• Published on

    Christmas Eve

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    He came up to me at 135th, scabrous and gristled. This was last Christmas Eve, on the 358.

    "You give a good ride, man."
    "Well, thanks, man. You got plans for the holiday?"
    "Yeah, I'm gonna get off here, go over to KFC."
    "Oh, right on."
    "Yeah, gonna grab some dinner for my girlfriend. We're gonna stay in tonight, watch some TV."
    "Sounds good to me, chance to relax. 'What it's all about, right?"
    "Exactly."

    What I felt was not pity but admiration. He existed outside of all the shame, the hunger for status that drives so many of us, leading us to places of inadequacy and judgment, washing away the awareness of what's truly important. I daresay his Christmas Eve was, in its barren simplicity, likely more stress-free than any number of his fellow Seattlelites.
  • Published on

    "Morose!!!"

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    He got on along with the great mob at 4th and Pike. Somebody in front of him was taking an extra moment to pay cash, and he'd tapped his ORCA card and snuck quietly past, but my "how's it going" reached his ears. The man had been planning to walk further back, but after seeing the way I greeted everyone he sat down up front with a smile, grinning as one does upon coming across something at once energizing and unexpectedly familiar, like a relative you'd forgotten how much you liked.

    He responded by asking how my day's been. 
    "It's been fan-tastic," I said. He cackled with shared delight, perfect rows of teeth highlighted against his dark skin and rugged attire.

    I continued. "What kind of work do you do? If I may ask."
    "Sign spinner," he said sheepishly.
    "Really? Science...."
    "Sign spinner."
    "Oh, sweet! Like 'slow and 'stop?'" He nodded with a rueful smile, which blew into a huge grin upon my saying, "That's awesome!" I was thrilled at the opportunity to learn more about the job I see so often.
    "Not really!" he laughed.
    "Aww. Are you sure, 'not really?'"
    "This is Seattle in the wintertime!"
    We burst into fits of giggling. "This is true. Minor detail! But! I would hope, 'cause that sounds like a safety sensitive job, I would hope you're gettin' paid. I hope they're givin you a little somethin' extra, standing out there. 'Cause it's a standing job too, and that, that, that takes a certain kinda energy!"

    We talked about his job, then about mine, how nighttime is the best time for driving, how the light cycles are shorter, the people are fun, how great I think the 7 is, and so on. Through the course of all this we found ourselves using terms like 'fortuitous' and 'elated,' and it wasn't just myself lobbing off the four-syllable words. Here was a man who shared my passion for learning, no matter his career or life circumstances.
    "Now, I'm not sayin' you have to," I quipped, "but if you're ever on my bus you can always lean out and wave that "slow" sign around, get some of these cars back in line!" 

    Then, after a pause, a new thought occurred to me. I'd been trying to imagine the job from his perspective.

    "Hey, lemme ask you something. Do a lot of people wave thanks, or hi or something, as they drive past you?"
    "Aaaauuuhhmm," he said. We laughed again. "Sometimes they do. I always do. I mean, it only takes a second, to smile."
    "It only takes a, exactly. I mean, what else are you gonna do?"
    "The bus drivers always, they looove me! They get so excited when they drive past...."
    "Oh, yeah! I always wave, 'cause i'm thinkin,' both of us are workin,' here we are,"
    "Yeah. it only takes a second."
    "It's so easy. Plus, you're gonna see each other ten more times!"
    "Exactly! Oh man, I know every single bus driver, police officer, ambulance driver,"
    "These are good people to know!"
    "Taxi driver, Jack-in-the-Box, every single Post Office employee, every pizza delivery guy,"
    "There you go! Oh, you're set!"
    "One day I'll just be like, 'do you have an extra one uh those?!'"
    "And they'll be like, just don't gimme that stop sign next time!"

    Another pause. One of those conversations where a silence can enter and easily be broken again later on. I said, "I tell you, 'cause when I look out at these car drivers sometimes, they just seem so depressed! They just look morose!"
    We were laughing. 
    "Ooh, great word. That's gotta be the word of the day, morose." 
    "Thanks man!" 
    "Love that word," he said.
    "Me too! I so rarely get an opportunity to use it in a sentence!" The giggling fits began anew....
    "I love vocabulary!"
    "Me too! It expands our horizons. New ways of thinking!"
    "Exactly. It's like, why not?"
    "I know, man. There's more than five four-letter words with which to express ourselves!"
  • Published on

    Happy Mother's Day– in December!

