I'd never seen her at Fifth and Jackson before. Rose's squat profile was instantly recognizable, her silver hair backlit by the storefronts opposite. 

"Hey, Rose," I said, looking down through the gloom at her stroller.
"Hey, Nate," she replied, hobbling a step forward. Quickly, knowing I've turned her away before (read here and here for the backstory on this), she said, "I got a new stroller but it has broke wheels too."
She may not have been able to see my face in the darkness from out there, but I smiled with my voice. "That's okay, thanks for getting a new one. That's what counts."
"It still has a problem."
"That's okay."

Rose stepped in keeping pace with the glaciers of old, cursing the nerve pain which shot through her swollen legs at each step. Glaciers with nerve pain would move slowly. She still demanded the front seats be lifted in a particular fashion I can never remember. I really ought to write it down. Tonight a young male passenger– don't say the youth never help their elders!– helped her out for me.

I couldn't see her as we carried on our way, but could hear her just behind me. Snatches of another life drifted within earshot; I strained for the details. She was ready to go home, she sighed. "I got up at 4am… 'cause when people are in pain they make a lot of noise. He's been in a lot of pain." She kept saying "he," and I never got an answer on who he was; only that he was a vet, and someone special. I said that's a hard life, being a vet, and she didn't disagree. He was going in for surgery, she said, he went in for surgery, but he's okay now.
"I'm glad he's okay."
"I'm gonna take care of him," she remarked. "He's not gonna do anything to me." 
"That's good."

The silences, the barest sentences, and the lifetimes behind them.

"You can sit down! It's safer to sit down!" she hollered at an Asian man, trying to be nice. Genuine negativity is contagious, but so too is genuine positivity. I caught a glimpse of her craggy face in the mirror, her grey-blue eyes still blazing in late age. I'm sure she fit most people's definition of pretty at some point in her life. Does she reflect on her past, as I do, when the pain is not as strong? Sleepless in the wee morning hours, lying in repose, a reverie between the ceiling and ourselves. I hope there are good memories. It's a solitary act, and something we all share. 

"Getting operated on…" she was saying something about medical procedures. Then a thought on housing, how they're gonna tear her house down, putting up condos instead; I can understand that frustration. "They need to be more kind to me." Her grumbles mingled with the gentle hum of the electric bus. Then I heard her, and I heard her again. She said it more than once: "everybody just needs to be loved." 

We Americans are a vocal sort. We wear our emotions, our opinions, fear, anger, ignorance– loudly, on our sleeves. But there are things even we don't bray out to the world. 

I believe loneliness is the premier element of the human condition. No other state of being is experienced as pervasively. It doesn't matter how popular you are. We are individuals, and we process things away from others, deep within our own minds, and that is always and ever a singular act; how many millions of thoughts will you never share with anyone, because they were too esoteric, inconsequential, hard to contextualize, or private? We brush our teeth, tie our shoes, and hang up our clothes alone. We crave acceptance and love, or at least acknowledgment, from others in an effort to combat it. It's not quite up there with the fact of death, as the motivating engine for all human action, but it's close.

But we don't ever talk about it. 

We wax and whirl about the subject, and because the condition is universal, we understand each other anyway. We talk about relationships, goals, psychology, and desire, but we never discuss it bluntly in relation to ourselves. "Everybody needs to be loved" is a valid statement on its own, but it's also code for something else, something deeper and more personal. I heard it in her plaintive voice. I know that feeling too.

As she left: "Nate, I'm glad I got to see you tonight." She apologized she couldn't ride further, and explained that she really did need to go home. She took forever. That's fine, I said. Then she hollered into the wind, her cry reaching through the closing the doors, me turning the wheel out to pull back into traffic. She was yelling more nice things. So nice, perhaps it's good I didn't hear them.

Some days later she was at the Andover Street bus stop. She was surrounded amongst her things in the bus shelter, camped out for an afternoon siesta of sorts. She didn't want the bus, but waved her hands upon recognizing me. She called out, repeatedly, until she knew I heard her: "thank you Nathan, thank you! Thank you, Nathan!" 

[This story is now available in my new book!]

"So you make a left on uh, Forty-Fifth?"

We work out the details. He wanted to go further than my route could take him, and I apologized in mock agony, throwing my hands in the air. He laughed.

