Above: Plaza guard in the outskirts of Shenzhen, Guangdong Province, China.

"I really like the artwork in this building." 

Sitting on the late night bus headed home, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Our base is famous for how awful its artwork is. There are comments you hear not infrequently– how best to eject the art from the premises, whether or not to deface it on the eve of retirement… my driver friend continued. "Like the pictures that look like the old TVs, where they look staticky. I really like those."
"Are you being serious or sarcastic?"
"No I'm being serious! I feel like I shouldn't like them but I do like them."
"Okay. That's good to hear, I'll look at them with a new perspective." 
"No, I'm terrible at picking artwork."
"It's all good!"
"But I see those and I just think, my kids'll never see that."
"You know, that's a good point. They're not gonna know what white noise is, visually. Wow. Wow. Or fast-forward or rewind on the VCR." The first time I saw fast-forwarded video I almost died laughing.
"Yeah! Like the pain of finding the right spot!?"
"Exactly! Or the sound of a television bein' turned off. You know, the old tube TVs? That weird little high frequency noise you would hear when you turned the TV on or turned it off?"
"Yeah!"
"When it kind of zapped shut?"
"Yeah, exactly!"
"Or like, winding a cassette tape with a pencil!"
"Yeah, when it got all pulled out, hoping it still worked. And sometimes you didn't have a pencil and you had to uncomfortably wedge the tip of your finger in there."
"i know exactly what that feels like. Those little prongs."
"There was a time when my pinky was the perfect size for doing that. Yeah those little things that, you meet somebody that doesn't know how to read an analog watch!"
I was incredulous. "No way!"
"Sure. In schools, they're all digital now."
"Okay, I spent decades looking at that second hand and minute hand waiting for it to get to the hour mark! Trying to see how much the minute hand would move per second. Or the little pencil sharpener in the corner of the room, and you'd get up and go sharpen your pencil?"
"I think they still have those. 'Cause those were the industrial ones,"
"Dude. Those would annihilate a pencil, if you wanted it to. Shoot, I haven't thought about these things in years!"
"I'm happy to bring up quasi-bad art–"
"Please do! I will now appreciate that art in a way I never did."

What will be endearing to today's youth? What will be cute? Will they talk about the quaintness of going to the store to buy a movie on disc, or signing a legal document by hand? The fact that some cars required keys to ignite? That headphones once had wires, and people sent emails? Will the pervasiveness of selfies one day be more kitschy than fun? With the first signs of Facebook and Twitter losing relevance, how long before they're chuckled over the way MySpace and Napster are now? 

I was flipping through a copy of Dickens' 1853 Bleak House and came across a passage where two older gentlemen share sentiments almost exactly the same as those above; the elderly lamenting the passage of time and change. They also recite the familiar refrain of the mystery of youthful behavior they're convinced they themselves never engaged in. They're not talking about teens in 2016 or even 1968, but 1853! The words are interchangeable. The conversation will be had by every generation, has been had by every generation since the advent of agriculture.* 

I think a more crucial view is noting how generally minimal the effect these superficial shifts have on what doesn't change. Picture a Vietnamese rice farmer working a terraced paddy, before the war; an aging bank executive in Geneva, reflecting on lost family; a wayward girl in an American trailer park, forced to grow up quick. Never mind which one of them uses Twitter. Do they not all feel the same sting of a broken heart, of dashed hopes, the bent frustration of dreams unfulfilled? Are they not compelled by the same loneliness, thoughts of death and belonging, the ever-elusive vision of permanence in a world of constant flux? Love. Self-worth, accomplishment. 

Do those people not yearn for what you do too, in the solace of a warm embrace?

Everything changes, and everything stays the same. 

---

*Human life really was quite different prior to this turning point. Permanently situated societies, the concept of property, subjugation of women, homogenous diets and resulting malnutrition, monogamy, hierarchies and city-states, populations large enough to contain strangers and the resulting shifts in relationships and decision-making, and much more all stem from the birth of agrarian societies. These changes occurred relatively rapidly in the last 11,000 years, when considered against the previous 6,000,000 years of bipedal humanoid development, which was largely static by comparison. Learn more here. 

--

Most of this blog is conversations with passengers or between passengers. Conversations with operators on subjects far and wide here, here, and here.

