A new batch of images over in the Photography section, this time an assorted set taken in LA.

Continuation of the same day as Waves, X with a black border:

Amman, driving the 36, and we're excited to see each other. As he drives past me he turns his head completely to gesture and wave, cutting an unintentionally dashing figure in his hip sunglasses. Milan Kundera once wrote that your memories tend to be still images more often than moving scene with beginnings and ends; the glimpse of Amman with his head tilted and his two finger wave is one of those images that hangs in the air after it's already gone by.

At the Henderson layover, I lean out the door, bellowing out at Danielle, one of the other perennially happy Atlantic drivers. "Have a good night," I holler. "You too," she yells from across the Saar's parking lot.

Jermain's friend (who surfaced recently) shows up without Jermain, and I greet him as a friend, though I've never actually talked to him. African-American, high-school age, in a big white tee, gray sweats and basketball shoes. We chat for a bit about school starting, and then I hear him talking to another passenger. Sometimes I like "kickstarting" a conversation- getting it going, and then stepping out to let it grow into its own thing amongst the passengers while I merely listen. When our friend steps out at Walden he lingers on the sidewalk as a couple of east Asian grandmothers deboard.

What's he doing? Standing there, with a big bag of takeout in his arm. It turns out he had volunteered to carry out one of the grannies' bags for her. Mentally I want to selfishly take credit for that gesture of kindness, in that I fostered a positive example and environment for it to happen, but really, he deserves all the credit. What a guy. Not sure if he would've done that if a pack of his buddies were with him, but this is him too, big as life. Helping out for no personal gain.

Later Jermain himself stops by with another friend of his. I hear him telling his friend about me as they step on. "As-Salamu Alaykum," says Jermain. It takes me a split second to summon the response- there's so much going on in your head when you're driving the bus- but I'm there for him with a hearty "Wa' alaykum a-salam!" His towering friend laughs approvingly. Jermain goes for the classic bone-crushing handshake. Interestingly his other friend from earlier prefers the three-pound fistbump (up, down, head-on), which I don't see too often anymore.

Grizzly Tony, beer-guzzling panhandler extraordinaire, who first met me on the 4, now logs serious hours at Rainier and McClellan. He rides my last round trip with me. His life is a storied one. He mentions his 21 years in the military, and then we laugh about a little kid who recently tried to jump him with a penknife on Rainier. "Put that piece a shit away," he'd muttered to the boy. "I've shot down helicopters." The youngster had retorted with, "what if I start stabbing you?" Tony: "I probably wouldn't give a shit. Now go on, get outta here." Which is exactly what the bewildered would-be robber did. Lesson: bluster and experience with helicopters count for something.

I pull alongside Abdul on Stewart Street. He's on the 70 today, and with his sunglasses he looks like Jean Reno, except happy. He opens the doors and says, "we're gonna miss you at Atlantic!" Yet another of the greats at that Base.

On Third Avenue. Red-Haired Operator of the Month, a part-timer like me; she's out of North Base, but got forced to East for next shakeup. I tell about how I wanted Atlantic, but got forced to North. We continue our conversation while skip-stopping up Third- she'll pull alongside me at a red light, we'll exchange a few sentences, and then I'll pull alongside her at the next zone, and exchange a few more. Interesting way to carry on a dialogue.

It's nighttime now, inbound at Rose. I step outside to help out someone with their groceries. Grizzly Tony is still sitting around on the bus, killing time, and watching me he says to a genteel lady passenger, "isn't he great?" She responds with a look of incredulity and says in a tone of comically unpleasant shock, "I know. I was gonna say, what planet is this guy from?"

The last wave of the night is a double-whammie; the first part of it is between Dawna and myself. Dawna drives the 14. Maybe you've had her before. She's yet another one of the greats, smile beaming out of her bus at all hours of the night. I don't know how she does it. You get the impression that rather than life happening to her, she happens to life. She's possessing of a kindness unflappable, a worldview cemented in stone- an attitude that she and other great figures of our time project. Something I aspire toward.

