief. I look in the mirror and then straight ahead, smiling to myself. That sort of releases the crowd. Laughter. I say, "hey, it's better than TV!"
"I know that's right," someone chimes in.
"Daytime TV, oh yeah."

Will I let her on in the future? I will. I have already, in fact. Why, one might ask. I have no set answer. It is simply my nature, to give them the benefit of the doubt. She has been civil on the bus before, and there's a chance she just might be again. It's not a very big chance, but it exists nonetheless. Looking through her eyes you remember: she used to be a little girl once. There's still a little bit of that somewhere inside her.

The two African girls step off at Graham, wearing New Balance tennis shoes under their traditional garb, both beaming out smiles of warmth and acceptance and what else, a gladness at the sight of positivity in the face of negative energy. Practically lighting up the whole neighborhood.