I was going to just simply list everyone that boarded the bus this morning, by naming them: Freckular Kid, Too Old to Wear His Hat That Way Guy, No Need For That Jacket Dude, etc. But my morning was overshadowed by two gentlemen returning downtown after visiting the plasma donation center in Ballard.
Eavesdropping is more art than science, although these two sat right across the aisle from me, so I couldn't have ignored them if I tried. Even so, you can't appear to be actively listening to someone's conversation, even if that someone is two loudmouth low-lifes on a bus.
After sitting down, they began commiserating about how the new phlebotomist at the clinic had apparently been quite inept, and had to stick one of them several times before getting it right.
"Man, after the first time, she shoulda just given you your forty bucks and let you go!" They discussed this injustice for quite a while before moving on to the importance of having sour cream when preparing tacos.
"Did you get shells?"
"Yeah man, I got shells."
"Did you get sour cream?"
"Awe shit man, I forgot sour cream!"
"Man you gotta have sour cream if you're makin' tacos." Both nod in agreement.
Later subjects ranged from where to find the best deals on drugs in the area,
"Sometimes those natives in the park will really hook you up." To how hard it would be to fist fight a certain butch lesbian they both know. All much to the chagrin of the two girls in front of me.
These two had no shame in being middle-aged grown men, still residing at institutional living facilities, suckling at the teat of liberal society. The fact that they had spent their morning giving blood for drug money didn't stop them from being indignant about the level of care provided them by the state.
"I hate it when I go to the food bank, and they don't have the shit I want. That pisses me off." End quote.
I don't like it when people make me think like a conservative. It's distasteful.
Friday, October 28, 2011
"Day 2 Home"
Not much to report on the ride home. Fairly subdued crowd. As the bus was pulling up, some guy tried asking me to trade cash for some bus vouchers. I told him I used a pass. Almost no seats, but I found one next to some crusty old security guard. I'm not sure who or what this guy was protecting, but he fumbled for his phone and dropped it, struggling for a minute to reach, until I got down on my knees to fetch it for him.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
White Dreadlock Guy kept peering around the bus, scanning for someone he knew - or he could have been looking for somewhere to shower - I doubt it.
Kind of a lively bunch in the back for awhile. They were all laughing and talking, but you could tell they weren't all together in a group; probably just common riders that see each other regularly.
Greasy Grandpa alerted some lady that she was leaving her bag behind, and Well-Dressed Hipster Kid gave the bus crowd a parting look as if to say,
"Farewell commuters, until tomorrow."
The air of community on these bus lines is amazing. Truly disparate groups of people, commonly linked by travel method. There is no judgement, truly, for if there was, the system wouldn't work. Civility and respect, and almost without exception each passenger greets the driver upon entering and thanks him when they leave. The drivers vary themselves to a great degree. Men, women, quiet, gregarious. Some are very helpful, calling the main stops out as the bus approaches. The driver yesterday put out so much information over the P.A. that it felt much like a flight being addressed by the captain.
I like this city. I like the bus.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
White Dreadlock Guy kept peering around the bus, scanning for someone he knew - or he could have been looking for somewhere to shower - I doubt it.
Kind of a lively bunch in the back for awhile. They were all laughing and talking, but you could tell they weren't all together in a group; probably just common riders that see each other regularly.
Greasy Grandpa alerted some lady that she was leaving her bag behind, and Well-Dressed Hipster Kid gave the bus crowd a parting look as if to say,
"Farewell commuters, until tomorrow."
The air of community on these bus lines is amazing. Truly disparate groups of people, commonly linked by travel method. There is no judgement, truly, for if there was, the system wouldn't work. Civility and respect, and almost without exception each passenger greets the driver upon entering and thanks him when they leave. The drivers vary themselves to a great degree. Men, women, quiet, gregarious. Some are very helpful, calling the main stops out as the bus approaches. The driver yesterday put out so much information over the P.A. that it felt much like a flight being addressed by the captain.
I like this city. I like the bus.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
"The Ride Home and Day 2"
I don't know that I'll catch the bus home at 6:30 again. I think I'll try a later bus. Last night was crowded at the stop downtown. The Pike Street stop must hub a dozen or more lines. I waited through what seemed like every other bus number but mine, and finally took another line that went to my neighborhood.
