Something Surprising

This was on the 72 bus, on the way out of Lake City a few years ago. I was sitting behind a woman in her late-twenties, wearing khaki pants and a black, collared shirt. It was morning. A drunk man in ratty clothes plopped next to her, with a clumsy force. His breath reeked of alcohol, I could smell it from my seat.

"Tell me something surprising," he said to her, sipping from a bottle masked by a paper bag. "I know everything about you already. No way yer gonna tell me something that surprises me."

"You don't know anything about me," she said, without looking up. He said, "Prove it. Tell me something I don't know."

"I don't have to prove anything to you," she said matter-of-factly, and even turned the page as if she'd been reading the whole time. He said, "I know your type. I know everything."

She lifted the paperback closer to her face in fake concentration. He said, "You only read on the bus, right? And you buy those shitty paperbacks cuz you want somethin' light and fluffy on the way to work. Something with a lot of dialogue. Because yer job is stressful and you want to relax. And you buy the large print editions because regular-sized words give you motion sickness, right? And you work downtown. But not in an office. You serve coffee, or food or something."

"You're just drawing conclusions," she said quickly, with a tension that seemed to suggest he was probably right about more than one of his observations. "That's not everything." He took another drink and looked the other way for a second. Then he said, "What else is there?" This seemed to make her very upset, and when she grabbed the cord to request a stop, she pulled harder than necessary.

"This isn't your stop, but you're getting off anyway. Cuz I'm gettin' under yer skin," he said, taking another sip. She exhaled as she stood up. "You're right about that." He chuckled and said, "I was right about everything. You didn't tell me anything surprising."

Personality

I stalked onto the bus, annoyed that it was late. How can a bus be late on its second stop of the route, I wondered? I said a cursory hello to the bus driver and made my way to a seat.

As I picked a seat, the bus driver started singing loudly, in broken English, "She got per-son-al-i-ty, yes she does, she got PER-SON-AL-I-TY...."

Live Music

Coming home late one night from Fremont I caught the last 17 bus that would take me downtown. There were two young musicians sitting near the front of the bus. One was a tomboy with a round face, wearing a white button-up shirt and a tie. Her friend was a thin kid with long, greasy hair that seemed to tug on his features, making him look skinnier than he actually was. He had a ratty guitar case propped against the window with stickers that said, "Fragile." She had what looked to be a violin case. They were both around 17 years old.

She asked the bus driver if they could play a song on-board. "Metro policy says we can't play the radio. But they don't say anything about live music," the bus driver said jovially, and they immediately unlatched their instrument cases.

For the next several minutes the condos on Dexter Avenue and the industrial warehouses on Denny were set to an uptempo waltz. The violinist played confidently as her less virtuosic friend fumbled across the fret board to find chords that complimented her melody. There were maybe a dozen people on the bus, and had been all along, but suddenly I could feel everyone's presence. All moods had lifted, and we listened with half-smiles, welcoming the absurdity of the situation

The musicians didn't overstay their welcome - one song and it was over. We applauded and the violinist thanked the bus driver politely. "It's always been my dream to rock out on the bus," she confessed. "This was the cherry on top of an already great day."

She spent the rest of the trip downtown chatting with people on-board. There was a genuine sense of exhilaration about her that wasn't showy or self-serving. At one point, her friend the guitarist pointed a thumb behind his back, drawing the girl's attention to a couple cop cars flashing their lights on the side of the road. There was a cuffed man draped over the hood of one of the cars. Another one was propped up against the brick building, and he was screaming in anger.

The intensity of the flashing lights brought the mood of the bus down a little. Finally the violinist said something to her friend that I loved. "You know, for the few minutes that the Beatles played on the Ed Sullivan show, there was no reported crime in America."

Saturday November 10th, 2007

Here's one I posted on my blog a while back, but it's just as relevant here...

So I was coming back from Kirkland and there was a young man, probably about 22, on the bus. He was sitting in the far front of the seven and his eyes moved about like an insects. He was wearing tattered sweats and a hoodie that was missing the ends of the sleeves. He also was not wearing any shoes. This bus was packed mind you and I couldn't go passed the first 5 feet. So while we're traveling down Rainier this woman in a wheelchair, generally disheveled in appearance with long tangled hair, wearing a pair of corduroy pants with a white sweater (both of which looked like they recently survived a fire), then takes off her shoes and gives them to this boy. He looks at her blankly as she says "Try them on, they'll keep your feet warm" to which he just continues to stare at her. She repeats this 3 times before he puts the shoes, which are more like open heeled slippers on to his feet. I have never seen a human smile quite like that man did.

