I'm helping a young black American family with the wheelchair seat at Fifth and Jackson. He's carrying laundry in tattered oversized Target plastic shopping bags. She's got her baby in one arm and a stroller in the other. I get out of the seat and make room for them, lifting up a chair or two in the front area. They're my buddies. I'm used to such textures on the 7, of life lived check to check, dirty clothes and smiles, relaxed standards for rules and language– it's a vernacular one gets comfortable with, but from the outside I imagine it can seem pretty uninviting. As I walk back up a young Chinese man by the front doors asks if I go downtown. 

"We are downtown," I say. "Where downtown do you want to go?"
"Um. Uh." He motions for a young woman of thirty and her father to come over, at which point he vanishes.
"Come on in, come on in," I say to them in an impatient tone, thoughtlessly, hurrying them up. Why was I so concerned about making the light? What an unnecessary way to think!
"Hi," I say to her. "Where do you want to go?"

She and her father are Chinese too, very clean-cut. They're both crisply dressed, she in shades of cream, he in gray and blue, and they possess that distinctly Asian quality of demure, professional politeness. I'm reminded of my relatives. Not only are these two definitely not from around here, and lost on top of that, but they're clearly very much out of their depth on this bus and its distinctive milieu.

In a labored accent she asks, "do you go to 6th Street?"
"I go to 6th Avenue...where on 6th Avenue do you want?"
"Um, the Sheraton?"
"Come on in," I say in a friendlier voice, trying to mitigate my tone from earlier. "Do you know where on 6th Avenue that is?"
"It's on 6th avenue...."
"Do you have an address? It's a long street."
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." 

She's stressed but quiet, looking it up on her phone. "It's so hard to take a cab here."
"Yes." I feel bad for rushing them– for how it makes them feel, but also for how it makes me feel. Out of character.
"I'm sorry," she says again as she waits for her phone. 
"Maig wun tshee," I reply. No problem.
"You speak Chinese!"
"Just a little!" Pause. "How is your day today?"
"It's fine. We are just lost."

We sort out where it is, and I tell them I'll let them know when we get there. Meanwhile, the bus fills up while emptying out, that glorious sensation you get on through-routes, where as you traverse downtown, there's a double load on the same bus: the crowd getting off from riding the 7, and the crowd getting on for the 49. A humming bustle of activity. I think about how they must be seeing all this, taking it in for the first time. This will live as part of their memory of Seattle. This crowd, and myself, represent Seattle for them right now. I should've been nicer when they got on, I'm thinking. We visited Seattle and were lost and uncomfortable, and the bus driver was in a hurry and didn't seem to want to help.... How boring. How predictable. I make a point of making it a good ride through town. Throw all your energy into it, and don't worry about having energy for later– that'll come of its own accord, compounded on the good time you're having now. Do it like there's nothing between you and death except this ride. Shouldn't I at least try to make this the best bus trip they'll ever have in Seattle?

I put an extra pizzazz into the announcements, letting the enthusiasm grow and build, greeting everyone with focus, waving big at the other drivers, feeding off their energetic responses. Leave the stress behind. There's more to you than that. We weave up Third Avenue, smooth, and I use the mic to keep people informed of the locations, the time, the turns, and underneath it all, my gratitude and enthusiasm at being here. Hyper-present. 

At 4th & Pike I stand up, blocking the incoming masses, getting their attention again– "So this'll be the one for you!"
"Oh, thank you," she says. "Let's go out the back," she motions to her father.
"Oh, come on up it's okay, I'll show you which way to go."

After explaining how to get to the Sheraton, I say, "welcome to Seattle!"
"Thank you!"
"Thank you! Tsai-chiyen!" Goodbye!
"Tsai-chiyen!"

