"Don't you ever have bad days?"

This is going to be a long one. Refill that coffee and lean back a little in your chair. It's time to procrastinate.

--

I think we can agree that the holidays bring out the worst in people. What I didn't know was boy, does Mother's Day ever take the cake. Each year I seem to have a couple of very rough bus-driving days, and this past Mother's Day was one of them. You'd think it was the first of the month, the amount of violence and alcohol flowing on these streets. Summer is on its way to Rainier Valley.

I'm often asked how I handle negative situations. I approach them as I do positive interactions– by treating people like human beings. I resist writing about such incidents for a variety of reasons I stand strongly by: to recount something is often to memorialize it; negative events are overreported, causing to an incorrect view of the state of the world I don't wish to contribute to; positive events usually go uncelebrated; and, for my own sanity, to retell an unpleasant story more firmly entrenches it in my mind, which I wish to avoid. I want to hang onto every little the positive thing, and let the negative moments slip through me like a sieve. 

Having said all that, I can see the value in sharing ways of going about such circumstances. Enough people have asked me about it, certainly. In other words, I'll bite! 

--

Things start off with a bang. I haven't been on shift for an hour when a young woman approaches me. Quietly, she explains she feels unsafe because she was recently beaten– twice– by two other passengers. The two attackers in question are on the bus right now, and they haven't noticed her yet. The last two times she was on a bus that also had these two individuals, she, a quiet, mild-mannered Asian student, was attacked. Can I call the police? I'd be happy to. 

That's harder than it seems, however. A very hefty drunk fellow, for whom the word swarthy was invented, approaches and loudly berates me for not driving, making my conversation with the coordinator impossible. I politely but firmly ask him to sit while I resolve an issue. The coordinator, on the radio, is confused by my silence and needs descriptions of the attackers so he can forward useful information to the sheriff's office… but the young lady won't give me descriptions of the attackers. That's because they're standing right behind her. 

So now you have a coordinator who has know idea why you're not cooperating, a swarthy swarth-meister with no idea why you're "not doing your job," as he yells it, and a woman fearful for her safety because people who have beaten her to a pulp are standing behind her, about to recognize her, asking you what's going on. Meanwhile the young lady is wondering why you, the authority figure, aren't doing more. 

There are not too many chess moves out of this one.

I stall for time, with both doors open. I don't yet know who the attackers are; only later will she tell me they were right behind her. All I know is two of the passengers are dangerous, and thus I'm suspicious of everyone– perhaps the worst frame of mind you could ask for! As I continue stalling they exit the bus, and the young lady is finally able to explain who they were. Let's take a moment to dispel some stereotypes and point out that the attackers were not black males in their twenties, as I so often hear on the SPD calls. Quite the opposite. I'll simply say that women can be very cruel to each other.

It's nice that the attackers are gone, but Swarthy remains in the vicinity, and he's still angry. He reappears, showing me his driver's license, braying about how he knows how to do my job better than I do. He has places to go, he says. Appointments. "I wasn't calling the cops on you," I say, congenially. "You're fine. It was someone else." On the mic I thank the riders for their patience while we "handled a security issue; nothing's wrong, everything's right. Thanks for waiting around with me!"

Swarthy may have had appointments, but when we arrive downtown he makes time in his schedule to block the doorway/farebox area and stare balefully at me, his huge, sweaty face inches away from mine. This persists for a while. His eyes are dead and flat, expressionless as a Polykleitos statue. What do you do? 

Don't receive that energy. Just keep churning out your own, with confidence. I monologue out to the motionless face. "Thanks, man. How's it goin? 'Ppreciate you workin' with me back there. Hope it's a good rest o' the day. You steppin' out here?" 

Finally he leaves, crashing into the wheelwell and bumping into the doors on his way down, stuttering for balance.

All this has led to our being twelve minutes late. The next 49 is right behind us at the zone, and because of this I leave two runners, gesturing to the latter 49. "What an asshole," two riders watching me say to each other. By way of explanation I announce, "folks, if you want more room there's another 49 right behind us. Thanks for your patience…."

