On the 4, outbound, nobody's left on the bus, and I whisk past Hill street on MLK, and there's two local youngsters, teenagers probably, hangin' out on the sidewalk. I wave to them but I have no expression, my face frozen in some sort of totally unnecessary zen zombie driving face. One of them makes eye contact with me, and offers a warm smile. He must know me. The split second is past as I drive by, but it was there. I really wish I could've been smiling then. Shoot. His was warm and real and genuine and contained the multitudes a tiny moment can easily handle. All I had in return was a blank stare, like a water buffalo who's not hungry. Hope he knows I smiled wide the moment I went by. Hope I get another chance. That guy's quick on his feet.

I have a couple of huge posts coming up, at least one of which will go up over the weekend. Meanwhile, I have a question-

Recently I came across a commendation given to me some time ago. This was when I was doing the 10. A passenger- I believe, an older gentleman- had written in, praising my attitude. The bus was utter chaos that day, and I had handled things in a way that impressed him. I'm quite tempted to reproduce his description of the day here, but I blush at his kind and generous description of my actions, and I suppose I ought to preserve the privacy of his writing. Anyways, it was great to get his feedback, and I was thrilled. It's one of the better commendations I've ever received, and I'm thankful that the gent took the time to write it.

But.

I was struck by one of the closing sentences in the commendation. It reads, "This is an exceptional human being. I would get to know him better if I could."

Now, my question to you is, what on earth does that mean? I'd get to know him better if I could? What societal pressures is he referring to that make him think he is unable to do just that? Do we live in a time and place where people cannot meet with others unless they have an agenda- political, romantic, or otherwise? Are we supposed to avoid contact unless there's a personal gain to be had, or an ongoing interaction to be created? Do we admire rather than interact, for fear of spoiling that which we enjoy observing, or because it's the easier path to take? I don't know myself. Maybe he was just passing through Seattle, or had a sore throat that day. I'm quite curious to hear your thoughts, whether in the comments below, or email, or the next time you and I chat. Don't be shy!

Rollin' back home on Rainier Avenue, deadheading to base. That's when the front of the bus says "Atlantic Base" or "To Terminal" or somesuch. It's a gray area as to whether we're required to pick up people during those stretches, but we can if we want to- and I, of course, want to.

At Rainier and State an odd quartet got on- a white woman between 30 and 40 and her toddler daughter, and two African-American gents who were slightly younger (20-30) than the mother and a lot taller. They all knew each other, and were in good spirits. The mother mysteriously kept apologizing for her friends, though I could find nothing amiss with their behavior. "I'm sorry," she said sheepishly, as one of them bounded on with a huge smile. I could tell they were happy to see me, and one of the gents, who had put a bicycle on the rack, seemed to revel in particular in the warmth of the good feeling on the bus.

You can tell when it's unusual for someone, for the bus driver to be such a friendly entity. The feeling of being comfortable. A look of benevolent discovery on his face, the pleasant joy of finding something unexpected- what's this, a smiling driver who looks 12! They all sat in the back and talked and laughed. Nobody else on the bus as we drift the rest of the way to downtown.

As he got off at 5th and Jackson, he turned to me and said, "I've got a Cadillac." I said, what? He pointed to his bicycle and said, "check it out," in a sort of humble tone, hesitant to be proud or gregarious with a driver. Sure enough, his bicycle had the Cadillac logo on the front and back, and as there wasn't anyone else on the bus I got out of the seat to look at it. For a moment it was just a couple of guys, standing around a bike. The toddler, oscillating between being distracted and watching us with curious eyes. I asked him if he put those on there, the logos, and he laughs- No, they really do make bicycles! You got a Cadillac, I said, and we- him, his apologetic white woman-friend, his decidedly unsober buddy, and the toddler- parted ways with many pleasantries exchanged. I drove away, wondering where they were off to next.

