Numerous bus routes begin or end at the Burien Transit Center (BTC), and often I step off one bus there and onto another. It’s my transfer point to go downtown, or to the diner, or to visit my mom.
The only photos of BTC that I could find online are tidy and clean like a TV commercial, but there’s always litter, vomit, broken glass and broken souls.
Ordinary people wait for their buses there, and sub-ordinary people wait because waiting is all they have. With nowhere else to go, it’s at least shelter from Seattle’s rain.
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Walking from the grocery store to the bus depot one day last week, my steps were slow because it’s slightly uphill, so I stopped at the edge of the station, and put my bags down to catch my breath.
After a moment, came a cry that wasn’t quite a scream, but on the verge of it. “Aaah!” Then silence, then, “Aaah!” again, and then, “Get out of my head!”
The pleading came from a woman I hadn’t noticed, standing twenty feet from me. She was 30 or so, mildly ethnic but blonde. After “Get out of my head!” she was quiet again, and I sorta studied her from the side of my eyes, and decided she was cute.
Then I found a wall to lean on, to wait for my bus. Pillars blocked my view of her, but a few minutes later she said it again, “Aaah!” And I knew what was next..
“Get out of my head!”
The buses and depots always have crazies, so this was utterly ordinary. What struck me saddest is only that I’m so old, I don’t even notice an attractive blonde unless she acts nutty.
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Once upon a time, an employee sat behind an information window at the Burien Trancit Center. He or she was someone you could ask about the bus routes, or complain about a bum who’d been bothering you.
It must’ve been nice, having an employee watch over things, but the job of answering questions and listening to complaints was eliminated long ago. Only the window remains, papered over on the inside, and always locked.
High above the now-useless window, there’s a horizontal sheet of plexiglass that once kept people dry below, while they asked their questions. And on the skyward side of that overhang, is someone’s backpack.
The backpack has been up there for years. Presumably, bullies snatched it from someone, and tossed the backpack upward. The overhang is far too high for anyone to reach without a crane or a ladder, so the backpack stays.
How long has it been there, I wonder, and what’s inside? When I first noticed the backpack, circa 2022, it had slack, but now it’s bloated like an overstuffed pillow, as rainfall has swelled up whatever’s inside it. With more rain, followed by sunshine, maybe the backpack will burst.
Signs posted at the station and inside all the buses say, “If you see something, say something,” but such paranoid admonitions are only about finding an excuse to hassle the harmless. Year after year, the security guards don’t care about that now-permanent backpack, twenty feet above the concrete.
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Something else that seems to be forever is a line of graffiti on a wall at the BTC: “I really don’t like this atmosphere, seriously.”
It’s in small but legible lettering, on a corner of a station wall that’s frequently graffitied. All the other artwork and scrawlings get buried under fresh, bland paint once a month or so, or quicker if the graffiti is obscene. But not that one line.
Yesterday, there was a “wet paint” sign, all the graffiti gone, except there’s still, “I really don’t like this atmosphere, seriously.” Maybe it was written on the wall by one of the people paid to whitewash the graffiti. Or maybe the painters simply agree with the sentiment:
“I really don’t like this atmosphere, seriously.”
Cryptically brilliant, isn’t it? And it’s true, but to me “this atmosphere” means America, not just the bus station.
4/5/2024
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