"What a woman wants from a man, a black man can provide." So says a fellow seated two rows back, leering in the face of a mother and her elementary-age daughter. They're holding Indian food to go, no doubt taking it home for a feast in celebration of the holiday. The mother looks very, very uncomfortable.
"Psshhhhh," a white man says in response.
"What are you laughin' at?"
"I'm laughin' at you."
They start getting into it. The second man explains his position respectfully, and the first considers whether to take it personally. 

I butt in with, "How's it goin', you guys?"
"Good fine," says the self-identified black man.
"We're not botherin' none of the other customers now, are we?"
"Why don't you ask 'em?"
"This gentlemen bothering anyone here?"
Someone says, "yeah!"
"Well then I guess it's time to step out!"
"I'm just goin' two blocks. One stop." 
I've heard that one before. "You're goin' two blocks, one stop?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."

I decide not to insist. Let's let it play. It's not yet a safety issue, and plus this white guy is doing a terrific job of distracting the black guy from making advances on the Indian mother and child. There's also the small chance that he's actually only going two blocks, one stop.

It ends up being just five blocks, two stops. Not bad. He stalks up, with a drugged-out female companion in tow. She has a black eye and missing teeth, but she still grins as I bid them farewell. What should I say to them? Some kind of stern chastising father routine? Judgmental silent treatment? No, let's rather try to encourage their better angels.

"Hey thanks guys," I say companionably. "Have a good one."
"You got good hair," he says.
"Naw, man, I'm just trying to be like you!"
He chuckles amiably.

I appreciate the white fellow speaking up for himself, and tell him so as he leaves. It isn't only the rude who have freedom of speech, as I like to say.

A man brings up a lost wallet from the back. "Someone is gonna love you," I tell him. "You're a gentleman!"

The coordinator contacts me later on, informing me that the owner of that wallet is on a bus approaching my route, but he'll get there three minutes after I'm scheduled to pass by. "I can't make you do this," the coordinator asks me, "but this guy would really like his wallet back before he goes to work tomorrow…" Is there any way I'd be willing to drag my feet as we approach Broadway and Pine, so he can jump off the other bus and grab his wallet?

Of course, I reply. What a pleasingly old-fashioned and personal solution. This is the 7/49, busiest route in the system, and we're going to become three minutes late anyway. While waiting for what ends up being a successful wallet return– the owner was positively thrilled– I hear a freeloader mumbling, "waitin fo da driva drive this muhfuggah. Somebody gon' drive dis bus tonight, or what?"

After we're on our way, he comes forward, and we begin the Knife's-Edge Dance. The Knife's-Edge Dance is when you're talking to someone who's angry and intoxicated or otherwise under the influence, and who, upon hearing one misstep of a phrase or tone, will make things very ugly. The written version of the following exchange does not convey the level of implied menace this man possessed. 

I start things off before he can get a word in edgewise: "Hey, how ya doin', man? You're jacket's lookin' sharp, good stuff."
"Aw, hey,"
"Makin' me wanna dress up! I'm feelin' a little underdressed!"
"Aw naw, hey now. You my buddy."
"Good to see you again!" I say. I've never seen this guy before.
"You a good ass dude, nigga," he continues. "Listen, anybody give you trouble, I'ma beat their fuckin' asses, okay?"
"Man, that's real nice a you, but, uh,"
"Tear apart anybody try to give you hard time."
"Well, hopefully we won't hafta go there."
"Oh, I go there. I ain't scared! Sheeeeyit."
"Oh I know, I appreciate you bein' a gentlemen, offerin' to help out the situation."
"You know I got choo. I beat anybody's fuggin ass." Turning to the crowd, he opines, "you guys heard what I said? Don't be playin' no radio, disturbin' the driva. Let him drive!"
"Who you talkin' to?" a voice asks.
"I'm talkin' anyone that's listenin'. I beat their asses. I beat his ass, I beat his–"
"Hey, I appreciate you," I say, "but these folks are all right. We got good people on the bus tonight. We got good folks on this bus." 
"Jigga what?"
"Yeah, I'm feelin good about this house. We got a nice crowd."
"Listen to the man speak! He say we got a good crowd, got good people tonight!"
"Yeah, we don't need to bother them."
"Man, how old are you anyway?"