A Stormy Ride to the Game

So this particular story takes places on a stormy December day in 2006. It had been raining non stop for days it seemed. Urban flooding was rampant. Then to top it all off this Thursday the wind came in.
My brother and I were on our way to meet my sister and go to a Seahawk's game at Quest Field. We hoped on the route 21 right before the West Seattle bridge to a crowded bus of Hawks fans. I don't know how many of you have taken the bus to a Seahawk's game but it seems that everyone on the bus is excited and friendly, as was the case this day. We found a pair of seats in the back next to a very nice eldery couple decked out in blue fanfare.
As we begin to crawl up the on ramp to the bridge tragedy struck. Not more than 100 feet in front of us a tree comes crashing down from the adjacent hillside right in front of the bus and blocks the on ramp. Now it was getting dangerously close to kickoff and we were questioning if we'd make it to begin with. After about a minute of waiting I started looking around the bus. Everyone was nervous and angry. Then the driver came over the intercom and said, "Well it looks like we might be here for a while. The whole city is chaos and they don't know how soon they'll get out here."
No one wanted to miss the opening of the game. So I turned to my brother and some others around us and announced, "I don't know about you guys, but I'm not about to miss this game. Let's move the tree!" About 6 of us then mob to the front of the bus. The driver realizing that he can't stop us opened the doors immediately.
We all took the road and began disassembling the tree branch by branch. This was no easy task. Some of the branches were at least 9 inches in diameter, but the resolve of football fans should never be underestimated. In about 5 minutes we had the tree in pieces on the side of the road. The trunk was still protruding slightly in the roadway but not enough to further impede our advancement. We all returned to the bus, drenched and covered in foliage, to joyous cheers. We felt like a victorious army returning home.
Now is when things started to get very ugly. We departed the bus at first and Spokane to meet up with my sister. The rain was coming down unlike anything that I'd ever seen before. The Spokane street viaduct had essential become a giant waterfall on either side. Within moments we were all soaked to the bone. We fought to Busway and hopped on the 194. We reached Quest field just in time for the opening kick off and all was well.
It was about mid way through the second quarter when we started to hear a rising cheer behind us. It wasn't so out of the ordinary giving the setting, but I turned around to look what was up. Low and behold the elderly couple that was on the bus with us was about 4 rows behind us and had relayed the bus story to the surrounding fans, who were now giving us a standing ovation (or the football equivilant to).
Unfortunately this story doesn't have a happy ending. The Seahawks lost in a very close game. And when I woke up the next day most of the city was without power. But it was one hell of a bus ride.

Acid and Xanax

Overheard on the 150 on Bus Way:

"Ugh I can feel my fuckin face burning, I think that punk threw acid on my face. That's why I beat him down. I beat him so hard. I'ma tell the nurse at the clinic I think it's acid, it burns so bad," said a kid who couldn't have been older than 19.

"I'ma ask that nurse for some more Xanax," said his friend.

Get Off The Bus

One of my first bus experiences living in the city...I was a college freshman, working for the UW Daily newspaper, and had to ride downtown to cover some boring city council meeting.

Afterward, I was trying to figure out how to get home, feeling stressed and overwhelmed. I didn't know any of the bus routes, and stumbled on the first one that seemed vaguely familiar. I had no idea where I was.

"Does this go to the U-District?"

"Yep," said the driver, a surly looking guy with long dreadlocks. I showed him my U-Pass, which was supposed to give me a free ride on any bus, any time. "You know that's expired," he said.

He was right. I had forgotten to change the sticker for the new quarter of classes and had no money on me to pay the fare. Being inexperienced in the ways of Metro, I immediately started to panic.

"Oh, I'm sorry, um..." I gurgled

"GET OFF THE BUS!" He yelled.

I was mortified. All my words choked in my throat.

"...when we get to the U-District," he finished calmly, and started to drive away with a mild smirk on his face.

Ride Free

A crowded, sweaty #7 in August. The bus driver-cum-voice over actor gets on the mic and says in a proper voice "We are approaching the last stop in the free ride zone. Upon exiting the coach, the fare will be one disposable razor and a stick of deodorant."

Force of Habit

Years ago I shared a bus route with an elderly woman. It was a #5 from Northgate to Downtown Seattle and it passed by my stop a little after 8 am every morning. She would already be on-board, exactly three rows back - the window seat - on the right side of the aisle.

I sat next to her because the other window seats were taken, and since she was a tiny, thin woman, I never felt crowded. For the most part she sat perfectly still, slightly hunched over, never even looking up at me when I sat next to her. In fact, she moved so infrequently that when she did move, I would notice.

On our first ride together, I remember three distinct actions. First she adjusted her hat - a navy blue beret. At another moment, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small white piece of paper that looked like a receipt, glanced it over, then placed it back where she got it. Finally, she reached into the breast pocket of her jacket and pulled out a box of wintergreen Tic-Tacs, removed three and placed them in her mouth. Her movements all seemed slow and labored.

Of course, none of this was extraordinary until I started riding next to her on a regular basis. I soon realized she performed those three actions every single morning. The hat adjustment, the receipt, the Tic Tacs. Always in that order.

After several days, I discovered something else. These things were happening at the exact same places in the route. She adjusted her hat as the bus entered the Aurora bridge. When it stopped at Denny she'd pull out the receipt. On the corner of Downtown by Macy's she would eat the Tic-Tacs.

This lasted for maybe three weeks. I started waiting for her actions - snapping my finger at the moment they would take place. There was something so eerie and sad about these habitual acts, like she was sleepwalking. And then, one morning she wasn't on the bus, and I never saw her again.