That's me in the picture above, at thirteen or fifteen years of age, sitting behind the wheel of a 4000 in the Atlantic Base yard (another angle of the same here, tied with a story of one my formative bus-riding memories). What was I thinking about, in eighth grade? I'm wearing a green Old Navy fleece there, new at the time. It still fits me.

Today, July 2nd, is the exact ten-year anniversary of my career as a bus driver. A decade ago on a Monday afternoon I took out a (now defunct) 250 from Bellevue Base and drove it from Seattle to Redmond. The entire shift was two hours and twenty minutes, and though the route went on the freeway I doubt I once went over forty-five miles an hour. I looked like this (note the fares!):
​

​My father took the photograph, which dates from later that week. I'll never be able to express the level of gratitude I have for him taking the time to come out and surprise me with a ride, documenting it with the family camera. This wasn't just another job. It was the culmination of a lifelong passion.

Hang on, you're thinking. A lifelong passion? What? From someone who ran a wedding photography business, got multiple films into festivals, traveled the world, and has had thirty-odd art shows? 

Let me explain.

Sometimes we love quickly, without knowing why; or the reasons change across the years, even if the feeling remains.

Do you remember what it was to ride the bus as a child?

There was no pop culture in our home growing up: there were books aplenty but no TV, magazines, radio, newspapers, or films… secondary and tertiary representations were minimized in favor of pure, unadulterated direct experience. I was filled with a hunger insatiable for being close to life; give me that which is tactile, authentic, unadorned. Take me to the leading edge.

I went through a phase where I'd borrow my father’s bus pass. It represented a level of freedom analogous to a library card, only this knowledge was firsthand. I rode all over town. At twelve I branched out of the 'burbs and began riding into Seattle alone– sometimes with the camera, but often with just my eyes. I quickly discovered the journeys were frequently more interesting than the destinations.

Woody Allen once wrote that a city, due to its complexity, could never fully be captured in a work of art; there's just too much detail, too many moving parts. It was this variegated complexity that thrilled me so. I was a shy child, more participant than observer, and observe I did, in every corner of the metropolis. Our city is well-suited for this; Seattle's neighborhoods are stark contrasts from each other, self-enclosed enclaves of income level or ethnicity. It reminded me of L.A., this place that reveals itself in layers. The more time you spend in the Emerald City, the more you discover.

I rode through the safest parts of town, and more often through exactly the opposite; I was too unobtrusive to pose much notice in such areas. There was more verve and color out here (not to mention better bus service), where lives were not so sequestered from each other, and compassion carried greater currency. Certain images have burned themselves into my memory:

-The early morning 7 runs carrying the blind workers down Rainier Avenue; I smiled in the darkness, listening to their jovial banter. They lit up the night.
-Elsewhere, a young Indian housewife vomiting silently into a paper bag, upset by the driver’s careless starts and stops. She kept to herself, demure and uncomplaining.
-This exchange.

I watched people help each other, or avoid doing so. I saw the smiles of runners who made the bus, and felt the disappointment when I missed a connection. People went out on the town; they came home from work.

The older coaches in use had a different character than the newer equipment we see now. Evidence of time was everywhere– faded metal, peeling paint, vandalism, the smells of decades past. Seats were designed for appeal and comfort, not cost savings. You looked out through scratched windows at history, advancing and receding with each new block. Nothing was computer controlled; the texture of sounds was different. We were in the era before hums and beeps. One rather heard the pressure release of opening doors, oiled joints creaking, the snap of switching wire; mechanical parts sliding against each other, dynamic brakes and engine retarders singing their fluid song. Everything was real.

All this to say, that amongst the beautiful life with my parents, and the world of school and friends, I found solace in this vast human maelstrom. In time, as adolescence and adulthood drew nigh, joyriding through the city got pushed aside in favor of other concerns... but how could I forget those formative days?

So many turning lives, such incredible detail, everywhere. The bus came to represent for me something very different than what I imagine it means for others. My classmates knew humanity through their friends and parents. I knew it through those avenues, but also through the journeys of the untold thousands, faces and lives I’d seen up close, strangers behaving just as I do, loving, breathing, laughing, and dying, commonalities crossing over age and language, culture and status. I could never bully anyone now; I’d seen too much of the lives of strangers to consider anyone the “other.”