Ah, back on familiar turf. "Oh, you know I'm too young to be out here!"
This works well. I keep riffing as he guffaws in approval, periodically keeping his balance. "I thought maybe somebody needed a ride, I stopped by goodwill get the uniform, found an empty bus somewhere… just don't tell anyone I'm out here!"
"Hey, you're a good man. I gotcher back. Anybody tries to fuck with you, listen. I take 'em down."
"I don't think we need to do that tonight though, dude."
"Huhwhuh?"
"Yeah, we don't wanna call the big police out here. Don't need to start any kinda drama." Friendly tone.
"I don't care."
"I haven't had to call the cops at all today." That's not true. "We don't want them around, they take too long." That is true. 
"I don't care who's around, I'll beat their asses. Cops or no cops."
"Where you steppin' out tonight?"
"I'm feenin' to get off the bus." Shortly thereafter he specifies a point, in between zones. "Lemme get off the bus."
"Steppin out right here?"
"Yuh."
I'm only too happy to do so. Some rules were made to be broken. 

The night is not over! An unhappy woman boards with cake. In an effort to bring up her mood, I say, "that cake looks pretty good."
"No it doesn't," she replies. She feels it's too plain. I gently argue in the name of simplicity. There's a spot in the world for minimalist cake, isn't there? Next to her are a box of paper towels and a huge, heavy garbage bag I'd helped her bring on board. I'm pretty sure it weighed more than I do.

A older man steps in, saying in a Latino accent, "hey, haven't seen you in long time!"
Now this person I do recognize. "Nice to see you again!"

The woman's garbage bag ruptures, and the Latino gent jumps in to assist. They struggle with the bag for a while. Things roll everywhere.
"These kitchen bags," he says, shaking his head, opening the bag to put a spilled item back inside.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"I'm helping you." 
"What would you have done if that was my purse?"
"I'm trying to, the bag was falling apart,"
"Would you have opened up my," 
"I'm helping you, lady. You're supposed to say thank you."
"No, I'm supposed to do exactly what I'm doing, which is inquire what the hell you're doing!"

Forget the lunar calendar. Mother's Day is the new Full Moon! "I think he's trying to help," I say loudly. 
"No!"
"Yeah, he's just trying to be helpful. I saw what happened."
"I don't care!"
"Okay, what we're gonna do is we're gonna leave it in the past, it's already happened, so we're gonna move right on past it, and forget about it. And just leave it where it is."

As the older man leaves, I quietly tell him, "thank you for being helpful, you're a good man. It's good to see you."
"Oh it's no problem. Good to see you too."
We make gestures to each other, hands and elbows questioning in the air, a couple of rolled eyes, palms together in prayerful thanks, and somehow it all makes sense in the moment.

"You know what," begins the lady, but I'm already announcing the next stop. This gives her time to breathe, and she decides to remain silent.

We cruise past Dick's, and a fight is spilling out onto the street. Blows hitting flesh sound different in real life than in films. The men's screams echo in the evening twilight, as the last shade of yellow disappears from the western horizon.

I nod at a young man staggering on with an open container at Letitia. 
"Hey. Can you leave the beer outside?"
He pauses, thinking about it. "Okay. Is it okay if I throw it?"
"Sure, yeah." He lobs it into the night sky. It misses the moon, landing near the fish'n'chips place.
"Thanks man, you're a good dude. I appreciate you." Hand on my heart. 

He smiles, walks to the back, pulls another can out of his jacket, and opens it.

The challenge is not to see all this as a trend, but for what it is: a series of isolated incidents. The guy with the beer cans is utterly inconsequential, and would normally barely register on my radar, but the day seemed to be begging for a negative worldview. That's why it was a Rough Day, though no blood was spilt and no lives were lost (I didn't say it was a Bad Day!). 

Rough Days do their best to insinuate their ideas under your skin, blackening your thoughts before you can realize it. The trick is to remember that each bus stop, each person, is utterly unconnected from the previous; if something awful happens at Columbia, I need to completely separate it from the nice people now boarding at Seneca. Mr. Beer Cans is not the last straw, but a straw, and straws are small, far too small to lose sleep over.

What does give me pause is that there was one connecting through-line in all these events: me. I recently told a part-to-full time class of drivers a line I've heard, which I like: "if you meet a lot of assholes in one day, it might be you that's the asshole!" I'd like to believe I wasn't giving out negative or judgmental vibes, but perhaps I was. My personal life has lately been severely crunched for time; was I letting my impatience out in ways I didn't realize? Such things make a difference. The amount of festering angry energy on my bus was so concentrated it bordered on parody, and by the end of the day I couldn't help but laugh. 