In the moment that I wave at her, I notice an amorphous white shape on the other side of the bus, to my right. It's a stranger in the night, but he or she knows me, because (s)he's waving at me in a big way, with the same kind of extended arm salute that I often throw out at people. All I can see of this person is the white shirt waving and white teeth gleaming in the night, that universal expression of what ought be regular human existence- what we call happiness.

I'm reminded of an earlier moment in the day. At 07:00am, I was doing the 70 myself, laying over at University Heights. I was sitting on the grass reading my Tolstoy (just cracked the 700-page mark of Anna K!), and a crusty older street guy walked past. On impulse I greeted him. He responded warmly, and paid it forward to a "regular" woman walking toward him. She was pleased at the hello from him, and responded in kind, and when she got to where I was sitting, I said hi to her as well, mostly because the street fellow had done so. She looked mildly surprised as she continued past me, glowing in a temporary bubble where everyone says hello. I felt secretly excited at hopefully making her wonder, "why is everyone saying hi to me?" Later on this day as I was walking to the bus stop to go home, and a middle-aged black American guy strolled past me in the twilight. I said "hey," and he said, "how's it goin.' Good seein' you again."

I've never seen the guy before. Is this what John Travolta feels like? When people come up to him and go, "I loved you in Phenomenon?" Who knows. What I do know is that it feels good to be building something; a rickety, perhaps easily destroyed, perhaps temporary, but still real structure, an imaginary house where people are kind to each other, out here on the open streets, where such a house of kindness might not be expected. Ephemeral, yes, but present for now. What else is there, after all?

It's a day of waving. I don't where the energy comes from. I say hey to Chappelle at 5th and Jackson. I think he's finishing up a 7. Miranda is with me, and I can't help but say to her as buses go by, "that's Mike. He's cool. That's Bridget. She's great." Who knows how interested Miranda is in hearing me say the names of bus drivers driving by, but I can't help but extol the great energy that surrounds me at Atlantic Base. Each base has its own unique culture, and I feel comfortable saying that none of them have the camaraderie, skill, or positive attitude that Atlantic, as a collective entity, possesses.

Of course every work environment has its bad apples, but here that's exactly what they are- anomalies, irregularities that don't register in one's overall description of the place. I think this great energy results from how punishingly difficult and demanding the work is, and paradoxically, how satisfying it is because of that- it's work that draws a certain breed. You're either too new to go anywhere else (meaning you still have a good attitude), or you love the work (meaning you definitely have a good attitude, and are maybe a little bit crazy like me).

Even before I began driving I've enjoyed waiting around at Fourth/Fifth and Jackson. A good Service Planner friend of mine once told me that she enjoys her view of that intersection from her desk at King Street Center, because by watching that one intersection, through which such a massive percentage of the network passes, you can tell if something's brewing. You can sense it in the air.

As for myself, I like being down there because of the eclectic mixture of souls haunting the place- a hodgepodge assembly of friends and strangers, various Atlantic drivers (like myself) sitting around waiting to relieve other drivers, various street people who recognize me, and others passing through. We'll forget for a second about the people who fall asleep standing up or urinate in the corners. There's Joe's, the infamous bar and grill, around the corner, helping keep things, uh, interesting (and okay, shake-your-head bizarre); there's the sitting area by the fountain, the Tunnel entrance for a quick getaway, the beckoning tranquil space of Union Station, and the totally, completely out-of-place establishment that is FedEx Office, which has utterly no relation to anything happening out there except the fact that the owners very kindly offer Metro a bathroom for drivers inside.

Big Tony sees me on my way to work, riding the 41. He yells what he always yells to me ("BABYFACE!"), and I yell my standard reply ("BIG TONY!"). At least once a trip someone will ask me if I'm old enough to drive. Do I need to stop shaving?

I yell across the street at Roderick, on the 36; incredibly, he hears me, and we share a smile, the kind where you're both sharing an unspoken secret. I'm not even sure what ours was in that moment, but if I had to put it to words I think it was a shared understanding along the lines of "yes, this work is ridiculous, and yes, we each understand that the other totally loves it precisely the way it is." We share a passion for the work that's quite similar in outlook. I've learned many things from talking with him. He's the driver that looks like me in ten years.