A fundamental truth emerged, and I didn’t know its name until years later: I am surrounded by friends, and I share some common ground with every person on this planet.

The primary sensation I have today, upon reflection, is gratitude. These folks have taken me in, accepted my enthusiasm and the currency of respect. A man on last night's 7 asked how everything was in my life.

"Good, it's been good," I replied. "We just had the shakeup and all the other drivers picked new stuff, but I stayed right here, man, same time same hours, same days," 
"You like this number 7, huh?"
"I know too many of the folks to leave!"
He grinned. "You one of us, man. You part of the 'hood now!"

I never guessed it could turn out like this. My art career means a lot to me, but so too is there something special about all this bus stuff. I felt like an anomaly as a child. I imagine most of us do. But now, to be appreciated on this level, by the masses who I grew up riding with and the masses who read these stories here and on The Urbanist, who care about kindness and positivity and the human element of urban life... I always thought my perspective was a minority one. I'm so thankful to discover how many of you loving people there really are.

Thanks for reading and riding!

I know it's been a few days, but I'm sitting on a couple of pretty special stories. Check back in a couple days. For now, a short one:

"Hey," a young man in a hat said at Eighth Avenue. He had walked up to the front to speak. "I just wanted to let you know you made my day."
"Oh, awesome! That's why I'm here!"
"Yeah, it makes a difference when the driver cares about people, talks to people..."
"Thank you. Thank you. I ride the bus all the time, so I try to be… the bus driver I'd want the driver to be, you know?"
"Yeah," he said. "Oh, its huge."
"Dude, it makes my day to hear you say this!"
"No, it makes my day!" I guess we could argue about it... he continued ruefully, "I was having a really shitty day."
"Well. There's always time for it to turn around."
"For sure. Always time for it to turn around!"
"So true!"

I think it just did, in that short exchange. Bus rides are so much more than getting from one point to another; they're an activity in their own right, and in choosing to take part you expand the possibilities for what can happen. He was as a man transformed as he walked ahead on the sidewalk, keeping a sprightly pace now, turning back to wave big. His eyes had that spark in them, the glint of joy and capability you can't help but agree with. We can really do something with ourselves, with today, our time in this life. I wondered who he would run into next, who would be lucky enough to receive that good energy. Maybe the snowball carried forward for the rest of the night.

Look at that bus driver, you might think to yourself. He's just sitting there, driving. I do that all the time in my car. How hard could it be?

The answer is, it can be excruciating. Driving may not seem physically exhausting, but consider the feeling of taking an eight-hour road trip every day, except using an industrial vehicle with a steering wheel the size of a laundry spinner, that's logged not thirty or fifty thousand miles but a several hundred thousand. Oddly, the activity I feel it most compares to is treading water: you may want to rest, but you can't. You have to keep going.

I used to ride a certain bus in every day and noticed how rude the driver was with the passengers. Specifically, how short he was with them. Brusque. It's his ship, I guess. I noticed it, until I one day noticed its absence in his attitude. He was downright chipper. It was the same guy, but… what had changed? 

In chatting with him I discovered he had at long last gotten what he'd been wanting for so many years: back surgery. It was like night and day, he said. He wasn't in continuous stabbing pain for eight hours a day anymore. The discs in his spine were finally fine, and he could smile with the folks and go back to being how he probably always was before all this started. 

Come this July I'll have driven Metro buses for ten years. When I started, King County had fitness experts who would talk to operators and give them specialized advice on how to set up their seats and so on. Those ladies are long gone, and although operators have always talked about torn rotator cuffs, herniated discs, and knee surgery, they do so more now.

I'm no authority and the suggestions below are unscientific, but they do come on the heels of a decade of experience.

This is what has worked for me.

You can't have a good time at this job if you're in pain. These are a few tips I've picked up along the way from various professionals that you, fellow bus driver, commercial vehicle operator, fellow office or other sedentary job-possessing friend, might find useful. I owe much of my happiness to those who have taught me the information below, and the least I can do is pass it along. 

For suggestions regarding customer service, click here.