My strategy, when a negative event occurs, is to spend only the remainder of the trip thinking about it. How did my actions cause or affect the event? How will I handle it the next time it happens? Why did it bother me? Because, whatever it was, it will certainly happen again. Once I've processed those factors, I try to set the whole thing aside. I have not mastered this. However, I was recently telling a friend that several unpleasant things had taken place on a recent Saturday, but, to my delight, I couldn't remember what they were! Now that's what I'm aiming for! 

Forgetfulness of a certain stripe is coming back in style.

Someone offers their seat to a Chinese woman of about seventy who's standing. She smiles as she declines it, joking, "it's okay. Don't worry. I am young lady!"

Photo by Victoria Holt.

I think "journal" is the accepted unisex term which allows the menfolk to save face while writing what is basically a diary. There's also the more decidedly masculine "notebook." My diary/journal/insert-other-phrase-here is rather disorganized, usually consisting of scraps of transfers and haphazardly jotted notes in various notebooks friends have given me. Friends are always giving me notebooks. I find writing intensely useful, that sense of finding structure in your thoughts thoughts, organizing the swirling haze of ideas. Here are observations from a night, a day, and the following night. These notes are usually the first step toward what end up as blog posts. I wanted to share with you what the first inklings are like, the infancy stage of the process. I've added a phrase here and there for clarity.

--

On the 7. Chinese man Jack's wife lost her purse on the Prentice loop at 9:35. I call coordinator, who thinks it's the 9:40 trip, but I know that it's actually 7/2, the 9:00 trip which always runs late. Coordinator doesn't think it is, but I insist he call 7/2 as well– and the purse is there! Jack and I standing around together, waiting for the confirmation. He asks what I'm reading (director interviews). We shake hands at the end– been through something together. He's thrilled. He has a car– we explore the 7 timetable, deciding if it's better for him to "chase" the 7 that has his purse, or to wait for the bus to come back around. Something exciting in a old-fashioned manly way about this. Planning a mission, considering the odds. A couple guys standing around a map of West Germany.

On the 12, going to Trader Joe's (ate all of Kate's ginger snaps!). Roderick's driving. We dive so quickly, as always, into the deepest probing depths of life philosophy. With some people this happens easily. Finding purpose gives us peace. The act of what it means to be a father. In the way that lovers think no one else is ever around them, our conversation takes turns sharing secrets and unbarred truths as though the bus were empty, though it isn't. What a guy.

Riding Fikre's 12, now coming back from Trader Joe's. Resisted the urge to get the vegan chocolate chip cookies, but didn't resist the free sample! Fikre and I, talking at the front. I'm standing. Sunlight through the left windows. A young-ish, very pale hipster-looking fellow with stretched earring holes is angry at us as he deboards. For the Masai and Mursi people, ear gauging represents status ascension or womanhood; in Myanmar, it's because the ear is considered sacred. For this guy, it's a fashion statement. He thinks about how it goes with his beard and shirt. Am I judging him because he's angry at me?

He's yelling at both of us because he feels unsafe that Fikre, the driver, is talking to someone. I mention that it's a customer service job, and that I'm a driver too; [he] doesn't care. He notes the coach number and references cell-phone driving. I'm impressed with Fikre's attitude: unscathed, professional, a listener, a defuser. I apologize to him, but he won't hear it.

Hipster's cell phone analogy is not quite correct. More accurate would be the comparison of driving a car while talking with the person in the passenger seat. Completely legal. [The] operator's job is to multitask.

On my 49. Somebody reading Mason & Dixon, by Pynchon. Hope he comes back to the front so I can ask him about it. [I just finished Inherent Vice, by the same author].

On [the] same bus, somebody named V– a lady named V, just like the titular character of Pynchon's first book. It's the Thomas Pynchon train apparently. V is Amy the bus driver's girlfriend. They're moving to Vermont. We talk lifestyle changes, getting a car, more.

A couple in Columbia City is excited about Ricky's, [where they've just come from]– "just really good American diner food." We talk about Charlie's, and Wabi Sabi. I don't recommend that one too highly because I know a passenger who worked there and was mistreated by the manager.... Different stories, different levels of lives, taking place in the same spaces, unbeknownst to each other.

