Recently on the 3/4, a young man in a red beanie, huge red sweatshirt, massive gray sweatpants, and oversized basketball shoes boarded with his girlfriend. He recognized me. 

"Wha's UP, bro?" he hollered, as we bumped fists.
"Ey, good to see you!"
"Good to see you too! You're the cooles'!"

As they left out the back door, I yelled, "thanks guys!"
"YES SIR!"
"Have a good one!"
"You too," said the girl. 
The boy tarried for a moment and roared, "STAY OFF THE 7!"
"Oh, I love that thing!"
He frowned, pausing on the back door steps. "WHY?"
"I like the people!"
"Aw, SHUT UP!"

We both laughed. He laughed perhaps because he found my thought absurd. I laughed at his ebullient tone, and wondered if he thought I was sarcastic or serious. Faithful readers, you know that I really do like the people. 

Some time later, I was strolling around the Henderson Street layover around 11pm. They play classical music from the loudspeakers over the Saar's Market parking lot, which I love. There's something so refreshingly anachronistic about hearing Tchaikovsky in the ghetto that it almost seems appropriate. The rich emotions and high drama, violins and cymbals crashing above a heated urban discussion– doesn't it kind of make sense? The scene feels steeped in time, anchored in the universality of the ongoing human condition. Down on the ground near my feet is a sleeping figure, a regular on this stretch.* He recently thanked me for the biscuit I gave him; he'd wanted my offering of biscuit, but not of boiled eggs. Clearly the guy doesn't know what a perfect boiled egg tastes like. 

Tonight three men are in the bus shelter, passing the time. One is older. The other two are pushing their hands together as a show of strength. Garbage flutters around little circles, signs of life in your periphery. On first driving the 7 I remember being struck by the fact that people hang out at bus stops on Rainier in ways they don't elsewhere. Not even on Aurora are bus stops destinations in their own right, the urban answer to porches and park benches. The men look at me as I walk toward them.

"Have a good night, gentlemen," I say.
"You too," says the old man. "Don't work too hard, bumpity bump on those roads out there!"
"I'll try not to!"
I'm stretching my shoulders as I walk away, one arm straightened out, pulled towards me in the crook of the other. I'm a fiend about stretching on my breaks. Keeps my body feeling happy.**
"Ey, how you do that," one of the other guys says. I show him how and then cross Henderson street, now empty of traffic.

"Eey, my friend." It's the third fellow, walking out after me. I turn back. We meet in the middle of the roadway, standing on the double yellow line together. I know he's about to ask me for a transfer. Several blocks away a building was shot up with automatic weapons a week ago. Sixty bullet holes, not counting the shattered glass windows. Sometimes you hear firing at night. Of course I give him a transfer, but I'd do so anyway, because of the dark spirited eyes, the wrinkled brow, the curly hair... don't these describe friends of yours, of mine? 

"Happy Father's day," I say. 
"You know what? God bless you," he says, patting me on the shoulder. I've never felt safer standing in the middle of Henderson Street. He thanked me again a few days later, introducing himself by name. Elbee.

"You are just the sweetest," a pair of girls said later that night. "You deserve that paycheck!" 
They're followed by an older man who recognizes me from a long time ago. He talks about how he likes my attitude, and I tell him how I love the route.
"I know you're telling the truth," he says.
"Yeah? You can tell?"
"Yeah, I'll tell you how. We, us number 7 riders out here, we see all the new drivers come through here, all the new guys who get forced onto this route. You see all these new faces. And then, after a shakeup or two goes by, they all get the hell out of here and you never see 'em again. As soon as they can pick other routes, they're gone. But you've stayed! I first saw you out here something, five years ago! And you're still here!"
"Thanks, man! Thank you!"
"Aaaaand, and your attitude is exactly the same as when I first saw you!"
"I can't help myself!"


*As it turns out he is no longer a regular on this stretch of cement– he was completing a probationary thirty-day stretch before being allowed back into a shelter downtown. Now he sleeps in much greater comfort. "Two more days," he grinned at me as the thirty days were winding down.

**Is your job a sitting job? Please, for the love of all that is holy, stand up. Do it now. Standing up, even for a few seconds, makes all the difference. It gets your blood flowing again and restarts your metabolism. Standing up for thirty seconds every hour will do more good for your body than running five miles on the weekends. You don't need to buy a bowflex machine. Just stand. There was an excellent flurry of articles in the New York Times detailing this a couple years ago. Read more here, here, here, and here.

"FUCK YOU," he says to his friend as they board, with such unhinged force I can only find it comical. Fifty-year old East African man in a sweatshirt and slacks, holding a wooden chair in one hand. I don't know why I think this is so funny. I think it's because he looks fairly refined, one of those serious middle-aged types. Phawk You. Maybe I should be afraid sometimes. But honestly, where would that get me? 