On the Coach

During operations

Setting up the seat: 

• Thighs should be horizontal. Lower legs should be at a forty-five degree angle from the ground. Upper arms should be vertical, and forearms should be parallel to the floor.
• At its closest point, the steering wheel should be one fist away from your thighs, and two fists away from your belly button. 
• Tilt the seat as far forward/downward as possible. You don't want the seat's front lip cutting off circulation behind your knees. Wedge-shaped seat cushions can help with this. Speaking of which:
• Use a seat cushion. The best are those which have a hole where your tailbone would be, such that the nerves at the bottom of your spine are not getting crushed all day. It makes eight hours feel like four hours, believe me. They also help with minimizing whole-body vibration. 
• Don't be afraid to setup slightly differently, regularly. Throw all the above slightly out the window– the point is to minimize repetitive body motions.

Regarding steering:

• When turning, do the hand over hand method, or the shuffle method. Hold the wheel at eight, four, or eight and four. 
• Never touch the top half of the wheel (except perhaps to stretch out on it at red lights). Doing so overextends your shoulders. 
• For Heaven's sake, don't do one-handed palms of your turns. I know it looks cool. It isn't. 
• Let the bus begin moving before turning the steering wheel– less resistance this way.
• Be mindful to not drive with your wrist; hold the wheel with your hand instead. Try to keep your fingers outside the wheel.

Regarding the back:

• Periodically, arch your back at a red light, puffing out your tummy– just a minor movement, to let your body know those muscles are still there.
• Lumbar support– this is critical. You could be a cheapskate like me and use a couple columns of duck-taped paper towels, or try my experiment (pictured above) of using a lunchbox… I'm told they sell things for this too! In a pinch, throw a fist behind your lower back and notice how even that makes a difference. 
• When cycling the lift, turn your entire body so you and both your legs face the door. Note how much better it feels than twisting your lower back to the right.

Regarding the legs:

• When accelerating or braking, the sole of your right foot should be placed entirely on the pedals. Don't let your heel rest on the floor. Why? It helps more evenly distribute pressure through your foot; a heel on the floor means you're doing everything with basically the ball of your foot, and this leads to lower back pain and eventually sciatica. 
• When moving your foot from the gas (or power pedal on a trolley) to the brake and vice versa, move your entire foot to the other pedal, instead of angling it and destroying your knee in the process. Your body likes when your feet are pointed forward, not at an angle. The newer coaches have the pedals angled in a way that makes no sense; try to ignore this, pretending the pedals are more straightly aligned.
• The same idea is true regarding your left foot's activation of the turn signals. This is less intuitive, but build a habit of moving your whole leg to go from turn signal to turn signal or in between, rather than keeping your heel in one place. 
• On coaches with "paddles" (8000, 6/7200, 3700, & Purple bus), realize how sensitive they are– you may be pressing harder than you need to. 
• On coaches with turn "buttons" (everything else), press them with slightly different parts of your left foot, to equalize the distribution of pressure. 
• Remember to use the hill holder (or E-brake) at red lights, zones, etc, to minimize overusing your right leg/knee. 

When lifting items, do so with your legs, not your back.

This will sound meaninglessly zen, but you operators will understand: Let the bus drive itself. Just guide it along. The easiest way to do this is by relaxing your pace. You'll notice you can put much less pressure into all your movements than you think, and the cumulative positive impact this has on your body is noticeable.

On a break

• Walk around inside the coach at terminals. Why is standing for three hours a day more valuable for your body than running ten marathons? You're getting stagnant blood flowing again and restarting your metabolism. 
• Touch your toes while standing, or try to. It's not about reaching your toes, but stretching that back out. 
• Do a parallel arm shoulder stretch. Bend forward slightly to emphasize the stretch into your upper back.
• Standing on or near the yellow line, facing forward, grab the two stanchions on either side of you which allow you to lean deeply forward into your arms, such that your arms are extending behind you as they grab those bars. This opens up your shoulders. Doesn't that feel good?
• Do lunges up and down the aisle.
• With both hands, grab a stanchion at belly-button height, with your feet positioned at the base of the stanchion. Stretch your body back and out, straightening your arms and legs. This will feel best in the shoulders.
• If it feels comfortable, do what in yoga is called triangle pose. It involves every part of the body and helps with those hamstrings.
• Stretch those calves out. 
• You'll notice tight points in your shoulders that are too deep to stretch. For these, try something like a Thera Cane or other handheld back massager cane. Mine is not as fancy, but it works wonders. Don't have one? Rub your back into a stanchion to get rid of some of those knots. I bet you do this already.
• Explore a few rudimentary wrist stretches. Variations of these can be done at red lights! 
• Do not sit during your breaks. You do enough of that already. Stand, or lie down.