Love the five-minute downtown late-night layovers. Hangin' out at Third and Union, getting ready for the midnight 7. Quiet crew, mostly service workers, restaurant people. I stroll outside, fistbumping with familiar faces. I listen to the scruffy guys up front, occasionally chiming in. They explain to me what rhubarb is. Now they're talking about livered onion soup: it's hard to make, and easy to overcook. They move on to the finer points of Philly cheese steaks. I feel like an outsider, observing the great goings-on. Growing up in a Korean household, this is all new to me. Grateful for the willing inclusiveness of so many. Woolworth's used to be downtown, they're saying now, couple of oldsters reminiscing, leaning against the window, scratching their chins. Low voices melding on histories they didn't know were shared– this is how people become friends. Different chicken places. We all start talking about Goodwill as we drive by it. I love the place, I tell them. They alphabetize their used books there! A cut above Value Village, clearly. "People with money go to goodwill too," a voice says. I tell them about my jacket.

Eastbound Pine– child in a sullen mood asks if there's a child abuse number, some kind of hotline. Sad eyes, glassy, pinpoints reflecting the light. I tell him about Safe Place. [He's allowed to stay on the bus, even on the breaks, until the Safe Place people arrive]. He's restless, moving from one seat to the next. I want him to feel comfortable. [He] starts to leave at the end of the line, but I yell back, "you can hang! You don't have to leave. They're almost here."

[He's quiet, so] I monologue on for a bit, trying to offer a neutral zone, something that feels safe. "Thanks for hangin' out for so long on my bus, they'll be here soon. I know this is the loud bus, thanks for putting up with it." [Referring to my announcements, greetings, yelled-thank-you's, etc]. He smiles a little. "It helps me stay happy, talkin' to people. Keepin' the energy up," I say. He's from Florida. Something about hurricanes. I can't imagine hurricanes. "All I know is movies where everything's flying around. You got friends down there?"

We talk about the Everglades, how I love to photograph, how America's diverse and Korea isn't, how I love driving the bus, the sensation of feeling useful. He gradually opens up. I ask what his ideal living place would be, and he speaks of one day returning to Florida. I'm happy he has good memories. 

I ask, "you like to ride the bus?"
"No!"

We laugh.

I think the thing to do here is just present the conversation entirely, as it happened. I know the shorter posts are more digestible in our bite-sized culture, but I'm compelled to share the longer interactions with you as well. In the way I preserve profanity in the stories, I must also preserve the truthful nature of certain conversations by not editing them down. There is more to learn from truth. This one seared into me, and I remember each line more easily than normal, the structure of how we got from one point to the next. At first glance he was just a man on the street asking for a ride, another face in the passing crowd. But we all have our stories. 

He boarded at Broadway and Pine inbound, speaking quietly as he requested a courtesy ride, so as not to arouse the judgment of others. Dressed nice tonight, this gent, soft-spoken, older African American fellow with a black turtleneck and dark pants; maybe those are slacks, but it's hard to tell in the dim light.

"Sure," I say. "Where you goin'?"
"In town. Well, Fremont."

I hand him a transfer.

"Thank you."
"No worries, man, I'm happy to help."
"Actually I have an ORCA pass, but I left it at my S.O's. She was intoxicated,"
"Soap opera drama, time to get outta there!"
"Ha, yeah, exactly,"
"Well. Happens to the best of us."

He was sitting down in the front seat for this, which on this low-floor coach is a good six feet away from me. Now he steps forward, standing closer, feeling a connection. "Yeah, you know, it just gets to a point sometimes. I left my wallet, my cards, but luckily I still got my keys."