We're deep into the Judkins Park neighborhood, coming out the other side onto Martin Luther King, Jr. Way. It's dark out by now, and I turn the bus slowly around the corner. There's a couple standing there, at the zone. A younger dark-skinned fellow with braids, maybe mid-twenties, facing me, and his Caucasian girlfriend hugging him, her face buried in his shoulder, perhaps to stay warm. It's winter, and it's quiet- you can hear the hum of the sodium-vapor streetlamps. The echo of the larger city, in the distance. I gesture, rolling slowly, saying it with my hand- "you want this bus?" With one of his hands that's around her, he gestures back- no. I give him a wave, "okay," and he gives me the peace sign, two fingers. I smiled back to his upward nod, as the electric bus whisked away into the night, making hardly a sound. What I liked about that moment was that it was an acknowledgement between two people that was so minute, occupying such a short space of time, that it will hardly ever be shared or known by anyone else- likely not even his girlfriend, who was standing right there but facing away. And yet, it did happen, two people registering in each other's brains, for a sliver of a moment, living in space and time. Someone once said that we prove our existence by existing in the minds of others. Solidarity in the nighttime hour, underneath a streetlamp.

Sometimes when you're doing a split shift you try to keep yourself in reserve, the idea being that you can somehow dole out your energy in small dollops for the whole day. Not too long ago I was driving a week-long morning piece on the 2/13, which began at 4:31am, in addition to my regular shift on the 7, which gets done at 8:30pm. 16 hours is the maximum "spread" that your split shift can be, and you definitely feel those 16 hours, even if there is a 5 hour break in the middle. I thought I would do the "energy in reserve" thing, and go easy on the 2/13, hold back a little, and quietly make it through the mornings without running people over. It seemed like a good idea at the time, especially because the 2 has the tightest schedule ever (no break longer than 10 minutes on this shift). I put it into action by not engaging in very much conversation, having a quieter "air" about me, and thinking of it as an endurance test of sorts- endless loops on the 2. I still said hi to everyone, but in a (more) silent way.

What a dumb idea this was.

Halfway through the week it occurred to me that I must be giving off the appearance of someone who is miserable. I wasn't, but what else are you to make from watching a young, bleary-eyed fellow who doesn't say much, mechanically says hello, who talks in a flat and tired voice and stares into the middle distance at red lights?

From riding the bus often, I know that the mood of the driver affects everything. When your driver puts his head on the steering wheel and sighs heavily (as I once witnessed), it's hard for you, the passenger, to continue having a great sunny day. There's a guy five feet away from you who's obviously miserable, and it's infectious. I certainly wasn't going to that extreme, and was probably still happier-looking than most operators, but for my own standards, I was getting too close to that precipice. I was a non-singing, non-dancing lackadaisical route 2 sourpuss. What was up? Retardation, that's what. For lack of a better phrase.

Many of the commendations I get make a point of the driver being present. "This guy makes eye contact with everybody," they'll say. It makes a difference to them. He is there, he is open and present with the people. I thought to myself, in Quiet Route 2 Mode, am I in a time machine? Is this how I'll be ten years from now? No! I can't allow it!

I once told a passenger a couple years ago, on the 43, that if they ever saw me in ten years, and if I was a grump by then, that I wanted him to punch me in the face, and remind me of this conversation. I forget who the guy was, but I'm holding that passenger to his word, and I don't want to get punched!

On the next trip I decided to make an effort, actually live a little, and return to the standard Nathan self. I looked people squarely in the eye. In your frontal lobe are what are called "mirror neurons-" they respond in kind to what's presented before them. It's why a depressed person around you can make you depressed, and why you yawn when other people yawn. I projected out positive energy- not just "how are you" or "hey" but "hey" with conviction- and it started to come back in spades. Eye contact. "You're so cheerful," said a nurse, excited.

I decided to talk with the older regular who'd sat there before, about the wire, trolley buses, smooth driving, wondering why the bus was so empty, where he was headed. We laughed about flying out of bus doors (how the conversation got to that point I'm not sure; you'd have to have been there, I guess). I quieted down a screaming young lady who was embarrassed at having to go the ER. Bringing it back to a better place. That look, that double-take where they notice how happy- or is the word present- you are.

On another trip we were "late, crowded, and fun," as I like to put it, having a conversation with the front of the bus, myself and a couple older ladies riffing about local companies engaged in rackets involving business attire that's loaned out for interviews (the things you end up talking about). Wonder if that pretty girl in the back can hear us. More than that, I wonder, or rather I hope, that they all take something away from it, walking into the mid-morning air, energized in a small or big way, happiness growing larger, expanding them to their potential.

Whether or not it affects them, I know it energizes me, and I feed off that energy in a way much more useful and fulfilling than my original "energy in reserve" idea. Here, I'm making the energy as I go along, building it with myself and others, and the tight 2 schedule doesn't matter anymore- I'm taking my break while doing the route, just hangin' out with my people.