Regarding the rotator cuff:

Three stretches of use. You can do them all within one minute, and it'll change the next hour.

• Form a diamond shape with your arms above your head, elbows out, hands touching. Maintaining this, touch your hands to the overhead horizontal bar that runs the length of the coach. Push in, and lean in beyond it with your body. 
• Grab a stanchion with your right arm, and while holding it turn your body to the left as far as it'll go. Repeat the opposite for the other side of the body.
• Extend both arms out fully to either side, palms up. Find two parallel vertical stanchions (likely on either side of the aisle) you can lean these extended arms into for resistance. 

At Home

Regarding the legs:

• Lower back pain might really be a leg matter. Most sciatic nerve issues are compounded and exacerbated by tight hamstrings. Stretch your hamstrings. Easy hamstring stretches here; back pain-specific hamstring material here. 
• Leg squats; strengthen the muscles surrounding your knees. I do these at home while holding weights, but of course they're doable on the vehicle too.

Regarding the back:

• Lie on your stomach, and push up with your arms into a reverse arch back stretch. Doesn't that feel good? The cat stretch, a lighter version of this, can be done on the bus as well.
• Strengthen your core with sit-ups or crunches. This also strengthens your back.

Regarding the shoulders and arms:

• Above we mention stretches for the rotator cuff, so those muscles don't get too tight; here are exercises for strengthening the muscles surrounding your rotator cuff, so it doesn't tear. Instructional video here (4 mins). Use small weights only for these little muscles; shoulders are fragile, and bodybuilding's not the point here. 
• You're lying on your tummy. Stretch out your arms perpendicular to your body, and, starting with one arm only, make a thumbs-up signal and point the thumb directly toward the ceiling. Maintaining that hand position, raise your arm a foot off the ground or so. Repeat– ten, thirty times, as you like. Eventually, do so while holding a book. What's the point? You use a lot of muscles when steering. This muscle is underdeveloped, but developing it will take some heat off the muscles surrounding it. The point isn't to beef this tiny muscle up (no need to do this lift with weights), but to build it up just enough so the others aren't as overworked.
• Wrist curls. 

Overall:

• Walk a lot. It engages your whole body, and it's low impact. A 400-pound friend of mine lost 200 pounds just by walking everywhere. Walk to your road relief. 

• Consider yoga, whether it's a class up the street with a friend or a YouTube video in your living room. 

Diet:

• I find weight best managed by controlling intake, rather than increasing workout routines. It's certainly easier. Exercise is obviously a good idea, but it isn't actually necessary to lose weight. 
• Portions. France and Italy eat nothing but carbs and fat, and they all look great. Lightening meals will help you feel less tired; your body doesn't have to work so hard to digest all that stuff. 
• You've heard it all before- think about fruits and veggies. Although all foods contain some level of carbs, fat or sugar (the first two of which you really do need), be mindful of quantities.
• Completely eliminate fast food and pop. Just do it.
• Cut processed sugar to a minimum, and think carefully about red meat, not only because of weight but because it loosens your skin over time (yes, vanity can be a motive for positive change too...)! 
• Think about sources besides meat- especially red meat- for protein (tofu, eggs spinach; more here) and iron (dark chocolate, unsweetened dried fruit, and more). Consider fish as an alternative to other meats.
• Consistent snacking urges? I'm right there with you. You won't go wrong with fruit and nuts. 
• Start eating kale. This is the west coast, and everyone's doing it. For once there's a popular trend that's actually good for you. 

See you on the road!

They looked like a lively bunch– a gregarious crew of five in their twenties, two girls with a stroller and a trio of boisterous boys in tow. They insisted the ladies get on first. 

"How's it goin'!? Gentlemen, goodmorning!" I hollered, in the dim first minutes of the new day. I wish I could recall their dress and appearance more clearly. Visually, the type was familiar: massive t-shirts, dresses more like, sports and music logos emblazoned here and there, long chain necklaces pendulating to and fro, echoing the deep sag of their pimp-rolling jeans, dirty denim in the early morning hour. The trouble with people who fit in is you don't remember them very well; but they were more than their appearance. No one's really a cog in the machine when it comes to personality. 

