"Hey guys," I called out. This was a trio of folks about my age, milling about the Men's Shelter a bit after ten PM. In a Disney movie, they'd be the villains: sagging shades of tattered grey and black, folds of clothing encrusted in debris, pockmarked skin, uneven, hair laying about in clumped and oily strands.

"Hey," said the taller one, responding to my welcoming tone in kind. One of the others began putting on the bike. You're supposed to verbalize or signal that to the driver, and Mr. Tall did so. "He's putting on the bike," he said, adding, "obviously," with a hint of grinning camaraderie.
"Tight."
"Hey, do you think I could ride with this transfer–"
"Sure yeah. D'you wanna exchange it for a newer one?"

That stems from a habit of mine to offer transfers when people ask for rides. Mary Engelbreit once said, “If you don't like something, change it; if you can't change it, change the way you think about it. ” Freeloaders asking for and receiving a free ride and subsequently asking further for a free transfer at the end of the ride used to be a source of irritation for me. To get around this, I began preemptively offering a transfer when they first board, eliminating the second interaction. It's usually unexpected for them, and always goes over well. How could it not?

"Whoa, thanks," he said. 
"Thanks for being honest, man." Folks of a certain visual stripe are not used to being treated kindly– let alone equally– by authority figures, and his pleasant surprise registered this. As for myself, I was grateful for his mirroring my attitude. Acknowledgment feels good going both ways. His shorter pal stepped in, having overheard us, and voiced my enthusiasm for mutual kindness in simpler terms:
"Dude, you're the coolest bus driver I've ever seen!"
The first gentleman chimed in with, "I'm always honest. I can't stand no BS, that's why."

The bike-riding portion of the trio was now paying the fare, listening, and said to me, "yeah as long as you're honest, in my experience most drivers let you hang. Probably almost all bus drivers are hella cool. Just be like, I'm a dollar short.…" He reflected. "'Cept this one time, I was ten cents short and I said is it okay if I ride, and the lady bus driver was like, that's between you and Metro Police!"

Now, that's actually not the worst line in the world, but the true meaning of the line rides entirely on the manner of delivery. You've heard it before: fifty percent of communication is through body language; another twenty-five percent is tone of voice; only the remaining twenty-five percent is relayed in actual words. And it was evident our friend had received a tone, if you know what I mean.

"Oh my goodness!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah!"
"Ten cents!"
"It's like, you're gonna call the cops over that shit?"
"The cops aren't even gonna care!"
"Most downtown bus drivers are hella cool though," he enthused. "You kinda hafta be, driving around out here. At night."
"Exactly," I said. "My thing is like, I don't know if this guy has five brothers."
"Or five guns!"
"Exactly!"
"I got held up last week at Jack in the Box."
"What? Right down there?"
"Yeah, these three kids came up to me, five kids actually, three of 'em had guns. They thought I was this guy they were lookin' for, and they came up to me and my buddy. Then the guy they were actually looking for rolled up in a car, he got out and shot a bullet into the ground, started yellin…."
"Oh my goodness. That's crazy!" 
"Dude,"
"It's worst when it's kids. There's something wrong about that."
"Yeah. Yeah. They were fifteen, sixteen."
"Wow."
"But I mean you know, that type of unprovoked shit usually never happens, when you really think about it. Honestly when you actually think about it, it's like all you gotta do is one a two things: be nice, or avoid. Be nice, or avoid. That's basically it. Ninety-nine percent of any situation…"
"Oh I totally agree," I replied. "And the thing is you usually only need to do the first one."
"Straight up. The avoid thing, that's fuckin' like, point one percent of the time. How long you been bus driving?"
"Nine years."
"You always drive at night?"
"Always!"
"You always drive the 7?"
"Always!"
He brayed forth an exclamation which managed to contain enthusiasm, pity, admiration, laughter, and no small amount of respect, all in one syllable. He said, "Sheeeeeeyyiitt! Well, you already know!"

He left to join his friends up front, and the three of them expounded on various subjects together. They talked about which places were best for "getting all the benzos you could want," and which juvenile detention facilities offered the best meals. Kirkland came up poorly in their estimation. They waxed rhapsodic over Shell gas station's prepaid phone selection. Mr. Tall pulled the bell for Eighth and Jackson.

While all three were outside, waiting for the bike-riding friend to collect his bike, I overheard one speak to another, not intending me to hear: "okay, that was the coolest bus driver I've ever seen."

I imagine they were referring to my welcoming attitude, which they may not receive terribly often. Treat them like the good you know they have in them. I used to be an insufferable brat once. When did I begin turning it around? Who helped plant that seed? Whose example did I look up to, who didn't preach or judge, but just was? It all has to start somewhere.

Eighth and Jackson is as good a place as any.

