My friend Celia once pointed out that I get a lot more excited when the 7 part of the 7/49 route combination begins. I'd never noticed, but it's true. There's nothing wrong with the 49 crowd. They're a bunch of fine regular and irregular folks, from varied backgrounds. Broadway's a lot of fun, especially at night. 

But none of that has anything on Rainier Avenue. How cute, that 49, with its spectrum we thought was diverse. The 7 explodes all that to smithereens. The left turn onto Third Avenue marks an entry point into another universe. It's several orders of magnitude more, more people, more textured grit, higher highs and lower lows, more everything. 

These are my people, I intuitively think, as we pull up to a crowd of outcasts, ne'er-do-wells, workers with dirty hands and haggard brows, the great multifarious sea of life which makes up the wide base of the pyramid upon which our city sits. The air is thick and pregnant with a hum that could swing hard toward any extreme, and it's on me to offer everything I can to guide that hot energy into something wonderful. Nowhere else, among no other group of people, is positive energy more thankfully received. This is where I belong.

But I'm not driving the 7 today. I'm driving the 2. We're going through Madrona, not exactly sleepwalking here but okay, passing the time in an environment where not nearly as much is required of me. It's afternoon, and the methadone crowd is gone, without which the 2 can become rather mellow. But at 23rd, dipping into the Central District, I pop up with enthusiasm as an exhausted construction crew steps aboard. I don't know them, but I feel comfortable. My friends have arrived!

"So you graduated from the 7, huh?" one of them asks, recognizing me.
"No way, man! This is just for today, special guest appearance on the number 2. Workin' some different hours this shakeup. Variety's good, right? How are you?"
"Oh, beat."
"Did you work mostly outside or mostly inside today?"
"I was outside. Flagger today."

Not the first sign-spinner I've talked with. I'm curious to hear how this gent will respond to a question I've asked before:
"Hey, I have a question. Do you get a lot of people waving thank you? I always try to wave,"
"Um, yeah. I get more waves than flippin- offs."
"Phhh, I would hope so!" 
Who flips off the flagger, I think, as he says, "I just had a Porsche almost run me over. It's always the Porsches and Audis and…."
"It's the same from my perspective too. When cars are doin', uh, crazy things, it's always beamers* and Lexuses."
"Yeah, cause they think they're entitled to it."
"It's never the Honda Civics. You're not gonna get a Geo Prizm running anybody over,"
"Yeah!"
"You know, in my experience, the consistently worst driving in Seattle is in upper Queen Anne, best real estate in town–"
"Oh yeah. There was this lady on Mercer Island, on her phone, goin' past at forty miles an hour, not seeing one of our dump trucks…." He explained how he jumped in between the vehicles, banging his sign on the truck repeatedly to get attention and through a complex set of circumstances effectively saved the woman's life.

I looked at him. I could see he would do that no matter who was driving, Geo Prizm, BMW or otherwise. "That's good of you, you know, to do that for her. I mean, you saved a life."
"That's what I do."

He relayed an issue wherein he spoke up over a safety issue, regarding practices on site. His boss listened to him and then laughed dismissively, telling him, "safety's not your job! Stick to what you know!" Our friend quit in protest and wrote up his boss as well. 
"I'm glad you did! That's unconscionable, him saying that. Of course safety's your job, that's the whole entire point of our types of jobs!"
"That's what I do," he said again with conviction, staring levelly at me.
"You're one of the unsung heroes, man."
"It's a thankless job."
"I know how that feels!"
"Ha!"
"I enjoy it either way, though. I mean that. The thing is, the great trick is to figure out a way to be happy!"

He chuckled. My thoughts clustered in silence. I remember thinking that 'thankless job' was a misattribution of sorts. We both get thanked sometimes, he and I, and for myself I know I'm intermittently showered with a level of gratitude– from all class backgrounds– which I couldn't be more thankful for. I hope the service workers and others I so eagerly spend time with on the road also receive some measure of acknowledgement at their respective jobs. It feels good to be thanked, but sometimes it feels even better to fly under the radar. 

Earlier today I helped a young single mom with her suitcases onto the bus behind me. The buses were so crowded she didn't even notice anyone had helped her. Her heavy luggage just somehow lumbered with her through the crowd, following close behind like magic. I ducked away and snuck back to my bus before she could realize what had happened. I don't know why, but I felt great about it.