There's a texture to small talk I find valuable. The placeholder words, the repetition, the way ideas come forth haltingly, together. The great speeches of our time will exist in perpetuity, as will the eloquent or fiery dialogues of film art and literature; but what of the mundane, the banal and comfortable normalcy of the everyday exchange? Who is writing those down? I am, that's who. Our banter continued a bit before growing into meaningfulness, but I include it all so our histories don't just contain the anomalies of life, but the workaday moments too. 

He was crisp and casual all at once, an educated man in his thirties wearing a collared button-up and jeans, neatly combed dark hair parted on one side. I couldn't place his accent. I said, 

"How are you today?"
"Not bad. Tired and,"
"Yeah. Time to go home?"
"Sleep-deprived and all this thing. I had to like uh, sort of entertain a friend who is visiting Seattle? And lots of things to do,"
"Okay running around, going everywhere,"
"Yeah walking around, Downtown and Cap Hill,"
"That's nice of you. Today's a perfect day to show people the city."
"It was nice. It was nice. She had a good time."
"Had she been to Seattle before?"
"No."
"Cool. You got to be, anytime she thinks of Seattle, she will also think of you, you know?"
"That's a good thing!" He reflected, and then asked, "how is the night for you?"
"Great. It's really good, yeah. I like this job."
"Yeah."
"It's fun, you know? Talking to people, for eight hours…!"
"I always wish, I'm sort of an office person sitting in the office all day, and I always wish I had a job that like… a little interaction, something, I don't know!"
"It gives me life, you know? It gives me energy, the people. Something different every day. This is my corner office!"
"Ha!"
"But yeah, very satisfying to get to talk to people, or help people, or listen…"
"Every person has something to, like, not that their story is especially important or useful, but when you look at yourself through them, you learn something."
"Exactly."
"About yourself."
"Yeah! It makes me a better person you know, there's so much to think about. And when you're driving there's lots of time to think!"
"Haha, yeah."
"What sort of office work you do?"
"I do research!"
"Excellent Like in a lab–"
"Mathematics."
"Cool. I like the binary quality of math, very clean."
"Exactly. You know something is correct– or not."

On that note he bid me farewell. I smiled to myself, alone in an empty bus now, and went back to thinking. There is indeed solace to be found in math, for modern life is such a sea of grey areas. In adolescence we learn there are no easy answers; in adulthood we discover there are questions which simply have no answers. There is peace to be found though, and a measure of understanding. It occurred to me he'd hit the nail on the head with respect to the point of this blog.

Today marks for four-year anniversary of The View From Nathan's Bus. The stories I share here are not simply to point out that which is bizarre or humorous; nor merely to offer entertainment to transit enthusiasts, or documentation of everyday conversation for linguists, or to explore the world of customer service, highlight issues of social justice and urban living, celebrate interactions between strangers, or offer an armchair window at ground level into the city's crazy central vortex. Nor even is its sole purpose to offer enlightenment on misunderstood lives, to celebrate the worth and vivacious color of marginalized peoples. Nor too is it only a reminder of all the good, the beautiful positive moments which take place daily everywhere, a reminder for we who live in a culture doing its best to have us focus only on the negative.

I hope the blog performs all of the above functions to a degree. But at its core, it is something more. True stories add context to our conception of life and personhood. As our friend said above, we learn about ourselves by hearing these stories. We are the real subject here.

Every one of us is going through this journey of life for the first time. Til our last breath we are learning how to think, gazing out and upward as children, reflecting. If we can learn a bit about ourselves and those around us by reading this blog, and perhaps feel a little better along the way, it will have achieved its purpose. Thank you for reading, and for making this a bigger enterprise than I ever could've dreamed of.

Share it around!

What you like
What I like
Why can't we both be right?

-Brittany Howard, Alabama Shakes

--

[This story is now available in my new book!]

Oh my goodness, I thought. It's him, it really is him. How many years ago was that? This I wrote in 2012:

That was then. Today, ​I didn't see him at first. "Hi," I said to the incoming passengers at 5th and Jackson outbound. How are you, how's it goin', all the rest. After everyone had filed past, he was there, standing outside. Typically it's me who initiates greetings; this time it was him who called out to me. "Hey, how's it goin'?"