"Good. Gotta have those."
"Once she starts drinkin', it's just, that's the end of it, the end of the night. There's no talkin' sense." Exasperated but calm. "The moods, the, once she starts, she don't stop."
"And you shouldn't have to put up with that."
"I shouldn't." He's not angry, but he is profoundly frustrated, and he maintains his reasonable tone. "Not at all."
"'Cause you gotta take care a yourself. That type of drama, it'll wear you out, man, put gray hairs on your head. You know."
"I do. And I been clean and sober for years now, I can't let myself slip back into that."
"Oh my goodness, no way!"
"No way."
"It's so frustrating when you're doin' everything you can, tryna help the situation, goin' way outta your way, but it's the whole thing of, you can bring the horse to the well," 
"Exactly." He nods ruefully.
"But you can't make 'em drink."
"You can only do so much. They got to help themselves, in the end,"
"That's rough," I said. "And it's particularly so when you care about the person."
"'Cause you feel helpless! It ain't nothin' you can do, even though you love them... I walked here all the way from 18th and Madison, 'cause I just had it."
"Eighteenth and... whoa."
"Yeah. I'd rather spend two hours trying to go home then put up with that kinda energy. And she's of age! I'm sixty-two, she's sixty-one,"
"Old enough to know better!"
"Yeah. Everyone around her can see it, this problem of hers, except her. We been together twenty years,"
"Whoaaa," I say, twenty-eight at the time, with hardly a clue how to process a relationship of that size.

"But I think I'm done, man." He says it again. "I think I'm done."

We're not on a bus. This isn't the 49. This is a living room. This is the back corner of a coffee house, and we're leaning forward, elbows on knees with the cups and plates pushed aside. Serious talk, the kind where revelations come to light only because you're speaking on them, making discoveries together with your closest confidants. In what previous life did I know this man before? Or are we all just so much more alike than we realize?

"'Cause at the end of the day, you got to take care of yourself," I'm telling him. "You got to." We're speaking with more emphasis now, as the stakes become apparent.
"We only get one go around in this life. I'm startin' to realize, man, I only got a little bit o' time left, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna give it up for, give up my own happiness for her, when she don't even care."
"Oh man, your life is way too precious. Your time, you walkin' all the way from over there,"
"Oh yeah. There's times when I've waited an hour, two hours, for that last bus home, 'cause I get to thinkin', I'd rather be at the bus stop. I got to protect myself, my sanity. 'Cause she'll call me sayin' I'm not gonna drink, I'm not gonna do this, and I go over there, ride the bus all the way across town–"
"Which is an investment of your time–" time is a big deal to me, if you hadn't noticed–
"Yeah–"
"Because you trust her!"
"Yeah–"
"And if there's no trust, communication, what else is–"
"Nothin'." The word hits like a pounding gavel.
"Tha's the foundation."
"I moved out not too long ago. We were livin' together for years, but it was this alcohol made me have to get outta there. When she pulls out one of those cans, and I hear the pssst– the pssst–" he gestures, opening an imaginary can– "and she starts Goin' That Way, that's what I call it;"
"Goin' That Way,"
"Uh huh, I can't let myself get, I just can't be around that. The way she gets. Else I'll start drinkin' again. I know my time is limited. I'm sixty-two years ol', and twenty years or no twenty years,"
"You know what," I interjected. Sometimes you realize it's the right time, the right person with whom to share one of your closely held truths, one of the pillars by which you conceive of life. I paused before continuing. 

"It's not a failure because it ends," I said. "People think relationships are failures unless they go until death, but that just ain't true. It's not a failure. Both a you's grown and learned from each other, I hope she has, and you've done just the best you can it sounds like. Sometimes you just got to protect yourself, hold on to who you are. Somebody told me,* if we throw away our whole life tryin' to please somebody else, man, that would just be the biggest waste of this great gift of life we been given–"

"Yeah. Yeah." He nodded emphatically. "I agree. I agree. I'm tryin' to put my life back together. I'm gettin' braces,"
"Oh cool,"
"I was in the Navy, I'm gettin' braces to fix my smile–" I wish I had told him his smile's just fine as it is– "they're gonna fix my smile, I
learned to cook, I recently got me an apartment in Fremont with a view of South Lake Union, and I'm workin' on gettin' a permit to drive, I'm gonna buy me a small car."
"See, all that is beautiful. You got your life to live. You're doin' stuff that's meaningful to you, and that's a beautiful thing, takin' care of yourself. That's being alive. To give up the rest o' your days, pullin' your hair out over this person who don't even realize how much you care about her,"
"No way."
"No way." Third and Pine.
"Hey, good talkin' to you."
"You too."
"Stay strong!"
He took the phrase for its full meaning. "Yeah," he said after a pause. "I will!"

Some months later I saw him again, walking past the bus. He didn't notice me. His gait was heavy. His shoulders hung low. But he wasn't looking down.