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    Walker Percy once wrote that when the same event happens twice, one at one time and the other later on, we can define everything  which has passed in between by whatever differences there are in those two events. There are faces you see, friends of yours, once every blue moon over the developing years. Time collapses in these moments.

    Celia and I usually don't really ever plan to run into each other. It just happens. Seattle is just small enough to allow for these happy intersections, and just big enough for them to seem improbable. I'm wondering where– and who– I'll be when I next run into her.

    This afternoon we're once again in Rainier Beach, at the layover. She and I are talking about film, the proposed jail and how it's a terrible idea, and talking in Korean. It all melds together, intercutting threads of conversation flowing ever forward. She feel passionately about the youth jail, and how there are better solutions than the expensive monstrosity proposed to take its place. There's a protest coming up where, in many languages, people will chant, "no more youth jail." She's asking if I know how to say it in Korean. 

    "Shoot, I don't know 'jail.' We never really said 'jail' when I was growing up at our house. I can say the rest of it though. 'No more youth!'"
    "'No more youth?' That would kind of defeat the purpose!"
    We begin laughing.

    In my periphery there's a figure approaching. He must be late teens, maybe a touch older with those gold teeth, doing his level best to look like Lil' Wayne. He's got the large shades with gold-colored plastic rims, a battery of necklaces and other masculine jewelry flailing about, and sagging– but fitted– jeans. That's the thing nowadays. I give him the upward nod, with a smile.

    "Hey guys," he says politely. "I dont mean to interrupt, you all look like you two handsome young people havin' you a conversation– no homo to you, and you look lovely, young lady."
    "How's it goin'?"
    "I don't mean to interrupt, but could I ask either of you guys got a cigarette?"
    "No I'm,"
    "Aw man I'm sorry," we're both saying.
    "Oh it's koo!"
    "You're a gentleman though!" I say.
    "My mama raise me tha' way!"  
    "She's awesome! You're awesome!" 
    "You guys too!"

    The moral of all this being, mothers, you have an impact which holds even when you're not around. You are part of them, and the kids are looking up to you. Happy Mother's Day.
  • Published on

    About the Same Concerns

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    This happened a looooong time ago, but it's a story I keep rattling around in my head, especially on these post-Ferguson nights.

    "Hold on one sec," he said. Tall African-American man, I'd say thirty, six feet something with a baseball hat (curved bill tonight, not flat) and a wardrobe fitted for a mythical man three times his size: black hoodie halfway zipped, glistening basketball shoes with the wide flat laces, and stone-washed black jeans, the expensive kind, with white accent threads and fabric piled around the sagging bottoms, folds of cloth accumulating around his shoes like Michelangelo's Pietà, or Alexandros of Antioch's Venus de Milo.

    "Aw, sure," I said. We were driving something down Third Avenue, either a 3/4 or a 1/14.
    "I know I got it." 
    "Oh, it's cool."
    He kept fumbling around, searching for his transfer.

    What would a fellow of his look be up to on a night like this? Ten PM on a weeknight. Sometimes it's polite to not ask. I don't ask specifics of the guys I know are dealers, for example. We talk about things like weather. I really ought not to assume though– haven't seen this fellow before– so I decided to venture.

    "How's your night goin'?"
    "Iss been good. I just dropped off my son. We went and checked out the ferris wheel."
    "Oh, cool! Did he have a good time, your son?"
    "Yeah, somebody said it was only three times they go around but we got a good three, four times. It was dope." 
    "Perfect. And it's a nice clear night, good for that,"
    "Yeah."
    "Awesome. I haven't been on it." 
    "It's good, yeah." 
    "What time they stop runnin' that thing?"
    "I think it closes at ten... man, I know I had one. Truly." He was still searching his pockets.

    "It's all cool. D'you need another one for later tonight?"
    Heartfelt: "truly."
    "Here's the goods." 
    "Thank you man, I appreciate it."
    "Dude, thanks for lookin' for it! I appreciate you!"
    "Man, I had it."
    "It's all good. I trust you."