Friendly Laotian appears inside my bus. I notice him in the mirror, and turn around and say the traditional Lao greeting just as he's taught me: hands together in prayer, a small head nod, and: "Sabadi!"

A big wave through the glass windows of Bed, Bath and Beyond at Roy, the Bed Bath and Beyond "bouncer." You know the guy. Always has a word for you, and for whatever young lady happens to be walking by.

Real Change Willy and I wave and yell at each other at Columbia, pretty regular occurrence;

Driving the big 7 up Third, I see 3/4 Tony (with the beret), Piano-Playing Joseph, and "Awesome Dude with Normal Name That I Always Forget"- drivers all, walking the sidewalk- and I honk and wave, overcome with enthusiasm. I'm gonna miss these guys.

Doing a difficult merge at 5th & Jackson eastbound while negotiating the three deadspots there, I wave at 211 Guy (the older fellow I see every day driving the 211). He smiles back with an expression of mild wonder, marveling at something about me or my bus- who knows. I give him a big grin every day.

Black Power Salute exchanged with Charles F.;

Dearborn "I Still Got Your Water Jug" Dude shows up again at his usual spot- Rainier and Dearborn, northwest corner. Same tattered black rags, one-armed leaning gait, and matted hair framing genuine eyes. Still smiling. Like he'd be making any other expression. It's easy for us to despise money, because we have it; but to find that awareness (of what money does) in the homeless impresses me. Depending on where you're sitting, those truths can be both easier and much harder to see. Dearborn Dude may not be in terrific physical health (it took me a while to figure out how many arms he has), but his mind can see things.

Today, it's another last-minute wave- we make eye contact at the last possible instant, through the traffic, grab bars, scratched bus windows, and construction haze- contact, for a millisecond, eliminating all else for a moment. Nothing else in the world in that brief iota of time. Just a couple guys smiling at each other.

Spur-of-the-moment wave at Chicken-Eating Dude- unwaved at as yet by me. He's the fellow who usually sits at Rainier and Plum eating chicken. After a moment of comprehension between bites of chicken, he returns the gesture. What was interesting to me about this was that he was clear on the other side of the street, five lanes of traffic away. How did he understand that I was waving for no reason?

I yell out at Hoarse Throat Man (the guy who got stuck with me at the Prentice St. accident, detailed in Orange T). He's also on the other side of Rainier, around Weller, where I'm stuck in traffic. "Hey, my friend!" I holler out. "Wha's goin' on?" He can't yell back a response, but motions in return. A few hours later he stops by inside the bus and says hey.

Cruising down Rainier past Holly ("our stop for the Senior Center"), I notice a man walking by himself; I give him the upward nod, and he responds just in time, raising two fingers and a thumb. I wonder what he's thinking. Secrets that I'll never know.

Group of kids getting off my 7 at Othello inbound, stepping out the very back door. They take their time, saying goodbyes to their friends who remain on the bus, and trying to hurry along one of their toddlers. I look at them all, wandering out, and smile at their ease. I wonder if any of them will look up or wave to the driver on their way out, and the last one does. I'm excited by the thought of whatever kernel of empathy, thankfulness, or togetherness, compelled that last fellow to throw up his arm in that lazy salute. There was something there that was real. Smiling to myself as I pull away from the zone.

Continued in the next post-

Last trip of the night. I lose a pole at Holden inbound, which doesn't make sense. It's straight wire on a smooth roadway with no bumps. Nothing to do but run out there and put the pole back up. Immediately I sense something amiss. Your brain puts things together in pieces in an unexpected situation like that, like the way the evidence that your car's been broken into sinks in slowly, bit by bit, with resistance. I look at the back of the bus.

There's no glass where the back window should be.