--

* The quote in full: "Many people grow up so addicted to approval that they have little initiative in adult life. You can be so dependent on authority figures that you are unable to know your own will. You end up in a career that others choose for you, you get married to someone whom others choose for you, you live in a house that others choose for you, and you say prayers which others choose for you. Living for the sake of appearance is the ultimate loss. You had only one life to live, and you gave it away to please others. You did not use this opportunity to discover what makes you special and different. You did not appreciate that your uniqueness is God's gift to the world."

-Sultan Abdulhameed, 2010

Forgive my brief absence from the blog– life has been a whirlwind. Today I return from seeing Leroy in Philadelphia, the di Cosimo exhibit in DC, and the Turner exhibit in LA. Whenever I'm in a plane I think of two quotes– Joan Didion's comment about how all the most beautiful things she's seen in this life have been from airplane windows, and the statement in Salinger's Franny and Zooey, where Zooey (a male) says his reason for not getting married is that he'll have to forever give up the window seat! 

As an unmarried male (therefore sitting in the window seat, though the aisle tends to be my preference), I couldn't help but sympathize with Didion's observation. The chaos of modern life, way down there, melds with the vast, indifferent dome of blue sky (Joyce's phrase, to throw another quote your way), and life seems to make sense. It was while gazing out that window on a near-empty plane that I wrote on the following recent memory, which I'm compelled to share:

--

The last thing George Orwell wrote in his diary was, "at the age of fifty, every man has the face he deserves." Meaning, by then your life has overtaken genetics in bearing itself out on your face. Harsh words, yes, but not entirely untrue.

There's a storytelling event I attend each month. Sometimes I tell stories there, but more often I'm there just to listen. The storytellers recounting their experiences come in all shapes and sizes, but lately I've found myself drawn in most by a number of the senior women there. Do you ever surf the channels and think, enough with the attractive twenty-somethings already? 

The verve these oldsters possess, the vivacious glowing light, a rich twinkling humor you know is earned and strong, for it to still be here after all these years… this is what I find inspiring. Everyone's bitter over something, but I hope I can confront loneliness and loss as they have, and still have space to laugh at the fading of the long day.

A woman of similar demeanor recently got on my bus. On the older buses, which have stairs, the passengers rise into your view as they ascend the steps. From the driver's perspective, they become closer and taller all at once. For her it seemed appropriate, in keeping with her confident stride. Frizzy silver hair, still cut long, with blazing grey eyes and an unusual knit sweater– a sense of the individualistic. No mere housewife, this sprightly old thing. She paused as she took stock of me, staring as equals and children do.

"Oh wow," she breathed. "Aren't you a little young!"
"I am! I should be at home doing my homework! Gettin' the chores done!"
She grinned, and with a hint of joyful sarcasm replied, "and I should be in the garden, doin' the yardwork, and cleaning the house!" Hers was a tone which said, there's a role I'm expected to be resigning myself to, and I'm so glad I'm not. She continued with, "but we're not doing those things."
"Somehow the world will survive."
"The world will survive."
"It's good to be here."
"I'm all the happier for it."
"You and me both."

The glow on her face was writ large. Orwell would've been impressed. Let us continue to be ourselves, conforming to no man's template, thoughtful and sharp, defiant when we need to be, that we might follow in her admirable lead.

It's an overwhelming whirlwind, bus driving. In thirty seconds you'll have someone who loves you, someone who hates you, and somebody who wants to know how to get to Everett. The following list below happened in the space of an hour, over and after each other, a mental marathon of juggled headspaces and concerns. Each bus stop is another channel, another doorway, utterly separated from what came before.

-Rainier and Frontenac. A white drunk asks how to get to Georgetown, in between throwing around the n-word like Jefferson Davis was still in style. Boy, did he ever pick the wrong route to say that word on! Inwardly I wonder if I'd have it in me to intervene on his behalf if the brothers looking on felt compelled to express their frustration with him physically. 

Eventually he asks to deboard between zones. "Right here?"
"Yeah, lemme get away from all these niggers." We're happy to oblige.
"You're a nigger, faggot," a woman tells him as he leaves, a comment in the running for least constructive statement of the month.