Her demure smile expands richly, ebulliently, eyes lighting with recognition at hearing her native language. There she is. I miss the traffic light and am glad for it. A few more runners make the bus, and this is good. Let me flow with the people, not against them. I watch the pair cross the street, daughter and father. They're looking up now, in a direction I can't see, marveling at the city. No longer lost, they can pay attention to their surroundings in a different way. They tarry on their walk without a care, taking everything in, feeling comfortable now that they know where they're going. Acceptance. I tap the horn as I drive past. She looks over just in time to see my big wave.

They stand together and apart, in amiable silence. Looming off to the side, a benevolent spectre at the far end of the field, are the banner years, stenciled proudly on the side wall. Home of the Vikings, it reads, in a font from another time.

On the astroturf the players run and run again, combinations of yellow and orange ever circling, hot uniform colors against deep green, pushing that ball up the yard lines, pushing and following it, teenage boys moving in and out of focus. They rest with hands on hips during the corner kicks.

I'm watching from the sidewalk. The spectators, players, their families and the rest make up the half-full crowd, mostly here for each other, a low-stakes game early in the season. I feel transported, looking about at the vivid primary colors; everyone here is East African. The African-Americans and Asians walk by, uninterested. Clearly they don't know what they're missing. When I'm in countries new to me, it's the commonalities underneath the superficial differences which warm my heart. A friend once told me, "no matter who's in front of you, whatever emotional state they're in, you have felt the seed of that emotion also."

Today I'm drawn in by the atmosphere. They say French films are consistently good because they so ably capture and explore the commonplace, and it's the relaxed, ordinary-day ambience of this game which grabs me. Somebody else's normalcy- what could be more interesting? 

Fathers and their friends stand on the sidelines, dressed in kanzus or Ethiopian dashikis. Dad's wearing sunglasses, talking business on the phone, like you or me. Here's the security guard making his rounds, trying to be serious. Scattered respectful clapping from the audience. Players on the bench watch the field, tracking the ball with steady eyes. The bench has several risers, and the boys sprawl out on different levels, some sitting back on the ground, sharing time in comfortable, focused silence, speaking English when they feel like it. You get the sense of skill being casually celebrated, taken in stride, weeks of hard practice finding voice in that one block or kick, acknowledged by your peers with a respectful upward nod. The gesture is small, but means a lot.

Sideline chat builds and subsides till the whistle blows, marking the end of first half. The water bottles and phones come out, spit on the field, girlfriends and friends descending from the stands. Toddlers on the track, players practicing for fun, somebody jogging in place on the sidelines; little mini-worlds all over the field. Sounds carry further in the summertime. 

Dad is off the phone now. Several feet away, behind him, are two of his friends, slightly older.  He sees them and does a little victory dance, hands in the air and hips swinging, with some serious western-style booty-shaking to close it off. Really getting into it. In his traditional clothing and refined appearance this hedonistic display is totally unexpected. His friends laugh hard, one making a dismissive but affectionate hand wave, as in, "get outta here!"

Soon it's time to resume the game. The players come together for the huddle, breaking after a team shout containing multiple languages. They argue over an offsides call; they cheer for an exceptional kick; lighthearted grey clouds watch from overhead all the while. Somebody trips and falls. A player from the opposing team helps him up. There's a nod of thanks between the two, and they're casually moving on now, part of it all. The gesture is small, but it means a lot.

A Native man, older, moves up to the front as the crowd thins out.
"How's your day goin'?"
"Oh, great," he says as he plops down in the chat seat. "I saw the parade last night."
"Yeah? How was it?"
"It was beautiful. So much to look at, so much to see. I saw the people with their tricks and floats, the cops with their trick horses. People doin' their tricks. Fire, bowling pins."
"Uh-huh."

"But you know what I really saw, was I saw the people, watching the performers, and for a minute there, no matter what race, or color, or age, or background, they were all one people, watching together. Whether they were black, white, or native, we were one people." A wistful edge to his voice. Sounds right up my alley.
"I'm so glad you got to see that, and you put it very well. You describe it perfectly." I'm reminded of Norman Rockwell's later work, the socially conscious stuff art critics often forget he did. "I didnt get to see it myself, but I drove them home, and it was just as you say, everyone united in feelin' good, kids with balloons, you know."

