Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’, keep this Douggie rollin’…
Rollin’ we were, on the northbound #128 bus. The afternoon’s destination was a sandwich at Husky Deli, as attempted but failed a week or so ago. The sandwich was a sandwich, but most of the story is the ride.
There are certain secret rules to public transit, and the rule I’d forgotten was: Avoid riding between 8-9AM or 3:30-4:30 PM on weekdays, or you’ll be riding with high school kids.
At about 4:00, twenty teenagers were waiting at 16th & Thistle, which is easy walking distance from Chief Sealth High School. Our bus, which had been half-full, was suddenly full-full, and some loud kids settled into a few seats behind me.
I lifted my backpack onto my lap, to let one of the quieter loud kids sit next to me, and inwardly I was thankful that even the loudest of this high school crowd wasn’t really loud. They were loud by human standards — talking loud, laughing loud, occasional loud vulgarities — but they weren’t particularly loud by adolescent standards.
The bus cuts across Forest Lawn Cemetery, then works its way onto California Avenue, and it’s certainly not an express ride, so I had 15 minutes of high school rowdiness in my ear.
And then, a few blocks from the turn to Alaska Junction, where I’d be stepping off, a 40-something white man in the front-right sideways seat stood up, and shouted loud enough for everyone on the bus and on the sidewalk to hear: “Driver, I want you to throw that high school girl off the bus!” He pointed at someone behind me, and announced, “She’s being very insulting to a couple of boys around her!”
At this I cocked my head like Lassie. I’d been paying no attention to the kids, trying to block them out of my ears, but 50 years ago, I was a high school boy who was often insulted, threatened, or beaten up by fellow students. If anything like that had been happening on the bus, even now it would’ve pierced my obliviousness and I would’ve noticed.
The girl he was yelling and pointing at, seated two or three rows behind me, immediately shouted back at him. “What the FUCK you talking ’bout, Willis!”
The man up front shouted back at her, “I saw it all, I was looking and listening, and it was reprehensible!”
“Yeah!? You’re what, 50 years old? Maybe you shouldn’t be watching a high school girl quite so closely!”
He ignored the implications of that, and shouted a line often heard on my rides: “Sound Transit does not tolerate harassment!” That’s the beginning of a recorded announcement played often and tediously over the public address at any stop on the light rail, and often on the rail cars themselves, but the rail system is Sound Transit, and our bus was Metro Transit — a different agency, which never makes that announcement. The driver explained this to the loudmouth, but otherwise had no reaction to any of this. He sees it all every day, and kept driving.
“Fuck you!” the girl behind me shouted, and I was proud of our public education system.
“I heard and saw you harassing those boys!”
“Oh yeah,” she shouted, “you’re way up at the front of the bus, but you can see and hear everything that happens back at the back!” The distance between them was 40 feet or so.
We were a block before my stop, I’d already rung the bell, but I pondered joining the argument.
On this same bus route a couple of weeks ago, there’d been another loud, rude argument, and thinking about it afterwards, I’d decided I should’ve spoken up. Since then, I’ve been trying to rejigger my mindset, from being only a passenger and observer, to being mentally ready to do or say the right thing, if the right thing needs doing or saying.
Sizing up the situation, though, I decided there was nothing I could do or say to improve what was happening. The girl behind me wasn’t merely defending herself adequately, she was winning the argument. Even as I reached my do-nothing decision, she hollered, “You’re nothing but an old pervert, watching me since I got on the bus, and you won’t like what happens if you try following me home!”
Not sure I’ve ever used so many exclamation points in a single post, but they’re all verbatim.
The bus pulled into its stop on Alaska Street, and I stepped off. The girl had been behind me, so I’d never seen her, and from the sidewalk, I took a look inside the back of the bus, trying to find her, but nope. There were so many people standing on the bus that I couldn’t see or say whether she was black, white, Asian, native, skinny, fat, goth, disabled, or geek. You’ll have to fill in the details yourself, but I would’ve shot her a thumbs up if I could’ve ID’d her, and she had not been hassling any of the other kids.
Husky Deli is half a block down California Ave, and it’s a genuine deli, not a convenience store that makes sandwiches. “Family owned and operated since 1932,” it has ample shelf space dedicated to exotic mustards and pickles and sauces, unusual condiments and crackers, etc.
They make their own ice cream, too, and sell it by the cone, pint, or half-gallon. I’d come for a sandwich, though, and overcome by an odd moment of healthy thinking, I decided not to buy ice cream.
Looking later at their website’s long list of flavors, I regret that healthy choice, and wish I’d bought a pint of Swiss chocolate orange and another pint of banana split.
The deli’s sandwich menu is on a chalk board over the workers’ heads, and it’s about a thousand words of small print, listing and describing dozens of choices. That morning, though, I’d taken a long bus ride to a museum, then spent a few hours walking around pretending to have culture. This sandwich run was the end of a long day, so when the woman at the counter seemed ready to take my order, I said nicely, “I’m tuckered and the menu is too tiny to read. Just make me a ham and cheese sandwich, please.”
After saying it, I thought it might’ve sounded mean, but she didn’t complain or seem offended, and asked only, “On a baguette?”
“Sure,” said I, and apologized with a fivespot in the tip jar.
The sandwich took a few minutes to prepare, time I spent wandering the store. Bought an unusual candy bar, imported from England, I think, and ate dessert before the meal. It was Cadbury, and very good.
There are about twenty stools to choose from, and when my sandwich was ready, I settled onto one with a view of pedestrians and traffic out the window.
The ham & cheese was adequate, but a little stingy on the ham, and too cheesy. Maybe that’s because I’d ordered “off menu” instead of choosing one of their ham-centric recipes, which include the “Nick & Nora,” “Black Forest,” or a ham salad.
The real problem was the sandwich’s fiercely stubborn bread. I couldn’t bite through it, and ended up gnawing at it like a dog with a rubber toy. My teeth are lousy, several are missing, so this is sometimes a problem, but even by my dental standards, the sandwich was very difficult. Must’ve burned 50 calories just grinding my way through the bun.
Benefit of the doubt, though: It was 4:30 in the afternoon. If Husky Deli bakes or takes delivery of bread only once daily, then my baguette was 10-12 hours old. When I come back for the ice cream, and I will, I’ll come earlier, try a sandwich again, and maybe it won’t fight me so much.
Husky Delicatessen
4721 California Ave SW, Seattle WA (West Seattle)
Food & drink: OK
Price: OK
Service: good
Transit: #C, #22, #50, #57, #128, #773
Verdict: YES, if you have a good dental plan.
11/3/2024
itsdougholland.com
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