"You got precious cargo there," I said as I knelt the bus for their stroller. "Beautiful lookin' baby." The young mother smiled in thanks. They slinkied in, conquering the front of the bus rather than the back, in a new twist– up here is where the party's at tonight. 

My enthusiasm became theirs, and versa vice. They were free to be their unruly and uproarious selves on the largely empty vehicle. "Wassup, bro? I tell all the bitches aboutchoo," one of the boys avidly blared. "I's like 'man, this guy he drives the bus, bro, gotta check him out!'"

I had somehow been teleported to a backyard barbecue, and I was excited. It was impossible to discern whose voice was whose. I gave up trying. Rather, the linguist, anthropologist, and lover of people within me came alive as I mostly listened, catching the slip and slide of overlapping conversation, hearing the camaraderie bubbling beneath the words.

"Yo," one asked me. "Do you turn into the 7?"
"Sadly no, I apologize. I gotta go home lie down."
They carried on. What do the gentlemen of this set chat about? What does small talk look like, on the other side of the tracks? 

One of the crew, clad in a grey sweatshirt, rubbed his chin as he considered the infant. "Yo. Hey, I love kids. I used ta babysit. How old is he? A he or she?"
"'Bout… four months. He's a lil' pimp!"
"What a cutie pie, man," the first said gruffly. "I feel grateful when I get to babysit 'cause I used to be a foster kid. I was taken care of a by a single mom, I had no real parents."
"Bro. The kids are the future, bro."
"Oh man! Babies make our world for generations to come, man! That's our next generation, bro!" That's Grey Sweatshirt talking. He was ecstatic, realizing the import of the lines as he spoke them. He got so excited he stood up.
I piped in: "that boy's gonna be our next governor!"
"Ey, man!"
"My nigga!"
"Makin' it happen, you know?" I exclaimed. "You never know!"

The mom smiled deeply at my comment. To be judged, especially by those outside her race, not as an unwed young mother but admired, recognized as the architect of something sacred. She and her ladyfriend received the compliment in silence; I think they were tired. The three boys, on the other hand… they processed the good spirits in their own way, weaving together a tapestry of raucous, throaty roars, blurting out assertions they couldn't be more thrilled to realize really were accurate. I was less concerned with which man was saying what than the overall effect*:

"Whatever you train 'im to be, dogg!"
"God BLESS him, bro!"
"Whatever you train 'em to be."
"Hey. Kids are our nex' God blessing, bro."
"My dad coulda saved me,"
"Ah will bless kids every DAY. Bein' a foster kid–"
"Dass the real deal right there."
Grey Sweatshirt tried to pet the baby, who, absurdly, was managing to snooze through all this. Dad: "naw, don't touch him, bro."
"My bad, I apologize."
"Naw, you good..."
The third fellow, wearing a chain necklace: "let him sleep, cause he a beast." Beeeast.
Grey Sweatshirt: "he's beautiful, he's a lil' beautiful kid."
Dad: "thank you a lot, I appreciate that, bro."
"I'm sorry about–"
"Naw bro, you good, dude."
"I'm like, he sleep."
"I respect that I respect it. I have a lotta respect for kids. I gone done some babysittin' in mah long life. I'm twenty-seven and ah babysat a lot."
"Yeeeeah."
"I used to be a foster kid."
"Yo, where we gettin' off at?"
"No, I respect you for what you said though."
"Naw, we good, bro, we good. You didn't know."

At this point, Daniel, the struggling identical street twin mentioned here, barreled onto the bus, asking for and receiving the full package: a transfer, smile, and fistbump, before careening back into the night. The young father saw this.

"Hey, you a good dude man, God bless you."
"Thanks man, "I replied. "I try to give a little somethin' back, you know?"
Chain Necklace: "You a great bus driver you know. I been knowin' you for like twelve months!"
Grey Sweatshirt's thoughts began to veer from the baby. He cried out, "honestly, you're the best bus driver in this city, and they not too many of them!"
"Thank you so much, man that's huge! I'm not that good!"
He boomed in answer, perhaps in recollection of a past experience, "bus drivers be a fuckin' dick!" 
Dad wasn't nearly as agitated, saying to Sweatshirt, "Ay ay, baby right here."