There were no seats when I got on, and stood until about Queen Anne. After some seats opened up, I sat across from some punk rock kid with an hasidic haircut, nodding out on his grocery bag of crap, fingers swollen from all the shit mixed in with the smack he's shooting, that his liver can't process.
The woman in front of him is complaining into her phone about not being able to find her bus pass. Loud enough for the driver to hear, maybe as a little 'heads up' for the confrontation to come.
On Market Street, a couple of large Hispanic gentlemen board, and upon sitting, one of them starts passing out small caramel candies, one to the hasidic junkie and a couple to the Asian cats across the aisle. Thank yous, and everybody eats. It occurs to me at this moment that this is a very Seattle happening that I am witness to. In L.A. cholos aren't big on handing out candy, and even if they were, I'm not sure anyone would eat it. I almost felt left out.
I trudged up the hill home, already thinking about the morning ride.
In the morning, I ran, showered, and was at the stop by 9:30. After two look-alike women passengers boarded - on different consecutive stops - a girl in the back started singing. Not to herself, or even just to her friends, but as if to the whole bus. She wasn't 'bad' but it was still just weird. It made me wonder about people that seem to seek attention in public situations. Nothing wrong with it I guess, and on some level I appreciate the confidence it shows. Still, weird.
After the kid next to me left, an older woman, with a growth on her neck, and gray chin whiskers that would have made a China man jealous, sat in his place. A couple of stops later, she started to mumble, I thought just to herself. A little ways into her monologue, I distinctly heard her whisper,
"...in case you didn't know that; although I have no business talking to strangers." I tried to pay attention after that, but I think she saw me listening and lowered her voice even more.
Off at Pike, walk to work, hoping I didn't get much crazy on me.
There were no seats when I got on, and stood until about Queen Anne. After some seats opened up, I sat across from some punk rock kid with an hasidic haircut, nodding out on his grocery bag of crap, fingers swollen from all the shit mixed in with the smack he's shooting, that his liver can't process.
The woman in front of him is complaining into her phone about not being able to find her bus pass. Loud enough for the driver to hear, maybe as a little 'heads up' for the confrontation to come.
On Market Street, a couple of large Hispanic gentlemen board, and upon sitting, one of them starts passing out small caramel candies, one to the hasidic junkie and a couple to the Asian cats across the aisle. Thank yous, and everybody eats. It occurs to me at this moment that this is a very Seattle happening that I am witness to. In L.A. cholos aren't big on handing out candy, and even if they were, I'm not sure anyone would eat it. I almost felt left out.
I trudged up the hill home, already thinking about the morning ride.
In the morning, I ran, showered, and was at the stop by 9:30. After two look-alike women passengers boarded - on different consecutive stops - a girl in the back started singing. Not to herself, or even just to her friends, but as if to the whole bus. She wasn't 'bad' but it was still just weird. It made me wonder about people that seem to seek attention in public situations. Nothing wrong with it I guess, and on some level I appreciate the confidence it shows. Still, weird.
After the kid next to me left, an older woman, with a growth on her neck, and gray chin whiskers that would have made a China man jealous, sat in his place. A couple of stops later, she started to mumble, I thought just to herself. A little ways into her monologue, I distinctly heard her whisper,
"...in case you didn't know that; although I have no business talking to strangers." I tried to pay attention after that, but I think she saw me listening and lowered her voice even more.
Off at Pike, walk to work, hoping I didn't get much crazy on me.
"First Ride"
I rode the bus today. Not something I'm wont to do usually, but necessity is the mother of adventure. Or stepmother, whatever. If asked, I'd probably say I'd rather take out my own liver with a dull grapefruit spoon, than ride public transit with the unwashed masses; but, for better or worse, I started my three month journey with all the good humor I could muster, I thermos full of coffee, my book, an Ipod, and a willing spirit.
The stop by my house is two blocks away and at the end of the line. When I got on, there was only one other person beside me and the driver. I fiddled with the idea of reading or listening to the radio, but decided instead to bear witness to the cross-section of society that would be accompanying me to downtown.
This is Seattle, not L.A. so the quality of riders is noticeably better here. Skinny hipster dudes with scraggy beards and Chrome bags, cute little northwestern girl commuters with their knee-high boots, awkward student types and the like. And then, there were the interesting people, the stand outs.