-"We need more like him," I overhear from the middle of the bus. It's a fan club of lovelies discussing me, four people who couldn't look more different– remember those photos in math textbooks of students working together? There was always one Asian kid, one black kid, someone with a broken arm and somebody with glasses… my classmates and I could never take any of it seriously. Today I'm energized to see four variations of black, white, female, and male, in all manner of dress, enthusing over my attitude. One asks my name, and we holler introductions– he's Darryl, but call him Mississippi. 

-A middle-aged gent telling me about his two friends who grow marijuana, both of whom have degrees in relevant scientific and medical fields, and the various greenhouse methods, et cetera.

-As soon as the above fellow leaves, another takes up his post to chat. I'm reminded of a friend who once told me she often wanted to talk to me on my bus, but it always felt like she had to wait in line to do so! "I need to get off soon," this man tells me. "I can only take so much fun at one time! I can only ride your bus for short distances!"

-Albert, a man whose brother recently passed, is moving to New York, where his only remaining family, a sister and niece, live. Today he's passing time at the Bayview Street bus stop. "You're coming back around?" he asks. "I'll catch you on the other side!"
"We'll talk more! See you soon!"

-A woman in fluorescent green inquires into her phone, "WHERE THE FUCK IS YOU AT?"
"Wow," I say, "we don't need to say stuff like that!"
She's greatly flustered, and howls a mini-monologue into her phone about the exasperating nature of being unreliable; a friend has failed to meet her at one of the stops. I can sympathize with that. I'm reminded of a conversation I recently had with a friend where we shared our mutual feelings on much the same, praising the value of being on time, of being trustworthy. Her diatribe expresses nearly my exact sentiments, albeit in slightly different words!

-"You said the 1, 3 or 4?"
"Yeah, right here at this bus stop, the 1, 3 or 4. They'll all take you up there."
"Do we need to pay again?"
"No, just show that to the driver. Hey, what was the score?"
"Eleven to ten, Mariners won!"

-I honk the horn at Seneca to no avail– Richie Holly's on the sidewalk, and he's not paying attention. This is what red lights are for. I jump out and catch his attention, convincing him to ride for a stop. Instantly we're deep in conversation– Kate Alkarni Gallery's closure in Georgetown, the health benefits of walking, how he's feeling healthier than he can remember, how I'm working on four life-sized portrait drawings. He's uncontactable, but we see each other often enough on the street. Always a pleasure.

-Kyle Gulke appears out of nowhere. Diving into another headspace– he's thinking of Italy for the summer, and I'm trying to convince him how great Florence is. Venice, Rome, yes, both terrific, but those art museums in Florence! I spent ten hours in the Uffizi. Now we're discussing how many days you can see Florence in, and you also have things like Pisa in the surrounding territory… and he's off the bus at Belmont, in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it guest appearance. Out of Italy, back onto Pine Street.

-Broadway and Pine. Why does it sound like a tropical rainforest in here? "Hey, what are those bird noises?"
"Oh, that's me," an older woman up front pipes up. "They're motion-sensing bird toys. I got 'em at the dollar store."
She tells me the details. This way her grandsons can't snoop around in her room. The birds will go off. I was going to ask whoever it was to turn down the birds, but I find all of this rather endearing. Not beeps, not alarms, but friendly chirping sounds. We let the nature soundtrack continue.

-Rory is often drunk, but he's never angry. Crabbing season is about to start, he's telling me. He's getting his boat ready. But there's a limit to how many crabs you can catch. His solution? Take a bunch of kids with you. Kids count as people for the purposes of catching crabs, and with each kid you have, you can get another six crabs. Brilliant. Why not just take more adults? They weigh too much. Kids are light, and they still count as crab-catching people. Details, details.

-A young man feels my enthusiasm as a bodily force. He's just been witness to all the above, and here we are now at the end of the line, standing up and stretching out. "Operator of the year, niggaaaa!" he roars with throaty joy, at once testosterone-filled and high on the concept of universal love, heady with genuine excitement. Another brother is looking on, and we're all grinning wide, glowing together.

-You can get a lower back brace for about $100. So says our latest buddy, who does landscaping and masonry. He prefers masonry– less bending over. We talk about the hazards of repetitive manual labor, and the importance of core strength. He's young, early twenties, and he wants to have a body that still works two, three, four decades from now. So do I.

And so on. I pull into the next zone, where a crowd is waiting...