This took place on five different day, at three bus stops and on two bus rides…
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It was after dark, and a 30- or 40-year-old black woman was wandering near a bus stop, talking to herself about catfish. She wasn’t a complete mess, but nearly. Legs and arms, but no jacket, and it was windy and brisk.
Then she stopped under a streetlamp so’s I could see very clearly, as she put a thumb to her nose and did the old one-nostril blow, productively. Then she switched to the other nostril and blew again.
It’s disgusting, yes, but I do the same thing myself when my nose gets clogged. Hey, it’s Seattle in winter. Gets cold here, and noses run more reliably than the buses.
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There’s a scene similar to this in a movie I vaguely remember, but this was real life. Crossing a street to get to a bus stop, the air was filled with the whitest, blandest Jesus music, played way too loud and getting louder as I approached the bus stop. The annoying lyrics we all “He saved my soul” but sung with no soul at all, backed by a band that you’d mistake for the Archies.
When I came closer, the sound was revealed to be from an enormous 1990s boombox, lorded over by a black man of about 40 years, with an oversized afro and holding his hands in the air, the classic “Praise the Lord” pose.
As always, as all my life, I said nothing. What can you say? You can’t talk sense into the senseless, and in America it’s perfectly legal to blast Jesus rock at 99 decibels. I could’ve locked eyes with the guy and flipped him both my middle fingers, but he probably would’ve just turned the boombox louder.
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On a gray November day, my bus pulled over and a woman got aboard, 30, 35 or so, white, with green neon hair that had purple highlights matching her purple eyebrows. Also way too many face piercings, which for me is any facial piercings in excess of zero. But mostly what smacked me was her hair, and I loved it.
“Hello, hello, I love your hair!” I almost shouted as she walked toward me. At half my age I wouldn’t have said anything, fearing a compliment might seem like a pass and make her uncomfortable. Now I’m that harmless old fart in the tie-dye jacket, so there’s no worry. She said thanks and smiled and that was that.
The color wowed me so much that I not only jotted a few lines in my notebook to remind me to write what I just wrote, but I also wrote, “Dye job?” and circled it, to remind me to look into going green and purple myself. Then I’d be the old fat green-haired man instead of just the old fat man.
Later I looked into it, and no. It’s way too complicated. There’s chemicals, and stink, and wait half an hour and rinse, and you’ve stained the bathtub and floor and maybe stained your skin. I’ll continue with my all-natural crew-cut.
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Metro buses used to be diesel, but all the all-diesel buses have been retired. Now they run hybrid (diesel/electric) buses, and all-electric buses. Some of the electric buses are battery-powered, but the trolleys draw power through a spring-loaded pantograph on top of the bus, which connects to overhead wiring strung all along the route.
One fine day I wasn’t riding, but waiting at a stop, when a trolley bus approached, and its pantograph lost its connection to the power. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens. The pole came flopping down, and the bus immediately lost power and blocked traffic. I always enjoy the blocking-traffic part.
The driver put protective gloves on his hands, because it’s 5,000 volts or whatever, and then walked to the back of the bus to rejigger the poles. I watched, because there was nothing more interesting to watch, and the tech honestly is kinda cool — electric buses, since the 1940s!
Another bus was behind the disconnected bus, and couldn’t go around, so the two drivers waved at each other, and then the driver of the disconnected bus went to work, pulling down on the pantograph, then letting it spring up to make the connection.
There was the brief sparking sound that you hear, and then the driver screamed and collapsed to the ground. Holy shit, I thought, but almost immediately the driver stood up again, curtsied first to the other driver and then to me and the rest of the audience at the bus stop. Then he hopped back behind the wheel and rolled away.
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From a bus leaving the Tukwila bus station, I watched a very disheveled and decrepit white man, older than time itself, bent over by the utility boxes near the street.
He had his hand in the back of his pants, and it wasn’t a mystery what he was doing. Same as the nostril-blow lady a few clicks above, it’s something I do myself when it’s needed. He was wiping or re-wiping whatever was left behind.
My bus rolled away, but I’m sure his hand was about to emerge from his pants, holding a wad of something gray with a smear of something brown.
12/4/2024
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