    Sometimes people just pretend to look for transfers. He really did have one. Finally he showed it to me, excited to prove his honesty. "See?"
    "You're awesome! Thank you!"
    "Yeah, I just met a new lady," I continued. His eyebrows went up in a half-smile as I went on– "so I been thinkin' about places to take her. That sounds like a good one."
    "Definitely. I been lookin' for stuff to do too."
    "Oh, nice!"
    "Yeah, my lady, she thinkin' about other things, but I'm gonna bring it back. Gonna get it this time."
    "Bring back some a that old magic."
    His eyes twinkled in the darkness. "Yeah."
    "That's beautiful thing," I said. The effort.

    His concerns were about the same as mine. I shouldn't have been surprised. 
  • Published on

    Getting Some Diversity Off My Chest

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    We addressed "the whole bathroom thing" in the post below. While we're on a roll, let's settle another issue– the one where people tell me Seattle is overwhelmingly white.

    I'm weary of people who spend their entire lives north of the Ship Canal telling me that Seattle isn't diverse. Hipsters who spend all their time in Belltown, Capitol Hill and the U-District, with the occasional exploratory jaunt out to Ballard, would do well to keep quiet on the issue, that they might not inadvertently reveal how little they know about the city. 

    A woman who worked on Queen Anne and lived in West Seattle once told me she thought Seattle was "just way too white." I'm unable to take such comments seriously. You've got to go somewhere besides Queen Anne before rattling off such generalizations. The Seattle metro area is filled with huge, gigantic swaths of land, far larger than the high-profile neighborhoods people often think of, where entire lives, families and generations carry out the ongoing drama of the American nonwhite experience.

    Some people will tell you 98118– Columbia City– is the most diverse zip code in the US. Others say it isn't. It's easy to find articles supporting the belief you choose.* However, searching for accuracy by way of arguing about the zip code boundaries and code tabulation areas is to miss the larger point: either way, 98118 is one of the most diverse environments in the country. Some reports point to 98178 and 98188 (Skyway and Tukwila, respectively) as more diverse. There is the fact of Tukwila School District being the most diverse in the US. 

    But statistics reduce all these lives to mere numbers. The forest for the trees here is that Seattle is exceptionally, monumentally and gloriously mixed.

    If you haven't spent time in "The Valley," an enormous area which can take an hour to drive the bus to the bottom of, you haven't seen all of Seattle. There you encounter languages you've never heard of, and can walk for miles without encountering a white face. If you haven't been to or heard of White Center, Bryn Mawr, Riverton Heights, Hillman City, Boulevard Park, South Park, Delridge, Dunlap, Brighton, LakeRidge, Holly Park, the Central District, Delridge, Burien, Renton, Kent and the entire South End... these are minority majority environments. Even Bellevue is now a whopping forty percent Asian.

    There is more to the city than Capitol Hill and the U District. I would hope this would be apparent to anyone walking through downtown. It's one of my favorite things about the city. Moving beyond race, the fact is that most people in Seattle are from somewhere else– whether another state in the US, or another country. In many parts of the world, the person standing next to you is likely from a similar class and ethnic background, and experienced a child- and adulthood not unlike yours. In Seattle, the person standing next you has stories you couldn't even guess about. I think this is beautiful.

    At the end of the day, I would say heuristic knowledge counts for a lot. The experience of walking around in the aforementioned neighborhoods will do more for your understanding of the Central Puget Sound area than sitting around reading statistics and articles like this one. In other words, come out for a ride on my bus!

    --

    *98118: This issue is thorny. Naysayers will stick to ethnic values only, forgetting that diversity is about many other things as well. There's a difference between "most nonwhites" and "smallest population share of dominant group." More crucially, class remains the elephant in the room as far as the national conversation is concerned, and deserves more studied attention. Unlike places like Brooklyn, Columbia City is not comprised of self-imposed cultural enclaves or boroughs. Everybody lives next to everybody. Also, the "whites" figure discussed with respect to Columbia City  includes one of the US's largest contingent of Sephardic Jews. Religious, economic, educational, tribal, and age values need to be considered as well. Gini-Simpson values would be useful here. More here, here, and especially here.
  • Published on

    About Those Urine-Soaked Seats...

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    You've probably heard by now of the now-famous sixty urine-soaked seats. In what ended up making national news, the Washington State Department of Labor and Industries fined Metro for one serious violation (not providing operators with unrestricted access to bathroom facilities when needed to relieve themselves, with specific attention to how bathrooms are often unavailable at night, not located at all route terminals, and with not enough time to access the bathroom if one is provided) and one general violation (no running water, soap, or paper towels for route 36 & 50 operators for over six years).