Instead there's a few faces of the African-American high-schoolers sitting the back, peering out at me with confusion.
"What happened?" I say.
"I don't know, man," one boy says. "I just tapped with my elbow and the whole window fell off. I was just leaning back a little, like this."
They're worried. They're expecting me to be angry, and they carry the look of one who knows he's in trouble now. I know they're telling the truth based on their tone and attitude; puppy dog eyes that can still see. Clearly good kids.
I say, "I think this bus is older and than both you and me!"

Relief and laughter. "It's fine, you guys are cool. It's all good." I put up the thrown pole, forcing the cars to move, staring them down with a benevolent but firm hand. I can hear one of the kids saying, "Damn, he's walking right out into traffic." Standing out there for an extra second I look at the back window, which itself is lying on the pavement about a hundred feet behind the bus. I'm wondering if I should try to grab that beast and haul it back onto the coach. Lying there in the roadway, I realize that it's massive. Definitely can't reattach it in the proper place. I decide to retrieve it- it hasn't shattered, being laminated plastic, and some girls sitting on the side of the road say, "I think you need a newer bus," and I laugh as I pick up the window, saying, "I think you're right!" I run the window back up to the front of the bus, stash it on the wheelchair seats, and continue.

A few of us at front marvel at the absurdity of it all. "We must be in a recession," I say. If ever there was a sign that we need new trolleys, this would be it. Parts of buses falling into the roadway, leaving a literal trail up Rainier Avenue. Great. A little while later I decide to walk back there and inspect the bus from the inside. The youngsters are still sitting back there, along with some others. "That's crazy," I say, watching them sitting next to the huge open space right behind them, the trolley ropes near enough to touch. Thank goodness I've got these kids on my side, or they could yank those ropes and disable the bus at their leisure. "I kinda wish I could sit back here just to see what it feels like!" Laughter. "It's awesome," one of them affirms. The kids love the ride, spending most of the trip staring out the back window, watching the fluctuating ropes and the world receding into the night.

"COME ON!" A woman yells at her friend, waiting to get on at Brandon. She's maybe 25, quite heavy, and her friend is older, male, and drunk. I say to her in a friendly sing-song, "hey!" She turns her head. I say, "How's it goin'?" She doesn't respond but her eyes register a softening, which becomes moreso when I tell her there's no rush. The two of them and a third fellow get on, and they make some serious noise in the back, standing, yelling, continually changing seats. Hardly a sober cell in their brains tonight. I feel bad for the regular kids back there who have to listen to the ruckus of this trio, which is not profane but merely loud. As far as I can tell.

The trio comes up to the front, preparing to get off, but the light at Jackson is red. They're not gone just yet. I ask the drunk one how it's going, and he says good. I like it when people are coherent and responsive. As long as you can talk to someone, and they can listen to you, you can influence the situation. The woman tells me he's her husband, and the other guy is, well, her second husband. "He's sexy," she notes, referring to the second husband. I ask her how she's doin,' and if she's enjoying her Friday night. She is. Pretty soon they're all over each other, Husband One sitting on the chat seat, and she's sitting on top of- more like crushing- him, while Husband Two slaps her behind repeatedly. She laughs, enjoying it and kisses Husband One. Passengers less than a yard away look on; they're in view of the entire bus. I can't allow it. I get Husband Two's attention: "hey, man."

You can feel the tennis ball teetering on the brink of the net; during this minute, this exchange, the atmosphere could all tumble into badness. But not yet. They're still on my side. "Hey, man, could I ask you a special favor?"
"What's that?"
"Could you guys...maybe wait till you step outside the bus to do that?"
He laughs behind dark sunglasses. "Sure."
The girl hears this and resists another slap, yelling, "he said wait!"
They step off, and we wish each other well. Husband Two says, "you're one of the coolest, man," with a hint of an accent.

I see Ernie driving the 1 and I pull up alongside him. We're always excited to see each other. I got on his 7 one evening and was thrilled- He greeted every passenger, looking them in the eye as I do! He explained to me his take on it: "it doesn't matter if they respond. What matters is that I put myself out there. I accomplished that." His happiness truly originates from within himself. He isn't depending on the passengers for good times. I'm not quite at that level. I deeply enjoy when my goodwill is received by them, or when it reflects back through them onto me. I mention something Roderick told me- "you put yourself all the way out there, and on these routes, you get a lot back." He agrees. We continue in this vein, and I share with him the definition of optimism I mentioned earlier (Purple J), and he eats it up. "Whoa, man. I need to sit with that for a moment. Let that sink in." He closed his eyes at the red light at Third and Main to more easily process. What a guy, I remember thinking.

