I love doing these things. Click here for the video– stories from the road, Tom and I on the book, and plenty of Q&A from a lively and inquisitive audience! Enjoy!

(This isn't the Holiday Bookfest, which is also in Greenwood. That's next week! Details in the link!)

We've all been there. You're standing over here, and they're over there, not too far from you. It's a public space. They're screaming. You aren't. Maybe it's awkward, because there are only a few people around, or because for whatever similar reason you don't blend in. Or maybe it's crowded. They're usually not addressing you, and eye contact feels dicey. Perhaps they're getting arrested, or they're railing against the world as though no one can hear them, giving thundering voice to an anger you too have felt, though probably for different reasons. 

Whatever the circumstances, the person yelling is almost always of a different class group, race, level of mental health or medication than you, the listener. It just seems to turn out that way. You have to reach a little (or a lot) to get around to grasping where this person's coming from, and sometimes it's impossible. 

For myself, I have on more than one occasion been the witness to various black American men expressing their rage at feeling helpless. Most of the time it's a scene involving arrest, with handcuffs and batons and other such stark symbols of agency stifled. Other times it's between two folks fighting or a few, talking big, puffed-out with veins bulging, young people pretending they've never known fear, with no idea how better to express themselves or solve their travails.

When confronted with these scenes I find myself thinking about legacies. How for much of our nation's history, blacks were not allowed to buy homes, because that's a way of accumulating wealth and passing it on to your children.* How blacks were not allowed to learn to read, have access to the same schools, banks, or transportation, or all the other insidious ways an entire people has been handicapped in plain sight. These carefully manufactured designs toward suppression are the causes, and they're often hidden (as best as possible), but the final effect is crystallized in the rude and tragic poetry of one man's inarticulate roar. 

"I'm supposed to have smarts, and stuff," a fellow told me years ago on the 13. I still think about that line. We were joking around about a whole host of topics, but he was dead serious for that brief sentence, and I remember the pause that hung in the air following his words. He knew there is supposed to be more, should be more that he can touch, and the reasons why have been kept from him... but he could sense it nonetheless. We have the capacity to imagine a better world, even if we have never seen it. 

In a word, what I'm trying to say here is that angry yelling black guys tend to put me in a state of somber reflection. Go figure. I'm not sure what this says about me, and right now I'm not sure I care; my focus is on the fact that I've seen people deprived of agency and driven to incoherent displays of aggressiveness rather more than should be ideal. 

Which is why I was taken aback when I comprehended the words this guy was yelling.

I was on my break at Rainier and Henderson, shoveling down kale salad with chopsticks and bent over Tolstoy's War and Peace (so good!). Across the street was football practice, the high school stadium's high-beam halogens and cries of victory and defeat illuminating the night. Parents and others stood about the fringes on either side of the fence. Somebody was calling out to another, a friend by the sound of it, and they must have been far apart in distance because this guy, who didn't exactly look like he was living easy, was hollering. Except his hollering was not the kind that makes me sad.

"I'M FORTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD AND WE AIN'T GOT THAT MUCH TIME LEFT ON THIS URF! LE'S BE CIVIL TO EACH OTHER AND ENJOOOOOY THA AIR WE BREATHE! THA'S WHY I DON'T SMOKE, THAT'S WHY I DON'T DRINK. YOU SNAP YO' FINGERS IT COULD ALL BE OVER LIKE THAT! LE'S BE GOOOD TO ONE ANOTHER, BRUH! PEACE AND LOVE, 2019!!!"

I wish I had caught the rest. It was beautiful, friend. Magical. He doesn't know how he inspired me so. Change can start one person at a time, one step at a time, simply in the act of being our best selves. When the chips are stacked against us there are still decisions to be made, choices, for which we nonetheless bear responsibility. Of course, it's not in my purview to critique the rage I describe above. Every response to being black in America is a valid response. 

But this guy.

"She took life as it came, and made the best of it," reads a line I've forgotten the source of, but which I treasure. On this night, he was the example to follow. In the face of everything, all of it, it is a mistake to turn away from the generative and rejuvenating possibility of Joy. There is always joy. You might feel I'm not qualified to say so, and you would would be entitled to that perspective. But tonight I didn't say so.

He did.