---

*That's not me blowing around a snarky classist opinion, I promise! Here's the relevant research to back it up. Below are two articles discussing a recent study;

Wealthier Motorists More Likely to Drive Like Reckless Jerks
Science Confirms That BMW And Prius Drivers Are The Worst 

And, if you're in the mood for exhaustive primary data, as I often am, complete with bar graphs and numbingly boring pages of stats, here is the 2013 study itself: Higher social class predicts increased unethical behavior.

On occasion people won't really want to talk with me, so much as simply watch me work. There's an enthusiasm they'll sometimes later reveal they enjoy being in the presence of, as I beam at the incoming crowd, working out hello's and directions and traffic and pleasantries with an ebullience bordering on the unreasonable. I recall a French visitor on the old 10/12 perched in the chat seat, silent, but with her smile so wide I could feel it without ever looking over. 

Finally she shared that she couldn't believe what she was looking at, that such an undiscriminating joy could exist in such a space, the sort of place she had until now thought could only be stressed and unpleasant. The idea that our circumstances can be a product of us, rather than the opposite; that's what blew her mind. We can bullwrestle our surroundings into something wonderful, just by being our better selves.

That's what this bicycle guy is doing today, standing with his helmet on toward the front of the 120, observing it all. I'm excited about the construction guys going to their homes on Delridge. I'm excited about taking the S-curves at Graham and Holly without making people sway. I'm excited about this woman's smile, a mirror of my own happiness, along with so much more. Braking just smooth enough, maximizing the space I have between the coach and the stop bar up at Thistle. You don't want it to be too easy.

He's watching me, thinking. Then he apologizes to a lady with a screaming baby. "I'm sorry I shouted at you," he says to her. "I'm sorry I shouted at you earlier."
She knows enough English to understand, and nods okay. They build a smile together, grinning in rueful understanding at an infant with just too much to say.

He comes to the front and we chat about the day before he steps out, grabbing his bicycle. This interaction in turn makes a nearby teen feel confident enough to ask me directions. I go out of my way to interact with teens, in whatever small way I can. They'll make it to the future one of these days, and I want them to feel relaxed among strangers, comfortable living outside of category types. I want to be a hazy memory, a distant idea in their head, that there are ways of operating in this world where forgiveness and kindness aren't bourgeois, coolness is irrelevant, and daring to let down your guard can be the doorway to most of the best things you'll do.

"Are you enjoying your summer?"
"Yeah!" he says in a high-pitched voice. Puberty hasn't struck yet.
"I miss having the summers off!"
He laughs, thinking. It occurs to me he might not feel too socially accepted these days, and I want him to not worry about that. So I say, "It's such a great time, summer, no matter what you're doin'."
He must've been thinking about how to cheer me up about not having summers off, because he says in turn, "but you got the weekends off!"
"Oh yeah," I reply, "plus actually I'm working reduced hours this summer, tryin' to focus more on writing and photography, I do photography–"
"Oh cool–"
"–so it feels like a summer vacation kind of. Plus, but, I mean, I like to drive the bus."
"I can tell!"
"Yeah, I've been doin' this thing where I'm trying not to refer to driving the bus as a "job" or "work." Because,"
"It's fun!"
"Exactly, it is fun!" 
"I bet it must be a kinda hard challenge sometimes, with all these babies crying and stuff…."
"Oh, it's all cool. I bet I cried like that when I was little." Right turn on Barton. "I try to think about how it looks from their perspective."
"You make it a good time in here. You're good with people."
"Thanks, man! Thank you for being friendly, makes it easier for me!"
"Well, yeah, you have a good connection!"
"You also! Thank you! Hold up, lemme announce this– 'okay everyone, we got Westwood Village here, 25th and Barton, 26th, transfer to a number 60, or a RapidRide, or a 21….'"

For me, it's the little throwaway moments which hang in my memory like crystals, coming to me in times of reflection or pain, firming me up and reminding me of the beautiful, many-layered texture of this vast and detailed life. Your castoff hello, your smile in the afternoon light; the warm glow we built together, felt like nothing at the time, but I can't deny it's part of the rising mass inside me, pushing me toward a better self.

My patience for those with prejudicial perspectives toward people they don't know is limited. To put it lightly. Part of this stems from the fact that when I hear such comments, I know the faces and stories of the people the speakers think they're so knowledgeable about.