Anyways, tonight I pull up alongside his route 1 and he asks about my night. "Fantastic," I say. In the nanosecond I say that I consider the yelling, the inappropriate behavior, and I know Ernie would agree- those things have no ability to make my night anything other than fantastic. They don't even register in my answer. "Hey, Ernie. The back window of my bus fell off."
"What?"
"Yeah. Totally crazy. They barely touched it, and bam. Lying out on the road somewhere. I went back and got it."
"You know, it was it's time."
"It had reached it's time."
"Yeah. It had made it to the end."
"Today was it's day."
"Exactly."

When I get to the last stop, I see the three kids in the back preparing to get off the bus. I blink and realize I can now only see two of them. Did that other kid just do what I think he did? "Hey, did he just climb out the back window?"
"Yeah," his friend answers.
"Awesome!"
What else would you do, I think. You're riding the only bus you'll ever ride that has no back window. Then, you get the only chance you'll ever have to climb out of a bus through a gigantic hole in its back. You don't want to miss out on that unique and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Obviously. I'm not going to say if I did the same when I got back to the base, but I will say that I wasn't about to let a fantastic and unrepeatable one-time-offer of excitement go to waste.

It's time to let the homophobe on. He's older, black American, identifiable less by his twisted feet and crutches then by his steadfastly negative attitude.
"I need the lif,' man, get the lift out."
"I'm'a get the lift out for ya."
"Yeah, I want the lift out."
"I got you covered."

You can say anything to this fellow, and he'll find a way to see the bad in it. He's creative that way.

Me: "You got new shoes!"
Him: "Don't do me any good."
"Good to see ya!"
"No, it's good for me to see you. I'm the one who needs the bus. It ain't good for you to see me, it's good for me to see you."
"Alright man. That works."
"I wanna get the out, driver, I need the lift."
"I'm gonna get the lift out."
"I need the lift."
"I'm'a give you the lift."
"Too many sissy gay guys in this city. Ain't no real men left in this town."
"Is that right."
"Yeah. Gimme the lift."
At this point I'm tempted to say, "hang on. Do you need the lift?" But I refrain from amusing myself so.
"There it is," I say instead. "Have a safe day now."
"Whatever."

Once he rode out to the end of the 43/44 in Ballard. I let him stay on the bus during the layover, and took my break outside the bus, stretching and reading and talking to the wonderful lady who works behind the counter at 7-11. She always calls me "Baby Bus Driver," in a motherly way, and has since shortened it to just "Baby." She asks when I'm going to get married and have kids. "Not today," I say. I gotta go drive the 44 first.

I walk back out to my bus and drive another trip, with our friend the homophobe still on board. (His homophobic tendencies are a little more in check today). He is silent for the duration. When he finally gets off on Pacific, I heard him say something I couldn't believe:

"Driver, I need the lift."
"That sounds good."
"I need the lift at the next stop."
"Right on."
"Alright now. Have a good day."

YOWZA!, I think to myself. To what do I owe this great honor?! I conceal my surprise at the statement, but I am floored. It is the first positive statement I've ever heard from the man. Him saying 'have a good day' is- well, it's the tectonic plates shifting into a newer world, is what it is. I remember a passenger once getting on my 4 to the Central District. After a simple and pleasant interaction with me, he sat down and said, "Man, to me, what just happened, right here, was a miracle." He was blown away by the intimation of trust and respect, of people dealing with each other on an equal plane. I forget the nature of our interaction; it's only defining characteristic is that it was positive. But I wonder if my attitude towards that man was as unexpected as that of the homophobe in this story was to me, and I can understand the impact it must've had for him to call it a miracle. Homophobe Guy saying "have a good day" certainly felt like such.