Mr. Chain Necklace was feeling similarly carefree. His mind was on other matters. "I wasn't gonna say it," he said to me with a sly grin. "I wasn't gonna say it, but this guy looks like a… super King County player!"
What is a Super King County Player, I wondered. And what would it look like? I was tempted to inquire, but Sweatshirt was heading off to a darker place. "King County need to pay bus drivers some fuckin' respect," he growled. I tried to find something that felt inclusive of all of them. "I appreciate you guys," I said.
Necklace: "naw, you cool, but some uh yo colleagues are mad."
"I try to balance out for those folks, you know?"
Dad: "dass cool though. Do you! Do you, and getcho blessings!"

The tapestry was dividing. Grey Sweatshirt opined with nigh-religious fervor, by now on another plane entirely: "I wish bus drivers had some respect for the people!"
Chain Necklace, undeterred by such zeal, fingered his necklace as he pondered aloud, to no one in particular: "you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna take this bus driver to the club and find him all the feeemales–"
Dad: "Amen, bro!"

I've never had two more completely different strains of thought thrown at me simultaneously. Each continued as we came to the last stop–

Sweatshirt: "Why they treat us with no respect? Drivers gotta treat people wit' respect!"
Undeterred Necklace: "–and all they boyfriends gon' say whaaaat? And we got this skinny athletic good-lookin' young muthafucka…"
Sweatshirt: "I swear to God they got some stubborn fucked up individual bus drivers. They don't give a fuck about pedestrians–"
Necklace: "Hey bro, I 'unno why I wanna find you a girl so bad, bro,"
Sweatshirt: "They think cause they're gettin' paid to drive the bus, they think they're more powerful than people who ride th' bus!"
Necklace: "Lemme gi' you a handshake, man. I'ma find you some beautiful women, dogg."

The Dad, in helping his stroller to the curb, had tried to get a "hey, come on, man" in edgewise, in an effort to calm Mr. Grey Sweatshirt. Even keels seemed important to Dad, and I felt similarly, but I couldn't help but be in complete agreement with Sweatshirt's final line. It's something I tell new full-time bus driver classes: you are not better than the people you pick up. Out loud I said, "Exactly. We're all just the same, you know? We're all just the same."
"Exactly, we're human beings!"
"Thanks for the love, all you guys," I exclaimed. "You were the highlight. You guys were the highlight!"

The divergent paths of their tapestry were rejoining. This was the final stop and there was still much milling around. I noticed for the first time that Chain Necklace was carrying a frame of sorts. I said, "you got some art there?"
"Yup, I got art–"
"Tight. I do photography."
His eyes lighting up: "what? Bro!"

There are many reasons I write this blog. I'm concerned with positive interactions in realms known for negative ones, especially in a news culture that focuses on the negative. I'm enthused by the opportunity to speak frankly and from experience on race and class culture as I see it transpire in the street. There's the linguaphile in me. I like offering vignettes that customer service and public service employees might find of interest, and sharing the on-the-ground experience of the city for transit, urban planning, housing, and local government administrators. 

But sometimes the most enjoyable aspect is just the chance to paint an honest window for those of my readers who don't spend large quantities of time in dangerous urban areas at night. It's an armchair view of a world that doesn't have armchairs, or as a friend once put characterized my writing, "highbrow treatment of what is normally considered lowbrow material." Except this material is true. How do these neighbors of ours share in the human experience? What do they say on their home turf, when the cameras and visitors are out of sight? 

Chain Necklace enthusiastically withdrew a large pencil drawing, a portrait of a man's face in stark shades of black and white. We all joined in now, weaving together once again, a collective of voices continuing the night's collective tapestry:

"Dude, whoa! That's Bruce Lee, right?"
"Yup yup!"
"Damn! Holy shit, you're a fuckin' artist!"
"That belongs in a museum, that's beautiful!"
"God damn,"
"That's a money maker right there,"
"That's got drama to it…."

I stood there, smiling at the sight. Five young people at the corner of Fifth and Jackson, crowding excitedly around an art piece, offering their own version of a critique, buoying each other in spirit and brotherhood. It was an honor to take part, and a pleasure to share the energy and truth of it with you.

---

*I got down maybe half of their exchanges. It was coming on so fast and thick. Conversations involving more than one other person are rare on this blog, for the simple reason that it's that much harder to reconstruct the dialogue afterwards. This is about the limit of what I can recall.