In Crown Hill the bus stopped at 70th and opened it's doors. After what seemed like a long pause, I see a handled cooking pot crest the handrail, followed by the neck of an old guitar. The Che sticker on the back of the guitar was only slightly less worn than the guitar's owner. Clad in a red beanie, three hoodies, a jacket, and a beard that looked as if it used to just be a moustache, but had lingered long enough to grow into its own entity; was a street performer of considerable age and questionable ability.
"Can you get me home?" He said, in an almost unintelligible raspy voice, and sat down without even an attempt at payment. The bus driver closed the door and pulled away from the curb. It had taken quite a bit of effort to climb the three steps up into the bus, and so he rested for a moment before painfully fumbling through an assortment of scrap paper, finally selecting a particular shred to show to the driver. The driver waved him off, and let him ride, probably more out of pity than whatever had been on the waded piece of garbage he had to show him.
The unmistakable sound of no more than two or three dimes, rattled around inside of his pot as he settled in. He sat in the first seat by the door, pulled his hoodie over his eyes, and napped, mouth agape. 'Home' turned out to be another bus stop in Queen Anne, and I watched briefly as he set up for his afternoon show.
A few stops later, as the bus was getting ready to pull away from the curb after letting some people off, there came some frantic calls from behind.
"Wait bus!"
"Wait bus!"
"Wait bus!" The last few calls coming only inches from the door, although just as loud as the first. Scrambling up the steps clambered an obese but jovial man with a racquetball in hand. After paying and sitting in the same seat previously occupied by crusty guitar player, he stared out the window, smiling and using his racquetball as a sort of 'viewfinder' focusing in on this and that. His smile faded as his gaze turned towards me, and slowly lowered his racquetball, as if I was displeased with his actions. Of course, I wasn't, and was also a little hurt that the mere sight of me was enough to sully the mood of this otherwise gregarious soul. I attempted a smile back, but it was a little too little, a little too late.
I exited the bus at Pike Street, amid faux gangsters, office types, and homeless wanderers. I made my way to work, wondering what characters the evening trip might bring.
The stop by my house is two blocks away and at the end of the line. When I got on, there was only one other person beside me and the driver. I fiddled with the idea of reading or listening to the radio, but decided instead to bear witness to the cross-section of society that would be accompanying me to downtown.
This is Seattle, not L.A. so the quality of riders is noticeably better here. Skinny hipster dudes with scraggy beards and Chrome bags, cute little northwestern girl commuters with their knee-high boots, awkward student types and the like. And then, there were the interesting people, the stand outs.
In Crown Hill the bus stopped at 70th and opened it's doors. After what seemed like a long pause, I see a handled cooking pot crest the handrail, followed by the neck of an old guitar. The Che sticker on the back of the guitar was only slightly less worn than the guitar's owner. Clad in a red beanie, three hoodies, a jacket, and a beard that looked as if it used to just be a moustache, but had lingered long enough to grow into its own entity; was a street performer of considerable age and questionable ability.
"Can you get me home?" He said, in an almost unintelligible raspy voice, and sat down without even an attempt at payment. The bus driver closed the door and pulled away from the curb. It had taken quite a bit of effort to climb the three steps up into the bus, and so he rested for a moment before painfully fumbling through an assortment of scrap paper, finally selecting a particular shred to show to the driver. The driver waved him off, and let him ride, probably more out of pity than whatever had been on the waded piece of garbage he had to show him.
The unmistakable sound of no more than two or three dimes, rattled around inside of his pot as he settled in. He sat in the first seat by the door, pulled his hoodie over his eyes, and napped, mouth agape. 'Home' turned out to be another bus stop in Queen Anne, and I watched briefly as he set up for his afternoon show.
A few stops later, as the bus was getting ready to pull away from the curb after letting some people off, there came some frantic calls from behind.
"Wait bus!"
"Wait bus!"
"Wait bus!" The last few calls coming only inches from the door, although just as loud as the first. Scrambling up the steps clambered an obese but jovial man with a racquetball in hand. After paying and sitting in the same seat previously occupied by crusty guitar player, he stared out the window, smiling and using his racquetball as a sort of 'viewfinder' focusing in on this and that. His smile faded as his gaze turned towards me, and slowly lowered his racquetball, as if I was displeased with his actions. Of course, I wasn't, and was also a little hurt that the mere sight of me was enough to sully the mood of this otherwise gregarious soul. I attempted a smile back, but it was a little too little, a little too late.
I exited the bus at Pike Street, amid faux gangsters, office types, and homeless wanderers. I made my way to work, wondering what characters the evening trip might bring.
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