"Good–" then, recognition– "heeyy, how are you, dude?" I said, bounding off the bus. The timing was perfect; we were waiting for a coach change. I was the new coach, and we couldn't leave until the broken coach showed up to give us its passengers. How fabulous. I didn't even give him time to respond, I was so animated. "Dude I was remembering when you're telling me you're about to have a baby you know, and here we are. Hello, friend!" I said, to the child in question. "That's pretty awesome, man!"
"Yeah, he's big now." A quiet man by default, but excited now, grinning at my enthusiasm, the place he holds in my memory. "He's three and a half!"
"Tha's crazy!"
"It is, it goes fast."
"That's really beautiful! Is stuff goin' pretty good?"
"I'm actually a single parent now."
"That's a, that's a, that's a big thing. Big deal. I respect that."
"Have him probably… ninety, ninety-five percent of the time."
"That's awesome though. I mean, it's hard, but it's awesome."
"It's really hard," he said.
"Well, she gets to be with someone cool,"
"–He!" The boy's long hair rendered him androgynous.
"He! I'm sorry. What's his name?"
"T–."
"T–, nice. Well shoot, I'm glad you said hey! You know I think yesterday I saw you at the bus stop–"
"Yeah! At Twelfth and Jack–"
"Yeah Twelfth and Jackson!"
"I was like that's the guy, I even told the guy that was there with me, that's one of the nicest bus drivers ever–"
"Dude! Thank you so much, man!"
"You always polite to everyone gets on your bus no matter what, and I remember my wife, my wife was tellin' me, you always sit sideways in the seat–"

At this point some other men came up to greet me, and I got distracted. I wanted to hear the rest of his thoughts, his wife's thoughts, hear more about young Mr. T–, but time was getting cluttered. I had to go. I thanked him for what he was saying, what his wife had been saying, congratulated him again, how his son'll be a grown man before we know it ("don't rush it!"). 

He said something kind, something I couldn't hear underneath the clamor of the guys hanging around. I thanked him again and loped back to my bus. "Alright, I'm gonna take these folks home."

Most of my regrets involve not acting enough, not saying enough, rather than saying too much. Zoë was on my bus a month or two ago. I don't see her as often now, because she's been making a more concerted effort to stay off the street at night. That's good, obviously, but it adds more precious currency to each of our dwindling intersections. I never know when I'll next see her. We'd discussed her overcoming hard drug addiction, and I'd said how I think that's the toughest thing any human can accomplish, along with perhaps childbirth. She'd laughed in agreement. As she was stepping off the bus I could tell she wanted a hug. 

Do you know that face, where their eyes are a question mark, and you're too slow to notice until the moment has already faded? 

I didn't act fast enough, and she was gone. I don't hug too many folks on the bus, but she's one of the exceptions. I adore her. Hugs are kind of special, and I don't think she gets them every day. Why didn't I just go for it? Can you believe I still kick myself over that tiny incident, which she likely doesn't even remember? Makes you wonder what kindnesses others are wishing they'd bestowed upon you.

​Gordon was the young father's name. I was in my bus now, sitting out the red light and watching him recede into the pooling crowds. A similar regret poured over me. I wish I had been more present with him. Why did I get distracted by those other guys, and lose him right as he was telling me such nice things? What was he saying, his wife talking about me sitting sideways? I wish I'd told him all the good things I so respect and admire about single parenthood. I kicked myself for my lack of eloquence: "it's hard but it's awesome??" Did I actually say that?

Some of my most resonant relationships have been with single mothers (or as I prefer to call them, "heads of the household"), and I have tremendous, aching feeling for that station in life. It is no walk in the park. As I once wrote about one of those very same ladies, no one will know of their great efforts, their lost time and sacrifice.

There will be no eulogies, no processions for them or for this young man, these faces for whom struggle was the dominating mode of existence. They will return to the earth with barely a ripple, but for me, these are the heroes of our age. These are the faces which live on the billboards of my soul, these giants at whom I gaze in relative awe, who inspire and humble me. With life they contended, grappled, floundered, and finally made peace, with nary a proportionate complaint.  

Later that same night the trio from this story came back. The shortest of the group was now wearing a mask. 