"How you doin'?"
Upon hearing me and seeing my tone he instantly shapes up a little. "I'm good, how are you?"

Confucius said pleasantries don't make us better people, but they do keep alive in us the goodness we already possess.
"Excellent, thank you!"
"Tha's good." He smiles, appreciating my acknowledgement of his personhood and complete ignorance of his earlier attitude.

He and his friend sit down near the front. The second man is younger but taller, dressed in a huge lightweight blue and burgundy rain jacket. He expands like a sea star, spreading out, covering as much surface area with his body as possible. The two form a compelling visual image. I want to paint these guys. Don't think I'll ask them now, though.

"I don' care where you from," says the fifty-year old, apparently continuing a thought with his friend. They're are sitting behind me. "I keep my mouf shut. I keep quiet. I don' care, shit." Sheeyit. "Why I'm gonna care?" He continues. "I don' say no thing, I don't care." He expounds a bit further on his promise of keeping quiet before doing so.

Two young Cobain-lookalikes board, one with a guitar in hand. "Oh, hey, it's you again!" says the one to me, excited. To the second man I say, "ah, an artist! You can play whatever you want, I won't stop you!" I'm sure I'll regret saying those words one day, but sometimes you get some really good acoustic work wafting up from the back.

We're filling up. It's a night run on the 49, pulling into Convention Center. Here's a few more getting on. A young European couple, twenties, hesitant in their step. Must be visiting from out of the country. She asks, "do you go to Broadway?" 
"I do! Where do you want to go?"
"We want to go to, is it, Broadway and Allison? by Fuhr, uh,"
"Oh. Allison, by Fuhrman, and Harvard?"
"Yes!"
"Yes, I will take you there!"
"Okay! Thank you so much!"

Sparkly eyes, now full of youthful vigor. They're quite the attractive couple– not tall enough to be supermodels, and too friendly to be on magazine covers. Just perfect, in other words. What they also seem is very much out of their element. The dominating presence on the bus now is a three-way argument between the two East African men and a third black man of ambiguous heritage, wearing a Seahawks jersey, the current neutral Seattle uniform of choice. The two accost him regarding his birthplace, abandoning their self-imposed promise of being quiet on such matters. To their credit, they speak in low tones, but that just makes everything seem all the more menacing.

"You not from Ethiopia. I know." The tall guy. "I'm from Ethiopia! I'm gonna know. I know. You Somali?"
"I'm from Ethiopia," says the Seahawks man quietly.
"You're not from Ethiopia. How you gonna fool me? Live my whole life.... Eritrea? Eritrea. Eritrea maybe. You from Eritrea? I can understand that. Tell me you're from,"
"I'm from Ethiopia."
"You're not from there. Why you say you're from Ethiopia?"
"That's where I from," he says, maintaining his quiet tone. Impressively cool. He leans his bulk forward.
"Where are you from?"
Have you noticed how most fights– in the street, in the bedroom, the kitchen– start over the most inconsequential things? It all seems so intense in the moment.
"I'm from Ethiopia. I'm Ethiopian."
"I don' know why you keep saying that." The tall man's face is tilted back on the headrest, coolly looking down his nose at the other. Legs splayed out, jacket big and wide. Sotto voce: "I know. I know your face."
"You know my face? I know my face!"
"You from Ethiopia? What part Ethiopia you from? What tribe?"

I see the European couple shifting uneasily in the side seats above the middle wheels. I know what this all looks like. The impressively intimidating argument dominating the first half of the coach, bubbling chatter elsewhere, the Cobain lookalikes talking loudly in the back, a group of college girls going on about transcribing and transcriptions, various street guys peppering the room... and all of them in their own comfortable worlds, exclusive, uninviting to outsiders, not realizing they're forming a young couple's first impression of Seattle. A friend recently described to me her first impressions of the reality of American life as "uglier and scarier than anything [she] had imagined," and looking at the couple back there I get the sense they feel similarly. When you read a bunch of guidebooks warning about the dangers of travel in strange new cities, and then find yourself in this environment at this time of night, yes, the mind does wander....

For me the scene is different. I know the Cobain kids and the street guys. They're fine. And East African immigrants in their forties and fifties don't get in physical fights. They just don't. I let their argument play out, fascinated. The Seahawks man really is from Ethiopia. He speaks some language samples and specifies a few words and locations. All is well.