A Kindred Spirit

Although not quite as interesting: http://seattletransitblog.com/

Christmas In July

I was riding the 150 to work. My bus driver was highly theatrical, and liked to announce details about each of his stops. This worked better in the bus tunnel, where he could announce Pike's Place Market, the Aquarium, Pioneer Square, but he ran out of material and grew quieter as we pushed south on Bus Way, south on I-5, towards the mall.

I'd almost fallen asleep when his voice came over the loud speaker: "Weeeeeelllll folks, if you'd please direct your attention to the right and you'll observe one of the most beautiful sights I have ever had the privilege to see - we're passing the bus before us. It's Christmas in July. Absolutely Christmas in July."

We rode past the 150 that was supposed to be 15 minutes before us, our bus driver chuckling and waving.

Stop Requested

So this is an oldie, but a goodie:

A few of us were waiting for the bus at 1st and Columbia, I believe on our way to Legend's for poker. We'd been imbibing a little at the Contour before hand and everyone was jolly when the 54 rolled up to the bus stop. Much to our enjoyment "Stop Requested" was driving the bus.
A little background on "Stop Requested". He's a tall (probably 6'6") African American man, who is just plain ripped. This man could probably tear a human being in half. However he is one of the nicest people I think I've ever met. I first encountered him on the 7, but he was then later spotted regularly on the 54/5 route. His claim to fame is that he will announce "Stop Requested!" anytime you pull the cord and the street name of pretty much every stop.
So as we're getting on the bus the driver was chowing down on some Chinese food. We thought it was a little strange, but hey a guys gotta eat. Everyone boards the bus and we proceed to the stop light before getting on the viaduct.
While we're waiting for the light to change he's trying to finish up his meal real quick, when a group of onlookers starts laughing from the sidewalk. So being the friendly man that he is, he opens up the front doors and engages them, "Hey what's so funny? I've got to eat. All these people need to get to where they're going. I don't think that they'd be too happy to wait on me. They're all just getting off work. They're tired and just want to get home. I'm not about to hold them up!" The original group of people and others passing by are now laughing hysterically along with the rest of the bus. Then the light changes, the driver stashes his food away and starts to turn onto the onramp, but not before announcing on the intercom "Wide right coming up people. Wide Right."
Maybe you had to be there, but this is quite possibly my favorite bus experience of all time.

The Crackhead and the Luxury Baby Carriage

It's a late night on the 7, just at the foot of downtown, 4th and Jackson. A woman with a baby carriage struggles her way on-board. She's wired and skinny, unsettlingly skeletal, with make-up smears on her face.

Her baby carriage is huge and boxy, covered by a canopy, and though it's nearly impossible to see inside, it looks like it's stuffed with blankets. The bus driver shoots up from his chair to help her pull the carriage up the stairs. Even with two people, it's a struggle.

She pays her toll and finds a seat up front, muttering to herself and scratching at her skinny arms. She yanks the baby carriage close to her knees as she sits, and whispers soothing sounds into the small opening. Even her soothing sounds are tense and awkward. "Just a few minutes and then we'll be home. Shhhh. There there. There there."

At this point, I'm thinking what everyone on-board must be thinking. "That poor child." Why was this tragic crackhead wheeling her infant around the streets of the International District in the middle of the night?

And then, the carriage starts to bark.

It's only a few short, chirping barks, and then I see a snout protrude through the small opening of the carriage. "Shhh. Just a few more stops. Shh." She's wheeling around a lapdog in this luxury carriage.

Over the course of the next two or three stops, a few straggling passengers trickle on-board. One of them is an older gentleman who sits across from the wiry woman as she fidgets in her seat, whispering into the carriage. I watch him as he thinks the same thing I originally thought. "That poor child."

At the next stop she gets off, and immediately struggles to pull the carriage down the steps. This time, the bus driver doesn't help, but the gentleman does. When he returns to his seat and the bus pulls away, the driver shoots the man a sideways glance and says, "You know, there was a dog in there."

"A dog? Are you freakin' kidding me?" the man said in between guffaws. "You take it out of that ridiculous carriage and it walks off the bus by its own damn self!"

I have never heard such raucous laughter on the bus. The whole front end erupted, and it lasted all the way uptown.

Election Day on the 7

I tried to face forward as a shrill white female voice chastised 3 immigrant men, probably from North Africa. The men were talking quickly in a mix of English and their native tongue about the presidential election, and their factual errors infuriated the woman.

Her voice pierced the funk of the 7 - "There IS no Queen of the White House!" and "I voted today, did you? Did you? Did you vote today?" The woman's every expostulation would merit giggles and whispering between the three men. I couldn't tell if they were baiting her or not.

I'd imagined the woman as a misplaced upper-crust middle-aged to older woman; when my curiosity got the better of me and I turned around, she was in her thirties, extremely pale, with black Ray-Ban shades and swathed in felted wool.

She looked extremely dissatisfied as the laughing men exited the bus on Rainier and Dearborn.