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*It's difficult to overstate the vastness of ramifications this has had. I'm referring both to the "whites only" housing rules pre-1968, as well as the subsequent rampant lack of enforcement of LBJ's otherwise well-intentioned Fair Housing Act. By now we all know the impact of withheld education; but housing discrimination fans out to all aspects life just as pervasively, reinforcing segregation on the commercial, industrial, and personal levels, affecting access to everything from schools to hospitals to nutritious food, zoning lines for voting, the ability to save, invest or inherit land, as well as the fallout ghettos have in their proximity to crime, disease, statistical tendency toward single parenting, limitations on public spending, a decreased tax base and so much more. In their now-legendary 1988 study, sociologists Nancy Danton and Douglas Massey argue, extremely persuasively, that the fundamental cause of poverty among African-Americans is residential segregation. Interested? Yes, there's a book about it.

What has it felt like, returning to the 7?

I stepped away from the chaos to focus on art and school. Those twin pursuits continue, but I'm back to where I most feel the immediate pulsing beat of life. It may not be a surprise that much of these first days back feel like welcoming parades, but that hardly detracts from the gratitude these happy people engender in me. How did they remember me, ask about me, register not merely my presence now but my absence then, as they went about their preoccupations? I'm just the bus driver. But here they are now, returning my well-being with a cavalcade of fistbumps, grins, upward nods. It's a reunion, and as ever, I couldn't be happier to be accepted by (okay, most of) the community. It isn't that they know me; it's that they share in the value of a positive outlook. What are they not getting when I'm away?

"You make it personal," said one when I asked. Or another from just last night, a man my age who took off his massive earphones as he came forward:
"Hey, bruh."
"How's it goin'?"
"Ah jus' wanna say thank you for doin' like you do. Not all the other bus drivers is like you."
I tried to deflect the compliment, as I always do. "Dude, thank you! For sayin' hey, and bein' cool!"
But he continued on as if he hadn't heard me, overwhelmed by the import of what he wanted to express: "Not all of them is nice like you. And it hurts, man. It hurts."

It was the tone of his hurts. He made the moment still, way past serious, and he reminded me how much a cruel gesture can ripple out into a person's psyche. I was reminded of the days when Paul Margolis, Paul Cook, Big Tony and myself all drove the night 7 together. We had such a blast. The folks were in good hands then. Great hands. I hope the same is still true now.

As for my own personal joy in doing the route, I can think of one moment that encapsulates it all. I've made it into the parking garage after a full night, jogging in, warming up my car now. You have no idea how exhausting bus driving is. Imagine taking an eight-hour road trip everyday.

The music in my car came alive– a CD of Vivaldi string concertos. I forget specifically which Vivaldi it was (possibly La Stravaganza for you aficionados), but you know his style– rich with melody, usually at an energetic tempo, and lots of violins. You've heard it even if you think haven't. I swear the villain in every Bond movie has a soirée where Spring from The Four Seasons is playing. Anyways.

Just then another operator drove past me in the parking garage, also playing music from his car– a rap artist I couldn't recognize, but Dre-like in its high-treble piano and deep, tight bass-line, melody flowing from the lower thumping frequencies. My body began smiling before my brain even knew why:

Both of our songs had the exact same beats per minute.

For a moment the whole world came together– centuries, oceans, races, concepts. Piano and bass beatbox sang in rhythm with a tight violin section, Vivaldi's intricate melodies supplemented by a snare and bass kick right where you'd put a beat. The similarities, not the differences, of human expression became highlighted; what we have in common, the night coming alive with a wordless reminder of the unity of the human experience. Some call it harmony; solidarity; brotherhood. All good words. But I call it what it is for me:

Joy.

I walk out to the parking garage, or to the bus stop home as the case may be, feeling the sensations of the day as tactile, lived-in memories resolving in the act of heading homeward; a collective cacophony fading out into the night. It was the present moment, so recently, a thousand times over.

A baseball player hears the bat-crack echo of the game in the empty stillness following. I, too, hear the intensity of multitudinous present action receding, shaking itself off my form, as it must. Most nights I breathe a sigh of satisfied exhaustion, coming down off the high, searching for a gentle landing. A few evenings out of the year are spectacularly difficult, but those are not the norm.