Bashi and Abdilahi were sprawled out in the front seats, barely able to maintain their seated positions. I previously encounter Bashi here, as I ruminate on class differences, and with Abdilahi here, as he loses one of his eyes. They are an odd couple, united in their love for alcohol. Bashi, the impeccably dressed Kenyan man, one of many East Africans out here on Rainier, standing about together in restaurant parking lots, laundromats, chatting amongst their work limousines.

There they are, the world in a glance out my driver's window: figures in a half circle on an unpaved lot, dressed in oxfords or dashikis, slacks and shiny shoes that click on the gravel. It's not the look of luxury, but of the cosmopolitan concern for good presentation, no matter one's socioeconomic status. You won't find these guys wearing pajamas at the airport. I picture them as a photograph their American-born children and grandchildren will look upon, a dim memory of one weekday afternoon, your uncles and grandparents when they were young, rebuilding their lives in a strange land and trying to keep up their dignity while doing so. Taking a break in their own language, a dashed-off moment from the struggle of it all.

Abdilahi is on the other end of the spectrum. He doesn't wear slacks and oxfords. He stumbles through the American experience from one liquor store to the next, in awe. In the generally Sunni population of his native Somalia, the state religion prohibits alcohol and drugs. By comparison, this place is Spring Break. It's Las Vegas. Although Abdilahi's a sweetheart whose notably good-hearted candor I quite enjoy, I don't think it's unfair to say he lacks the discipline of many of his compatriots. They see opportunity; he sees a candy store. The war between long-term goals and short-term solutions is never ending. I see an older Somalian woman getting on the bus now, shaking her head at the two of them, companionable but currently inebriated half-conscious lumps, with the best parts of their personalities on pause. 

Bashi gathers himself a bit, speaking over a snoozing Abdi, calling out to me through a garbled and distant haze.

"Do you drink? You don't drink."
"No," I answer. Not a fact I often share (because I dislike how saying so can sound judgmental), but he read my mind anyway.
"Why?"
"You really want to know?"
"Yes."
No need to go into the pathetic tragedies I've seen it cause: sometimes you don't need to explain the machinations of yourself. Just: I'm Nathan, and this is how I do it. I say, "I dunno, it's just how I am, how I've always been." 
"Let me give you some advice." Uuuhhvice. "Don't do it." 
"Really?" I wasn't expecting that, definitely not given his current state!
"Don't start." A wistful voice, regretful. "Truly. It's bad for you, for your body."
Abdilahi stirs. "It is," he mumbles from his half prone position. "For your brain,"
Bashi continuing– "Yeah your brain. Bad for your liver, your skin, messes up your liver. Give you heart disease."
"Okay," I reply. "If you say so!"
"I am going to quit soon!"
"Really!"
"I am in the process of quitting," Bashi affirms, with fervor. "Yes. It is a process."

It's a distant memory now, the times when Bashi was sober. He wasn't always like this. He once worked for the County, and is quite well schooled. His son is a treasure, a seven-or-eight year-old who has all the street names memorized, with a bright wave and precocious question every time he sees me. How did we get here, to this? He still had a seed of his former drive within him, and I wanted to encourage that.

"I respect that," I say. "I think that's one of the hardest things to do, but it's worth it."
"It's worth it!"
"For yourself, for your family,"
"For the children!"
"Yes, they are the future! The children are the future!"
"My daughter, she loves me. My son, they both…." The deep pain in his voice. There is no pretense here. "But it's so hard sometimes."
"It is. Life is."
"It's really hard. Let me ask you something. Would you forgive your wife, she ran out on you?"
"What?"
"Would you forgive your wife if she cheat on you?"
Questions like that remind me how little I know of life. Any answer I gave would be a mere supposition. I haven't been there. I simply reply, "that's hard."
"It's really hard. But I am in the process."
"One day."
"One day."

I've been on the same route long enough to see the rise and fall of life out here. When you spend eight hours in a neighborhood for years on end, you see not only actions and decisions but their fallout. You see certain faces, and then in time you watch them prosper, or sustain, or drift. You notice their absence. I don't see Abdilahi anymore. Where is my buddy who used to joke about my friends looking like Hillary Clinton? What is Mr. Bashi doing right now, this minute? Will I see him again, or will he too drift out of of sight, away from the land of the living?
​
To be continued.