    The language employed in the (public) documentation is harsh ("Describe on the form how you corrected each hazard, rather than what you intend to do in the future.... If we do not receive written confirmation you have corrected the hazards, we will take follow-up action, which may include additional penalties. If you provide us with false information, you may face criminal penalties."), and I feel it is appropriate.

    As an operator, my bladder and my mind are immensely grateful to learn of this. When the King County Council ordered Metro to tighten the schedules in 2009, in response to economic pressures and as a result of a now highly-questioned performance audit, many staff knew the ramifications would be far reaching: more accidents, more unreliable service, a decline in customer service quality and maintenance, and more work-related injuries for operators. All of those have panned out– even down to more operators needing kidney stone operations because of accumulated lack of access to restrooms. I'm grateful that such badly-needed attention is finally being brought to bear on the issue.

    What I'd like to contribute regarding all this is a little further clarification on how you might end up with sixty urine-soaked driver seats. My frustration is not with Metro, but with certain folks' misunderstanding of the issue. I would think such a thing might be self-explanatory, but a quick listen to Mr. Dori Monson, the local talk radio personality, reveals that it isn't. I was directed to a recent show of his wherein he told Metro GM Kevin Desmond he couldn't fathom how such a thing could happen. Monson cited how he once successfully sat in traffic for two hours fighting the urge, and that forty-five minutes on a bus ought to be nothing. Mr. Monson concluded by saying that drivers who soil seats should be fired.

    I think the polite way to say this is that Edward R. Murrow isn't going to rise from the grave to shower Monson with praise for investigative journalism. Mr. Desmond, as someone who clearly cares passionately for transit, its users, and its operators, acquitted himself reasonably well on the issue, but both individuals– Mr. Monson in particular– would do well to further inform themselves on the issue prior to discussing it on air.

    Many routes are longer than forty-five minutes, and the breaks at the ends of those trips are regularly only five minutes– five scheduled minutes, that is. An eight-hour shift is required to have two fifteen minute breaks (drivers don't get lunch breaks), and all the rest are usually shorter. A real-world example: I drive a 97-minute 7/49 trip that needs to be that long, and needs more than the five minutes given at the end to balance out the very natural delays one will encounter over that time. Heaven help you if you get two red lights (three minutes), take a minute to answer someone's questions, or if there's someone inside the gas station bathroom at the end of the line.

    Weekend schedules are older, and my weekend runcards give me 60-75 minutes to drive what is actually 90 minutes in real life, but the breaks aren't any longer. The weekday and Sunday 49 terminal has a bathroom which closes at 10pm and 6pm, respectively, and the nearest reliable bathroom after that is six blocks away. The issue is not the length of the route (through-routes are convenient, fun to drive, and structurally very useful), but rather the unrealistic nature of the schedules themselves. When Scheduling writes runcards expecting you to get from 12th & Jackson to 5th & Jackson in two minutes, you just want to throw up your hands and invite them all out for a few honest-to-goodness, real-world, ground-level bus rides.

    Some bathrooms are too often out of order, overused, too far away, or plagued with drug use. The 70 is famous for having consecutive six minute breaks ever since 2009– one legendary ten-hour and forty minute piece has just two breaks longer than ten minutes (fifteen each, and one is your very first one, when you don't need it). The "no-pee" 24/124 has only a heavily drug-abused bathroom on one end, and a quarter-mile walk away on the other; the 11 has only one terminal, being a live loop, with a bathroom too far to reach in the allotted time, and which is closed after hours. And so on. In situations like this the operator is forced to make a decision between taking the time to care for his/her body, or receive the wrath of irked passengers who have been kept waiting. As Mr. Desmond has pointed out, this is not a decision one should have to make.

    My hope is that this comes across not as a rant, but as an explanation. I'm compelled to share these realities as a corrective to the information which you might encounter from less-informed outlets. If your 70 is late, complain to the King County Council, not Metro. If your driver is stressed, mind that (s)he might not have had a restroom in the last six hours. The important thing is that thanks to voters, there is now actually funding available with which to address the issue, and the service can be improved to the benefit of both riders and drivers. All of which is to say: Hooray!