I just want to say thank you to everyone who came or planned to come to my showing. I'm always excited by who ends up coming to these sorts of things- there's your dear friends who you know will come, and there's people you invited but didn't expect to actually show- but here they are! They wanted to come, and did! I'm fascinated by the ways our lives intersect, the tumultuous paths the lines of our lives must take as they swim in and out of each other. If only there was a way to map it all.

Dan in the Wheelchair, going to Fred Hutch. A gentleman in his 50s, in generic office attire. This is on the 70. He wheels onto the lift to go down, and says, "What's you're name?" I told him, and he said, "I've been riding the bus for a long time." I was expecting him to say something about finding me unusually courteous or friendly. Instead he blurted out, after a pause, "You're the best-looking bus driver I've ever seen!" I thought to myself, oh dear. How does one respond to this? What are you supposed to say? It reminds me of another time when I was doing the 10, full house going up to the Hill, and a youngish black fellow up front kept saying, "man, you the most attractive-looking young-looking bus driver I ever seen." I didn't know if he meant that, of all the young bus drivers he's aware of, he found me the most appealing, or, of all the physically attractive drivers he knew, I was simply the youngest. I didn't press the issue. Sometimes you just don't wanna go there.

He's got sunglasses on, but they're the kind where you can still make out the eyes behind them. 55-60, Black American. I vaguely remember a jacket and cane, but more specifically remember a presence. He's at the front and we're talking about what, maybe the weather, maybe sports- it's the sound of the voices that matter more, the timbre of a friendly air being thrown back and forth, tossed into a friendly goodness. 6:40pm, at Harborview, and my buddy Greg gets on, thin, outgoing African American, also 55-60. They know each other. Greg stands at the front, joshing with his friend and me, and we're all of us talking and laughing and nodding, and laughing some more. It's the thrill of being accepted by a different generation- here I am, not even 30, this Asian youngster with glasses, but that doesn't matter- what we are is people, the three of us talking and laughing on an equal plane, aware and inclusive of each others' differences. Nobody trying to be like the others, or anything other than themselves. I look up in the mirror and I see a passenger sitting back there- a commuter in a suit- and he's smiling at us all, excited by this, of something new and good. You get the sense that this joyful equal plane, this warm envelope, was new to him. Greg, standing at the front of the aisle, busting out laughing with that smile he has. I see Greg looking at his friend, happy to see him. I always say to Greg, "Good to see ya!" And Greg always responds with, "Great to be seen!"

I'm all done for the day, back at the base, driving my car out the garage. There's a lady out there, and she's blowing bubbles and spinning in a circle, bubbles all around her, on the sidewalk by an empty 545. From a distance she looked 10, perhaps 12 years old. I kept looking and maybe she was 12, maybe she was 60. I couldn't tell. Rolling down the window as I got closer, and oh! She is about 60, but the thought flashes- how could that be? She's blowing bubbles! I say loudly, "that's beautiful!" In the moment right before yelling I wondered if I should even say anything- maybe she wouldn't hear me? Or wouldn't get that I was talking to her? Or think it was weird I would yell out at her from my car- but no. She smiles back saying, "Thank you!" As if, you know, people yell friendly things across the street at each other all the time. In my rear-view I see her out there, still twirling in a sea of gently floating bubbles, glinting in the fading light- she still looks about 12. It's warm outside, as I head for the highway overpass. Orange sunlight passing underneath.

On the bus- an African American couple is getting off, 20s, she's got the empty stroller and he's got the requisite doo rag and flat-billed hat sideways, pants down around his knees. He leans in and says, "hey man, all I got is a 20," and shows me his wallet, which is only very large bills. I say "that's okay-" hand gestures- "it ain't worth 20 dollars." Relief smiles across his face, and something else too. I say, "oh yeah, you're fine. Guys have a good night." He says "thank you" in  italics, and she says sincerely, "I appreciate it," and we exchange some more 'have-a-good-nights' and 'you-too's,' except they feel so big and real and what else, and they're almost gone when he turns back and yells out, "and Happy Father's day, if you have a son!" An hour later I saw them again, wandering into the street. He had taken off his shirt. I leaned out of the bus and waved, and we all recognized each other ("heeeyyyy!"), and the excited goodness in them glowed. It was like we 3 were all the same special species, the kind that sees new possibilities, and you feel the juice that makes one excited about humanity. Our generation. The size of these moments.