Small moments that I scribbled down before they were lost in the swirl of everyday life-

A not-exactly-sober Native American woman in her sixties, dressed in street clothes and clearly unwashed for some time, is getting off the 55 at 2nd & Columbia. "You're so freakin' nice," she mutters to me, stumbling in and around her friend as they come up to the front to exit. She had gotten on through the back door, and had only heard my voice. Now she notices my appearance for the first time and stops and looks at me. She slurs out, "damn, you're hella cute," saliva dripping onto her jacket collar. It looks like she's thinking it over for a brief nanosecond, and then she yells out, "I'M AVAILABLE! I'M AVAILABLE!"

On the 7, two first-generation African men in traditional clothing board at Dearborn. I greet them with an enthusiasm that comes from an unknown place, like I knew them in another lifetime. They smile wide, and the first shakes my hand. "It's nice to see anotha brotha!" he says in accented English. I have no clear idea what he means, but hey, I'll take it. He's happy to be here.

Kids at the Franklin High School stop swaggering onto the bus, outbound. This particular group excites me. Not all the kids are like this. Their faces impart an awareness and perception that we forget to associate with ghetto youth culture. All of them return my "hey's" and "how's it goin's." None of them have headphones in. They are present. Neutral expressions, ready to smile, open to the world around them, a world with people other than simply them. In between the oversized starch-black denims, hoop earrings, sagging insignia-laden backpacks, hands hidden in sweatshirt sleeves- don't forget to notice the depth in their eyes.

Downtown. Two young American girls, probably also high school age, dark-skinned with ponytails and sweatshirts and tight pants, are walking an older, slow-moving blind white woman to my bus. "She needs your bus," one of them says. "We walked her all the way over here from McDonalds." I'm floored when people are nice to each other. For some reason I am simply unable to get over it. These are gestures that never become tiresome. "You guys are amazing," I say, staring. One of them smiles. The other is still guiding the blind woman onto the steps. "Wow," I say. "I'd buy you guys lunch if I didn't have to, you know. Drive the 4." They laugh, some pleasantries are exchanged, and they drift away into the whirlpools and eddies of the CBD.

He would usually get on somewhere, anywhere, along the 7 route. Occasionally his girlfriend would be with him- is it his girlfriend?- Yes, I think so, from the relaxed silence the two of them shared. They made for an interesting couple; she, 40s, worn from the vagaries of life, skin aged and coarse- you glance at the rosy color in her cheeks and wonder: what memories, what ruminations drift through the halls of her nights? The play of light and shadow on a wall, unearthing some long-lost scene in another life.

The man, with lighter skin, is still clearly east Asian, like her; his round eyes quiver with the vitality of youth, but it's muted. Hard to place his age. Thirties perhaps, somewhere after that day when you first feel it- the knowledge that your time on this earth is limited. You knew it before, sure, but it was only knowledge then; the truth of it hits you now, and you know the value of your days. That subtle, sobering patina, ever-present, aware that you will one day have more past than future.

And yet- his eyes.

They may bespeak hardship, and contain the far-off echo of one who has "seen things," but in the face of all that- he is here. His eyes are alive with the notion of the breathing now- of things yet unfound, of discoveries and joys and who knows what else. This verve energizes his gaunt form, and he responds to your smile with one of his own- every time.

"Hello, my friend," he'll say, recognizing me. Before he knew me he would simply nod and say, "give me two transfer!" It is a request, a benevolent command, and a greeting all at once. I don't question him. Who knows what stories he has passed through- this day, this decade.

Yesterday in Vietnamtown I saw him again, but it was all different. He is alone on the sidewalk, hands behind his back, and a burly cop stands nearby, posturing and faceless. They're holding him there, but I don't know why. The lights on the patrol car spin ceaselessly. Our friend, gazing nowhere, achingly alone, stuck staring into the middle distance.

Bus full of people as I pull around slowly.

I'm trying to get his attention, my hand hesitantly searching for a chance to wave. And then he sees me, and it's a second before he recognizes me- the lock of eye contact- and then those eyes of his light up, as his hand comes out slowly, from behind his back, to return the wave. Feels like slow motion. His smile is tentative at first, then widens, and he keeps waving. Both of us happy just to be alive. We'll live through this, I tell him with my eyes. Whatever it is. You'll laugh about it with your friends someday. See you on the other side.