I can think of a few moments through life which stand large in my memory, formative scenes etched into my character. My parents and I, a toddler, sitting on the floor around a yellow lamp in a one-room basement, our home at the time. Taking a picture of my parents, the settings on the old camera just as my father had shown me, the camera's perched on the rock I'm crouched behind, and they're way out there on the beach's waterline, waiting for me to click the shutter. Kneeling amongst a cluster of candles and graffiti at a memorial in Paris, taking in a photograph of four smiling young people, all of whom had been alive the night before. I was unable to hold back tears.

One such moment occurred just the other night. I pulled into Rainier & Henderson, the route 7 terminal in Rainier Beach, to a cacophony of whirring blue and red flashbulbs, with emergency response vehicles and personnel littered all over the roadway. There he was on the other side, across the street, sitting in the bus shelter, clutching his stomach. 

That's Gary.

White lights hot on him, direct, his green uniform polo soaking toward a darker red. The ambulance had just arrived, and here's the fire department. Men and women in uniform, behaving quickly, setting down cases of instruments and cutting open his uniform. They're at work. Seconds matter in a time like this, and they know it. Seattle Police is everywhere, King County Sheriffs also, they're talking amongst each other, heads turned into radios. 

People wondering what's going on. 

A bus is blocked by the activity, and another behind it; two teens talk with a few of the policemen, gesturing down the avenues, describing the suspect and speculating on escape routes. It's a fraction of a second of a thought, but I'm pleased at that part of the image: white cops and young black men working together, united in the urgency of addressing an obvious wrong. I hear a woman's voice, a woman in scrubs specifying: "looks like a two inch blade. Four, five stab wounds."

Operator Gary Fuller is a friend of mine. In life I've seen strangers being killed, injured, or dead; but never a friend. They're standing him up now, helping him rise. He's surrounded by aides and officers. I'm working my way through the crowd. They've scissored his uniform off now, wrapping the bandage around his body to stem the flow. I remember noticing one of the EMT staff putting on a bouffant cap. His blood speckled the length of the sidewalk, and would remain visible after everyone had gone. It dribbled so freely, and I remember being confused: I've forgotten how easily a body can be torn open, how all the flesh and organs we never see are right there beneath the skin, living and real as day.

I pushed through the officials, not knowing why. What could I offer that they couldn't? Was I interfering with the process of things?

He saw me. "Nathan!"
"Gary," I said. "Gary."
"Nathan," he said, and then he laughed. He was smiling. He gave me a thumbs up: "Rainier and Henderson, baby!" 

I stand in the shadow of the size of that moment. The events of the evening will be formative for him in a way he will shape later on. For me, no lecture or stack of books could educate me more than his bearing in those minutes, in that context. 

This is a way to react when the chips are down. 

There's still blood coming out of him, for pete's sake. To live on the thread of the act of self, of being thrillingly alive, and go ahead, let yourself be exhilarated by it. Is anything else a bigger deal?

"Love you, man," I called after him, as they finished tying him down on the stretcher and preparing an IV drip. I needed him to know that he is loved in this world, loved and respected and appreciated by family and strangers, by his children, coworkers, and yes, by the passengers too. I sincerely hope he, and other drivers who get assaulted, don't read the passengers as an entity which is against them; but rather a collection of random individuals, all of whom have nothing to do with the one person who antagonized them so on a particular night. I said it again. They were loading him into the vehicle.

I said, "hey, can I do anything? You want me to call someone?"
"Hey– yeah. Tell Dispatch to call my wife."
"Done. Got it."

The event was minutes old. I would go to my bus and begin relaying information to the coordinator. What happened, what did the assailant look like. I would work with several people trying to get a description the coordinator could put out. The street kid who was still there was the most informative. I told him, "shoot, you give better descriptions than the cops!" Four other drivers were milling about, some of us on the phone with our superiors, all of us reeling. It was too early to try to make sense of things. I wouldn't begin thinking logically about the event until a day or two later.

Gary is my leader on Sundays, and my bus therefore had double loads for a while as I picked up his waiting passengers in addition to my own. I gave them the best ride I could, buoyant, balancing out the thoughtless negativity of what had happened with a truckload of caring, the good treatment of Gary's people I'm sure he would have appreciated. I felt like being generous. 

But what kept coming back to me was his grin. It didn't make sense, and it was beautiful. 

That's called strength of spirit.

---


Note: this event is a little more complicated than the news-media would have you believe. That's not what this post is about, however. All I'll say on the subject is, the news wants you to be terrified. Don't they always? Don't buy into their fear-mongering. Please.

He's at it again– giving this city the Nathan treatment, for better or worse: blurry multiple exposures! Colors! Famous monuments and buildings photographed so they basically become totally unrecognizable... I'm very happy to share with you two brand-new galleries of film images, and a few thoughts of mine on the city where the buses are boats... enjoy!

PS– yes, all my images are for sale. Inquire! But more importantly, enjoy!