"Yeah, I really love this city." Earlier he'd explained how he's new here, exploring, down from Alaska.  "My wife and I are thinking about moving here for a year. I want to explore all this city has to offer."
"Oh yeah do it! I love this place. the longer I'm here, the more I like it. I'm from California." The neighborhoods are so distinct from one another, I tell him enthusiastically. I talk about how Seattle seems to reveal itself in phases, layers peeling away to reveal people and places you didn't realize were always there. I remember doing a project at school on Rainier Valley, and none of the educated college hipsters in my class had ever even heard of the place, despite its prodigious size and its bustling labyrinth of ever-churning life. And they felt they were generally well-versed in knowing Seattle. I hope they learn of its treasures in time. There's more to the city than Capitol HIll and the U-District! 

"So this is sort of the main drag, and then over here is where you can catch the 44," I say as we arrive at 45th and the Ave. He'd been looking for a place to catch the 44 that was conducive to people-watching. The stops on 15th were "way too boring," and this seemed like a better bet. We shake hands. He is Glen. "Nathan, that's a nice name. What is that, Old Testament, or New?"
"I think Old." 
"Yeah, he was friends with who, King Solomon, right?"
"Yeah, his advisor, something..."
"Yeah. Well, I might see you later. How late are you out?"
"Midnight or so." 
"Be careful drivin' tonight." With a wink he adds, "some of these guys drive like they're from California!" 

Just a reminder that YOU, dear reader, are invited to my latest show in Georgetown! Did you miss the opening last month? Did you miss the other Georgetown show earlier this year, or the Blindfold show? No biggie! That's what this show is for! Come on down, and we'll chat up a storm! See you Thursday!

Details and directions here.

I pull up to the Third and Pine island stop, outside McDonalds. We're in the vortex, the nerve center. Every major city has an intersection like this, but few are as colorfully and ferociously egalitarian. Class and status groups rub shoulders an onion-skin hairsbreadth from each other, a melting pot bubbling high, just this side of boiling over.... You feel as if the intersection is so stuffed with humanity it can hardly contain all it carries on its stage. The scattered crowds jaywalk with aplomb, and somehow this is oddly appropriate: isn't this after all the human organism unrestrained, unfettered, a swimming morass of stories and lives, and how could all that be held back by something as artless as a colored light? 

You have the commuters, dressed for the office, the market, or outdoor labor, adding a sense of purpose to the undulating horde. Tourists alongside amble and sashay, stargazing in their fanny packs and visors, short-sleeved eddies in a stream of locals. Canvassers fight to get a word in edgewise, using friendliness or guilt; thumpers and witnesses vie for attention, preaching their brand of judgment. Figures on the ground all the while, with scraps and guarded eyes, they were like you once. 

The police presence highlights the more explicitly nefarious chicanery, but happening simultaneously are more discreet shenanigans– look for the high-class call girls, once an hour or every two hours, passing through the crowd to that elegant side doorway you've never noticed before, each time with a new client. 

Right over here, where we are, is the infamous southeast corner. It's a 24-hour institution, the fellows who hang around. Some aren't even interested in drugs, but ah yes, some so definitely are. Supplies and demand wax and wane continuously all day, with various illegal goods and services becoming available at different times. The hoodlums, dealers, dopers, users, laggers, burnouts, hopheads, pushers, Sampsons, cookers, daddies, fences, hangers-on; aspiring deliquents with their heads in the clouds, people doing things in the shadowy recesses I've never even thought of. Faces in the dark like Francis Bacon. You're reminded of the diabolical corners of a Bosch or a Gustave Dore. 

Some call Third and Pine the Blade; others the Hive; or simply McDonalds, giving that innocuous company name completely new meaning. I call it the Center of the Universe. That there aren't serious crimes happening constantly here is a testament to all the people. The Scientologists are more likely to interrupt your day than the hardened– and usually fairly distracted– folks at the corner.