At Roanoke the European girl comes forward, followed by her boy. We're two stops away.
"Hi," I say to her. "I think I can take you closer. Almost there!"
"Oh, okay!"
"I did not forget about you!"
She smiles the warm smile of relief, the enveloping feel of safety coming back. Acceptance.
"Is it a restaurant, or a house?"
"It's a house."
"Oh good. Yes, we are very close."
The boyfriend pipes up: "finally, someone in Seattle is nice!"
"Oh no! Oh, no!"
"Yes, everyone has been so unfriendly,"
"Oh, I'm sorry! Welcome to Seattle!" Waving my arm in the air.
"Thank you! Now we feel welcome!"
"Where are you visiting from?"
"Germany!"
"Oh great! Which city?"
"Frankfurt!"
"Excellent. I have three weeks in January and I'm trying to decide where to go, I want to go somewhere in Europe...."
She says, "you can stay at our house anytime!"
"You're so nice, thank you! So here's your stop, and Allison street is right behind us...."
"Thank you! Thank you. You're such a wonderful person!"

I'm surprised at their initial impression of Seattle, and can't help but reflect how just a few interactions can shape one's view of an entire city, especially when that's all you have to go off of. There are always friends, even in the furthest corners. I hope the rest of your trip is terrific. 

Soon Mr. Phawk You deboards, singing a very different song as he leaves the bus– it's as if he's undergone a positive mental bath of sorts: "Thank you, my brother!"
"Thank you, my friend! I'll see you again!"

I will see him again, in about an hour. Everything will be fine.

"Don't get on!" says the other driver to the passengers. She's brought me her bus at the end of her shift, for me to take over instead of continuing with my own broken bus. A coach change, as it's called. "Should I let 'em on?" she asks me, as I get my things from the broken bus and prepare to board the new one.
"Oh, sure."
"Okay, you can get on!" she hollers, leaving with the defective coach shortly thereafter. I saunter onto the new coach with the last few straggling passengers. The interior lights are turned off, and it's dark tonight. Everything's pitch black, save for the subdued orange glow from the sodium vapor lamps outside.

"What d'you think," I say to the crowd inside, "should we have the lights on or lights off?"
"Off!"
"You want 'em off?"
"Yeah!"
"Say you want 'em off?"
"Yeah!"
"Good! Me too!" I say as we get in gear, driving the 7 into downtown in 'stealth mode.' "May as well make it interesting."

"I like it like dis," says an older gentleman up front, dressed in a sports jacket and shades. I've never not seen him wearing shades. "Yeah, man. It makes everything kinda sexy!" He drawls out the last two words for maximum effect, to agreeable giggles all around. Kiiiinda seeexehh.

"You should do radio," I tell him. "You got the voice!" He and others nearby continue chatting, brought together by the anomalous situation of Stealth Mode. The people seem unusually excited by my willingness to bend the rules– not a big surprise, I suppose, but this isn't the same as letting people ride free or get transfers. The thrill has a different root. 

They're not benefitting in any way. 

Tonight there is simply the innocent excitement of doing things a little differently, of getting to be here for this moment, unlikely to be repeated. Those parts of life you tell your friends about, and you can tell it doesn't quite translate; maybe the ephemeral joy was too small, too precious, not quantifiable enough to be a story. But you were there, and it was kind of wonderful. The street woman in the chat seat thanking me now for being "awesome" is referring, I think, to the sense of equality she feels, the easy willingness of me to engage the crowd as a friend, not an authority figure. It's not really the lights. It's her and I joking around, the latent respect, unspoken but real, friends leaning back on the front porch chairs. Do you ever get that sensation of the yearning for belonging satisfied, an acceptance that sends tingles down your spine?

Passengers get on as we continue through town as a 49. Some are nonplussed. Others get revitalized, echoes of playground excitement on their faces. The hipsters try not to act surprised; others actually don't seem to notice, which makes me smile even wider. The street folk are delighted– lights off plays a little better to the 7 crowd than the 49 crowd, but we're all into it. I make an informational announcement in any event, just to let these new people know that I'm actually sane.

"Just want to let you know we've got the lights off tonight," I say, trying to figure out on the fly how I'm going to explain this. "When we were on the 7 part of the route some of us thought it would be, uh, 'kind of cool,' to turn off the lights... of course let me know if you want the lights on again, I'm happy to turn the lights on... welcome aboard the 49, everyone...."

Photo by Chad Solomon.

Thank you, friends, for making that opening such a wonderful event! I was babbling to you wonderful people without a pause from the moment I walked in the door until after the place had closed! I couldn't ask for more. Time is such a rare commodity; thank you for choosing to spend some of it with me.

Did you miss the opening? You might think you did, but wait! 

There are two more receptions– a second reception on Thursday, October 16th, from 6pm-9, and a Closing reception on November 20th, also a Thursday, from 6pm-9. I'll be there at those times for both dates. The shows line up with Georgetown's Third Thursday art walk, and there's a lot of galleries inside Seattle Design Center (including COCA!) besides my show! Come check it all out!

Details, dates and directions can be found here.

Hope to see you there! Show details, directions and more here.