I sometimes feel duty bound to report how far from stereotype some reality truly is. It's a responsibility of sorts. The conversation below is not particularly amazing in its own right, but it's one we won't find in most media portrayals of black men in their twenties. It's just a record of what a couple of young men were chatting about late one night, rolling down the boulevard in a forgotten corner of the city.

"Hold up," he said, catching his breath after running for the bus. "Are you old enough to drive dis bus?"
"No way!"
"That ain't the first time you've heard that, huh?"
"Oh, maybe once or twice!"
"Ha!"
"Yeah, usually at least once a trip, somebody says somethin'!"
"Can I ask if your background is Asian at all?"
"It is!"
"See, you got those good genes!"
"Well, you do too, man! Both of our culture's old folks, they're supposed to be sixty they look forty-five!"

He laughed again, settling in the front seat. Dark jeans worn, hanging low on his hips, with a correspondingly long black printed Tee draped around his upper body, the folds of fabric pooling around his slouching midsection like a Bernini marble. 

He's saying, "well, those Asians got it goin' on. They got philosophy for sure. I been readin' the Dalai Lama,"
"Oh, cool!"
"Yeah, he's written a whole bunch a books, and man, that man is wise." 
"You know what I love about him, is how humble he is."
"Yeah! And he has a sense a humor! You be expecting him to be all serious,"
"Or self-important,"
"Yeah, but naw, he's crackin' jokes about hisself!"
"Always laughing, or smiling or something. That's how you know he's on to something. Aaaand, he don't go around saying he got all the answers."
"Yeeeaah, see that's good, he puttin' his own words into practice. But yeah. This book is something else. He's talkin' about like the three D's- adapt, adopt, improve. Hang on, that ain't it. That's a whole other thing, that's from–"

It's from Monty Python, but I don't call that out. All conversations could benefit from a Python reference. He's thinking of the three R's– respect for self, respect for others, and responsibility for one's actions. Both triumvirates aren't half-bad as mantras, though.

Out loud I say, "Well, I kinda like that right there. I especially like it's called the three D's!"
"Ha!"
"Which one is it, which book is it?"
"The Art of Happiness."
"Cool. That's awesome. You know, he was here, in Seattle–"
"Really?"
"–maybe ten years ago, yeah, when I was in school. I saw him."
"Oh man," he says, imagining it.
"It was incredible. What took me by surprise was like we were sayin', he's so humble, so human, he'd be crackin' jokes with people. No sense of, uh, I don't know. It was really impressive."
"Yeah, it just be opening my eyes to all my conversations with people, their struggles. Thinkin' 'bout where they're comin' from." 
"It cleanses the mind."
"Yeah."
"Brings out the best in you."
"Yeah. Changes how I see things. Isn't that amazing?"

Oh, and how! 

Sometimes people yell across the street at each other because they're angry. Other times, it's more like this. While taking the turn from Jackson to 4th at "walking speed" (as per the old rulebook), a man at the island stop howls into the dark night,
"Mister 49, how you doin!" He draws it out. Doo-in. Picture the thick Italian accent, a supporting character from Goodfellas. 
"Heeeyy!"
"One of the best drivers in the whole city!"
Modesty doesn't work when screaming is the only acceptable volume. I respond with, "how are you??"
"Whuh joo think, I'm beautiful." Beeayootiful. "I love you, man!"
"You're a gentleman!"

When I looked up in the mirror a minute later, everyone was still smiling. You can ride the buzz off a small moment like that for hours. 

Later, a drunk man at Andover called out to me: "hey, pretty lady!"
"Hey!"
"Oh," he said. Disappointed. Now, embarrassed. "Oh." And finally, just plain friendly: "hey!"
"Hey! Have a good one now!"
"Uugglughhuuh..."


"What did he call you?" asked the grave shift man as we pulled away, on his way to work at 7-11. Yes, he works 11 to 7 at 7-11.
"He called me pretty lady!"
"That's what I thought I heard, but I couldn't believe it!"
"Yeah, that's when you know it's time to get my haircut!"
Belly laugh.

--

Please forgive my minimal presence on the blog this week– things are exceptionally busy in both the bus world and the art world right now. I suppose this is good, but it means the great backlog of stories wells ever higher... I'm looking forward to having more for you next week! 

Also, great to see so many familiar faces on the 70 today, which I haven't driven in over a year! You all made that traffic a lot more fun than it could've been. Who knew sitting around on Stewart Street for thirty minutes could be so pleasant? You're threatening to make the 70 as exciting as the 7! Don't draw me away from my baby!

[This story is now available in my book.]