I didn't know him. But I wanted to talk to him. Most homeless folks are white men between thirty and sixty, and he was just such a fellow, sitting on the upper end of that age spectrum. I was stuck for something to say. Time to resort to the old standby:

"Been in Seattle long?"
"Um. Uh. I lived here long time ago." 
"Okay."
"I came back," he said. "Did a lot of time."
"Well, I'm glad you're–"
"This is, this is probably the best place to be homeless in the state."
That's definitely true. I agreed. "There are good resources here, yeah,"
"I was in Spokane they didn't have aaany–"
"Man,"
"They try to put you away for bein' homeless,"

He was taller and thin, with wire-frame glasses from another decade and one of those burnt yellow suede construction trucker jackets, thick for breaking chill wind, the kind you maybe used to see more often in years past.

"Oh gosh," I said. "I'm glad you're here. Hopefully you know, six months from now you'll get on the bus and tell me, 'I have a, I found a place,"
"Hopefully sooner than–"
"Hopefully sooner than that, yeah. That's one a my favorite things about this job actually, when I, when I uh. Just today actually, earlier today this guy came up to me and said that exact thing he's like, 'I finally found an apartment.' I love hearing that, you know. It does happen. I wish there was... there's so many great resources here but I wish they were easier to know about."
"Right?"

Wouldn't this be a good idea? Perhaps a card to hand out which amalgamated all the major resource entities, what they provided, hours, addresses and the like? I feel like I've heard of other cities which do this. Such an item would be immeasurably more useful than seventy-five cents or half a cheeseburger.

"They seem sort of scattered and unconnected," I continued.
"There's great organizations,"
"That's good,"
"But they're gonna give you everything but housing. 'Cause this is prime fuckin' real estate."
"Yeah it is, yeah. I'm wondering if twenty years from now we're all gonna have to move to Tacoma or something. I hope not, but yeah."
"Well on top of it, a lot of people are homeless by choice."*
"Yeah and I have to like,"
"Question,"
Not quite what I was going to say. "Well, I have to like, give everyone the exact same treatment because I don't know if it's by choice or not by choice, and if it's not by choice I wanna help 'em out as much as possible, but I can't question which it is, I just have to help 'em. 'Cause I don't know which it is."
"Yeah. 'Cause some folks just wanna get high and,"
"Yeah. And it makes it hard for folks, like yourself, who're actually trying to do something."
"Well you know, I got a drug problem myself, but I'm fighting it."
"You're a good guy. That's worth the fight, man."

That may read as tacky from the comfort of our desk or phone, but it felt fresh and right in the moment. Because nobody says you're a good guy, you're a nice guy, not out here on the street at this time of night. It means something in that realm, a spark of genuine care, and I could tell he appreciated it.

Sparks like that can be the tipping point from a bad night into a good one.

--

*A thorny and gargantuan can of worms I'll address in an upcoming post.

I stood by the farebox, toggling the switches as the wheelchair ramp slowly came to life. It took an extra second. To the folks seated nearby I said, "this' probably the first time that lift has ever been used. Bus is so new."

"Pretty fancy bus, huh?" That's Solomon, a face I've known on the 7 so long it'd be an insult to call him a mere acquaintance. We've shared countless accumulated hours together, bantering on his way home from his hotel catering jobs.
"Yeah, these things are incredible," I replied. There was time to talk as the wheelchair-bound passenger, at whom I nodded, situated herself. "They're so expensive."
"How,"
"Each one is one million."
"A million?" Raised eyebrows.
"Yeah, the pure electric, the battery, and it's all good, you know, metal parts and everything, like if somebody rear-ended us, you know how these buses are, we might not even feel anything." 
"Man!"
"Yeah, they're good. No wonder they raise the fares!"
"Ha! This thing better work! For one million! Y'could buy a mansion with this!"
"Yeah, lemme take this to the pawnshop! See what we can get!"
"Buy a nice waterfront–"
"Well, not all of it," said the lady, agreeably, as I strapped her in. This was the back-and-forth of a community that has no qualms about speaking to each other, to itself.  "'Cause my old place at 30th and Yesler goes for nine hundred now."
"Well yeah," Solomon ceded, "I was thinking of ten, fifteen years ago."
I quipped back with, "we'll just have to grab two of these buses then!"
"That'll cover it!"

They continued building together, strengthening the web we call community, stewardship. Others joined in after a time, making the front of the bus the new back of the bus. I dropped out of the conversation, preferring to listen, smiling to myself as I took the curves on Rainier.

People will always talk with each other. I used to worry that the low-floor layout of the new buses would limit interaction, customer service, and conversation in general. I would fret that the speed of contemporary life and alienating components of technology would eliminate actual human contact. But my days on the route now are hardly different than five years ago, when less people had earbuds and smartphones, when drivers announced their own stops, passengers exited through the front, and the chat seat was right by the driver. 

The removal of all of these things hasn't been able to stem the tide of human desire, the fervent, aching need to reach out, to be acknowledged and loved. Bjorn Magnussen said all human actions are manifestations against death. Pithy changes in bus layouts and societal patterns can't touch that. We, the cave-dweller and the modern man entire, wish deeply to assert our existence to others, our being, to let someone else and by extension ourselves know through love, hate, or otherwise, that there was a time once, long ago.

A time when we were here.