At the Burien Transit Center, a bum was asleep on the concrete. As is the way in our failing society, everyone ignored him. For me, it was: Sleep well, stranger, but I’m not going to bend over and tap a sleeping bum on the shoulder to make sure you’re OK.

The station is usually staffed with several security guards who have little to do, and three of them approached the bum on the concrete. I was afraid they’d hassle him, or otherwise make the scene uglier than it was, but they spoke softly, woke him politely, helped him to his feet, and got him positioned sitting on a bench like a normal human.

One of the guards even said, “Would you like a Coke, man?” He wasn’t holding a can, but I don’t think the offer was a lie. Maybe he had a Coke in his lunch bag.

Doesn’t matter, because the bum said “No, thanks,” and after a few last words the guards walked away. Police were not dispatched.

All this is as it should be. Well, not the bum sleeping on the concrete, but the guards being decent, helpful, civilized, and not unnecessarily cruel. I’d say the cliché, It restored my faith in humanity, but I lack any faith to be restored.

When my bus came, the bum rose to his feet and got onto the same bus. He sat a few rows in front of me, fell asleep by the second stop, and slept all the way to my stop and beyond.

♦ ♦ ♦

Another day at the same bus station, I was waiting for the RapidRide #F. Fifteen feet from me was the door to the Throne™, the high-tech toilet you can’t use unless you have a smart phone and send a text to company headquarters in Guam or whatever, to open the door.

A middle-aged white guy was standing outside the Throne™, looking at the instructions and monkeying with his phone, trying to get in. After a minute of muttering he said, “Well, I just don’t get it.” He fussed with his phone for another minute, and the door whooshed open. “About fuckin’ time,” he said, and walked into the swanky john.

That’s another reason I won’t use the Throne™. I’m old, and when I gotta go, I gotta go. If I’d spent as much time as that guy spent, typing numbers into my phone hoping for permission to pee, the pee would’ve been squirting out of me while I held the phone.

Inside the Throne™, the man looked left, then right, then back at the door, which was still open. “Well, how do you close—” and at that moment the door whooshed shut.

Ten seconds later, it whooshed open again. The guy had his back to me, standing at the toilet and obviously peeing or about to. “Christ on a corn cob!” he shouted, and dozens of people at the transit center looked at that guy’s backside, as the door whooshed shut again.

After ten more seconds closed, the door opened for ten seconds, then closed for ten seconds. On its third opening, the man ran out, tossing a few profanities as the door whooshed shut again.

“I recommend the bushes,” I said, pointing at my usual pee spot. The man crossed the asphalt toward the shrubs, and the door continued opening and closing until my bus came.

♦ ♦ ♦

Another day at the Burien Transit Center, I was waiting for another bus. Nearby, four security guards were standing together, but only two of them were doing all the talking. They weren’t quite arguing, just disagreeing enthusiastically.

“It’s policy!” said one of the guards, a 40-something white woman.

She was talking to another guard, a 40-something black man, who said, “But people are people. You can’t expect them to—”

“But it’s policy!” said the lady, like that line was the last word on whatever’s the subject.

As I continued eavesdropping, it became clear that the subject was something the black guard had done, or rather, hadn’t done. He’d scolded somebody but let them walk away, when by policy, what the perp had done was supposed to merit calling the cops.

I did not, from their conversation, figure out what the perp had done, sorry.

“He was having a bad day, that’s all. Calling the cops would’ve made it a way bigger deal that it was.”

“But it’s policy!” said the lady guard.

At the time, I thought she was the boss, but thinking back, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t. If she was the boss, it would’ve been a write-up, not a conversation. My guess now, a week later, is that she has seniority, or she’s the foreman or whatever — sorta the boss, but not really. Which is probably a good thing. You never want the hardass “It’s policy!” person as your boss.

The almost-argument ended when the black guard laughed and said, “You should’ve been a lawyer — you love to argue!”

“Well, yeah, I do,” the woman said, and laughed herself. “But it’s policy!”

8/18/2026

Transit Takes

itsdougholland.com
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