Then there are the homeless and low-income, not to be confused with the buyers and sellers. If those were the will-nots, these are the have-nots, and though they might be indistinguishable visually, or may once have very well been the same, their aims couldn't be more opposed. The grammar of these lives is different. Let us not prejudge these folks trying to get a leg up in life, rushing for buses to appointments and interviews, meeting their case managers, their minds trafficking in the whirlwind blur of waiting lists, shelters, social service calls, deadlines and dwindling dollar amounts, work release programs.... Their hustle is the harder one, with higher stakes.

Tonight a boisterous group of African-American men is in the island stop shelter, huddled around playing dice, their culture's answer to a cluster of old Chinese surrounding a game of Mahjong. I tap the horn and one steps out of the road and back on to the sidewalk, consumed in the game. Another steps onboard, still enthralled, yelling through the windows, "That ain't money! Those are coins! Are you serious?"

I'm pulling slowly forward, preparing for the famous left turn on Third. This has to be done at a snail's pace. I love it. The bus in slow motion as people dash out, wander out, saunter– the speed and alternating paces of a dream. 

You're enormous but precise, slower than walking speed, a blue whale in a school of fish as the crowd swims past. Everybody's watching. There are surprisingly few deaths each year at this, the jaywalking capital of the world. Because you expect it. Behind me now people are shouting on the McDonalds corner. I ignore it, thinking I'm no Looky-Loo, but wait, it's building to a crescendo, people shrieking, clumps of groups glancing at each other. Are they yelling at me? 

Then, louder than ever, I hear, "WASSUP! AY! AY!"
I turn my head all the way back. We're in the middle of the intersection, inching forward, starting to turn the wheel.

That's not a brawl breaking out. It's Sho Luv, hollering a warm hello at me, overwhelmed with goodwill. Absolutely beaming. Next to him are a couple other brothas, one watching me and smiling.
From the bus window I extend my arm, bellowing, "HEYYY! HOW'S IT GOING? MISTER SHO LUV!"
I think he said, "Sho Luv in da house!" Those gold teeth flashing brighter than ever, reflecting off the sodum vapor lamps, blowing up the orange night.
"Iss a pleasure!" I howl.
"Das mah boyee!" I hear him hollering into the night, as I drive away.

What stayed with me most about the interaction was not Sho Luv himself, but that young man next to him, his friend or whoever it was, the kid who was watching. He was unsure what was going on, curious as to my response, and then thrilled at my excitement. I saw the man just long enough to see the smile forming on his face. What a beautiful light. Two different worlds met in that greeting, and instead of a collision, he saw a warm glow. His world got a little bigger in that moment.

Two girls are getting on at southbound Dearborn, early college maybe, coming aboard in handfuls, pulling their luggage behind and beside them. Together they form an impression of primary colors, a rush of straps and travel and quickly brushed hair, shoes built for walking. The one is asking for Mount Baker Station, no doubt interested in Sea-Tac.

As they walk down the aisle I ask, "are you about to go on a big adventure, or coming back from one?"
"We just came from a big adventure, Seattle was our adventure!"
"Oh how fantastic!"

They decide to sit up front, continuing the conversation. "Hope you guys had a good time here," I ask.
"We did!"
"Thanks for bringing the sunshine!"
"And now we're taking it away!" 
"It's okay, I'm willing to deal!"
The clouds had just returned. The two of them are effervescent, with wide smiles and sparkling eyes, that natural excitement which comes easily to the youthful of any age.