"Hey again!" 
"Hey! I got my Orca card…."
"I remember you guys, it's all good," I said.
"You seen us already. Well, you haven't seen him I guess, in the mask." It was a costume-store job, rubbery plastic, depicting a skull.
"You're all set to rob a bank!" I exclaimed. "Looks excellent!"
"Yeah!" the skull replied. "I'm like Hollywood Undead! Are you familiar with Hollywood Undead?"
"I am!" That's only barely true.
"Dude, you are the friendliest and kindest bus driver in the whole city. And you're like that every single time! He never changes. That's what's so cool about you."
I blow off the compliments, as I always do. Deflect, for the sake of sanity!
The be-skullled one chimed in: "Have you ever been, you should be driver of the year!"
"Dude, no! I'm too young! They only give that to older folks!"
"Discrimination!"
"Ha!"
"Age discrimination! Just because you're young doesn't mean you suck!"

At this moment, in his brain, it somehow made sense to start quoting from the Book of Revelation. He had entire passages down pat, and he wasn't letting up. He was a lost preacher in the bowels of the inner city, holding forth despite his short stature and rubbery Hollywood Undead mask, which entirely covered his face.

"In his right hand he had seven stars," he muttered darkly, his voice rising. Given what they'd been discussing earlier that night (see  above-linked post), this new angle was decidedly unexpected. Ah, but the world contains multitudes. "And out of his mouth went a sharp two edged sword," he informed his highly captive audience, not loudly, but then again, not silently, either. He slurred the words from time to time, ramping out quickly: "and when I saw him I fell at his feet as dead and he laid his right hand upon me saying unto me, fear not; I am the first and the last, I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, amen–"

Mr. Tall interrupted. Great voice of reason, that Mr. Tall. I'm glad he was there. "Dude," he said to his friend. "Sometimes people get mad at that stuff. I know you don't ca–"
"I don't care!" replied Hollywood Undead.
"I know you don't care." 
"I don't care. I'm a true believer, and only true believers–"
"Is that Revelation?" asked Tall, trying to distract him. Anything but more quotes!
"No. That was Revelation. This is John. And God so loved…"
"Oh, Lord."
"Exactly, bro!" 

It all ended well. Later on a twenty-something light-skinned African-American man with glasses came forward. He'd watched the proceedings. He said, "man, you should be driver of the year." His voice was quiet but potent. "You're the only one who like actually talks to people, cares about everybody. Really."
"Thank you! That brings me up!"

It's an accolade I don't feel I deserve. I'll take Rainer Avenue denizen Robert's less lofty, but infinitely more amusing "GUY UH DUH YEAR." I can see Robert's contagious smile now. Give Operator of the Year to the real giants– Greg, Brian, Nasir, Dawna, Jessie, Tony, Abdi, Ernie, Catherine, Sonum, Margolis, Joni, Abiyu, Billie, Aaron, Martha… I could go on. The faces who keep smiling, who keep caring night after night and year after year.

The job can indeed wear on you. The driving component eventually becomes very easy; it's the customer service element which never stops demanding the best from you, a continued mental effort as to how best to react, what to say, and how to think. Unless you make that effort, daily, the Fall will start to take place. The Fall is when you, slowly and without your realizing it, begin turning away from your better self and toward apathy. All customer service employees will understand this. It starts with you being quiet. Then you start being snarky, and later you start being ugly.

The scariest thing about the Fall is its insidiousness. Some of the operators above have gone through the Fall and come out of it as even better operators, but rising out of the Fall is tough, and frankly, rare. When something bothers you, and it's only a meager one on a scale of one to ten, you should still work on it. As in all of life: either change it or get rid of it, or barring those, rewire your thinking so it doesn't bother you anymore. The goal is getting along.

There are times when I feel the Fall pulling on me– generally when I've slept poorly or skipped a meal! The names above help me back, their waves and smiles from across the street. Those people, I think to myself. It's worth requoting Nietzsche: “It is not the strength, but the duration, of great sentiments that makes great men.”

As a public bus driver, your job is to try to be a saint. We can't actually be saints, of course, but– in the same way it's still good for you to try to touch your toes even if you can't, it certainly makes a difference to try to be a saint. You don't have to get all the way there. 

It's just about getting further.