The norm is me looking up at the vast indigo dome, thankful for whatever has taught me to be, well, so thankful. Years of habit-forming tendencies have me savoring the good moments, and they are always myriad:

• A fashionable father pushing the smallest of strollers, his deep voice in the register normally used for grumbling, instead telling me "there needs to be mo' drivers like you;"
• Sitting in the lobby of the old Deca Hotel on break, an activity I find strangely captivating for reasons detailed here;
• A clean-cut boy with a clipped accent, sounds like West Africa, telling me he likes how I drive the bus, how I call out the stops;
• A gaunt fellow with hollow eyes, cloaked in a huge jacket, beckoning me in the late-night bowels of the Valley, to tell me much the same in a low rumble: "ey, bruh, I wanna tell you something. I like how you do it. Caring about th' people."
• A young nurse from somewhere far away, tired, embarrassed that she fell asleep on the route;
  
• Making the right turn off third onto Pike, through-routed as a 49. Or making the left off Pine onto southbound 3rd, through-routed as a 7. Because only this giant route makes those particular turns, and making them you feel the joy and hugeness of combining North Seattle and South Seattle into a single gesture. You feel the size of awesome history, the reminder that this was and is the flagship route, an echo of the days when the 7 always went to Broadway and the U District, when these two turns were always made and not just at night, when it was the only 10-minute route. I feel in those moments the way I felt bringing a 358 into town: heady, present, part of what fits me best.
• A gangly, grateful couple, young, all hands and straps and bags and pizza boxes, and they still have time for politeness, a plentitude of "sirs" and "thank yous" that has me impressed;
• The sounds of young people happy together, mock fright and laughter from the back, mingling with the bumps in the road.

My shoulders ache. I'm sweaty in my uniform, sticky with dirt on my trolley-driving hands, and my face in the base's bathroom mirror is sleepier than I feel; but I am here, and I feel deeply and truly good.

“How you doin’!” I exclaimed, immediately realizing that given this man’s appearance I sounded way too enthusiastic. I couldn’t help myself: I was clam-happy and dead serious interested. Haa ya doin!?? I hoped desperately that he was picking up on the genuineness of my inquiry. No sarcasm here, even if it probably– okay, definitely– sounded like it. Fortunately he was a mind-reader, this down-and-out, barrel-chested, bone-tired sleeper I hadn’t met before. 

“Magnificent, I suppose,” he sighed in reply. 
I tried to firm up my non-sarcasm by adding, “hangin' in there, I hope.”
“Trying to. I have a transfer. Would you like to see it?”
“No. But hey, do you want a fresh one, for ease of use?” Again, trying to emphasize that I really did care. These guys must get so much of the opposite.
“Yeah,” he said, nonplussed, then grateful. "Thank you. What's your name?” he asked in an amiable, fully enunciated rumble. An educated man.
“My name's Nathan.”
“Nathan.”
“What's your name?”
“David.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You know, they were best friends,” he said. “Nathan and David.”
“They were, back in the olden days! And here we are again, reborn!”
“Ha! Good to see you.”

He sat down and I carried on as I usually do, calling out the stops as though the automatic announcer had never been invented. It’s about the human touch. He must have felt it too, because he bellowed out, “Merry Christmas, Nathan.”
“You too, David.”
I called out the stops some more. This was during my 5 & 21 days. Eightieth, seventy-eighth, seventy-sixth, seventy-fourth…*
“How old are you, Nathan?”
“I’m 33, but I tell everyone I'm 17.”
“Ha! Well. Your public service is outstanding.”
“I try! Workin' with what I got! Thank you for your positive energy, man.”
“It's conscientious awareness.” Conscientious. It was the sort of word you read more often than say, and which makes you smile when you hear it aloud.
“Well, thank you,” I replied. “We need more o’ that.”
“Find yourself, feel yourself, love yourself. The edification of the soul.”
“You got that right! Man, David! Say it again!”

You know me, reader. You know that just then I was smiling in the dark, hanging onto his phrase, trying to hang on– don’t forget this one, Nathan. Why? Because the blog? For another book? Well sure, a little. But mostly because Life. 

Because I always feel like I’m a student in this crazy racket, studying for an exam that will either never come, or that’s happening right here in the ever-present now. Learning how to be, scrambling about for clues as much in a philosophy text as in the castoff words of a street companion. Every (wo)man is my master, in that I may learn from him. I started writing things down out here because they were too beautiful, the thoughts people would share, the gestures and looks. Kernels of wisdom too precious to forget. They were, and are, the delicate and winsome grace of existence considered, something sublime just within reach.

These are the lines that make us. 

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*If you can get the stop spacing for the 5 on Greenwood to go to every 5 blocks instead of every 2, I’ll buy you a steak dinner. Metro’s tried to do it repeatedly, but there’s nothing doing. Apparently the folks out there must want shoddy service; stopping every 2 blocks over a 100-block distance (not an exaggeration) slows down the bus like you wouldn’t believe… not to mention decimates your right knee as an operator. I’d still be picking up shifts on that route otherwise.