"How long have you been driving a bus?" the second girl asks. They speak together as one, alternately answering or listening; clearly friends for years.
"Seven years," I reply.
"Oh. that's a long time."
"I loooove it."
"Really!"
"Getting to talk to people all the time, to provide this elemental need of transport, to help peop- you know how when somebody needs help, and you're able to help them, and they feel great, and you get this altruistic high of well-being?"
"I know exactly!"
"Oh it feels so great, spreading that good energy. Getting to hang out with all these folks I would never ordinarily get to hang out with.... So I see you're flying out on a Saturday!"
"Yeah,"
"Which I think is great. It's cheaper for sure,"
"Oh, yeah,"
"Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday seem to be the best. I go to LA a lot, and it's all about Tuesday through Saturday. Doesn't cost ANYthing,"
"Why do you go to LA?"
"I have some good friends down there. It's my hometown. Where are you going back to?"
"Columbus, Ohio," says the one.
"And I'm going to North Carolina," says the other.
"Just a hop skip and a jump away!"
"Yeah, shouting distance, you know!"
"North Carolina, excellent. By Durham?"
"Close." She explains a town I haven't heard of in the vicinity. "About twenty miles away."
"I've never gone out there."
"You should come!"
"And Columbus, Ohio, where I have also never been."
"You should come!" says the other girl, in laughing repetition.
"So many new places to add to my already long list of places to travel! Now, how is it that you two know each other if you're from completely different places?"
The answer involves particulars of going to school together, one formerly living in Ohio, and so on. They explain the banalities with a bubbly energy we all seem to be building together. You know that sensation, talking to someone new at the party about hardly anything at all, but you're both so excited.

"I have a question!" I suddenly say.
"Yes!"
"Were people in Seattle friendly?"
"Yes!"
"Oh good. The answer to that question seems to vary dramatically depending on where people are coming from I think."
"Oh yeah, people were great. well, not everybody, of course. but yeah. You're friendly!"
"Aw!" Brief pause. "Did you have a favorite thing you saw or did here?"
"Just up the street here, on Rainier, we went to Humble Pie. It was the best! We went there four times in two weeks!"
"Oh my goodness, I've been there zero times in fifteen years! Clearly you guys have the jump on me!"
"You've gotta go! What's your favorite thing in Seattle?"

Thinking on my feet, fishing for an answer– "Oh my oh my hmm, that would take too long to answer, there's just so much! My mind is going crazy just trying to think of an answer!" Pause. They wait for me to come up with something. 
"Right here, right now, driving the bus," I say finally. What else is there, after all, besides the present?
"Really?!?!"
"Yeah, seriously! This is my favorite route."
"The 7?"
"Yeah."
"It's the only one we took."
"Well, if you were gonna take just one route, this one would be it! It's the most popular one, and it goes through Columbia City, which is the most diverse zip code in the United States." 
"Oh wow!"
"Yeah, that's why it's my favorite." That and a host of other reasons, but I'll spare them the details....
"Awesome!"
"So here's Mount Baker, on the right, and over there well, you can see the stairs,"
"What's your name?"
"Nathan. And yours?"
"Laura."
"Azalia," says the other.
"Cool name!" 
"Thanks!"
"Have a really great rest of your shift!"

A Latino man stands and comes up to the front. Baseball hat and black work clothes, a jacket flung over his shoulder. I'm not sure how much English he speaks, but I decide to engage him as well; being silent after all that chatter with the girls would be its own statement, and too easily misinterpreted negatively.

"How's your night going?"
"Good! How about you?"
"Great. Good people,"
"Yeah, I saw you talking to those nice girls!"
"I like talking to people."
"I work at a resaurant too,"
"Oh, you understand! It's the same!"
"Yeah, it's the same. It makes the day exciting."
"To hear their stories, listen to all these different lives, be part of it...."
"Yes!"

The solidarity I felt in the short interaction with him was just as satisfying as the chat with the ladies. They were enjoying being privy to something new to them, but Latino and I were sharing in something we both already know we love. Joy, expressed and explored in different ways. I drove away through the dark overhanging trees at Walden, thinking, it really is true. For this moment, right now, being lucky enough to be driving this 7 down Rainier Avenue really is my favorite thing in Seattle. Yes, you can call me crazy!