Tag Archives: community

For better or worse, part III

For better: The 48, where everybody knows your name

On Friday, Chicklet and I traveled to the Eastside (48 + 545) to meet Bus Nerd for lunch. My parental leave is quickly dwindling, and we’re trying to get in all the family bonding time we can. I digress.

The 48 ride was one of those cool trips where it feels like you know everyone on the bus. We ran into my friend Paulette, whom I met several years ago (through Bus Nerd) on the 3. Actually, I originally met Paulette many years earlier, when I was still a child, because, as we discovered upon our second meeting on the 3, she knew my dad. Again, I digress.

Paulette is a teacher and a student, and she was on her way to the UW to make copies of some old bound issues of Labor’s Heritage, to do research for a class about education for revolution, or the revolution of education, or some equally cool subject.

I didn’t catch all of the details about her class because in the middle of our conversation, Sarah B, a woman I went to high school with, sat down next to us. Sarah was also on her way to the U, no doubt to work on her dissertation, so she can go ahead and knock out that PhD in environmental anthropology.

We all got to talking–about the sunny weather, the origins of Chicklet’s name, and Paulette’s blog (about local eating) for the Splendid Table.

I got so caught up in conversation that Chicklet and I missed our stop and had to backtrack a couple of blocks (in the sunshine!) to Montlake Freeway Station to catch our transfer.

For worse: Freeway station interrogation

Just as Chicklet and I had settled in on the bench to await the trusty 545, a rather odd man (there were no obvious outward signs of his oddness, but I have very sensitive insanedar, honed from a lifetime of bus riding) sat down next to us.

Odd Man: “Have you seen the 265?”
Bus Chick: “I’ve only been here a few minutes, but I haven’t seen it.”
OM: “But what time is it supposed to get here?”
BC, gesturing toward the enormous sign to our left: “Schedule’s right there.”
OM: “Yeah, but it doesn’t have the 265 on it.”

Having no more help to offer the man, I turned back to Chicklet.

OM: “Is that your only child?”
BC: “Yep.”

And then, with absolutely no transition, he followed with one of my favorite questions:

“Are you half black?”

Of course I could have (possibly should have) shut him down at that point, but I’m a curious person (though apparently not as curious as some), and I wanted to see where his questions were leading.

BC: “Yes, I am.”

He continued to ask (How many siblings do you have? Are your parents still married?) and I continued to answer, until he started asking too many questions about my mother’s death, and I decided I’d had enough.

BC: “These questions are a bit personal, wouldn’t you say?”
OM: “Oh yeah. I bet I’m the only one who’s asked you this stuff, huh?”

Not by a long shot, buddy. Not by a long shot.

Finally, the 255, arrived, (not the bus he’d asked about but apparently the one he decided to take) and he got up. As he waited in line to board, he turned to me one last time.

“Say, is your husband black or white?”

Bus to caucus

On Saturday, like many of our fellow Washingtonians, Bus Nerd and I attended our first caucus. It was Chicklet’s first caucus, too, but of course, pretty much everything she does is a first for her. I digress.

The caucus was held at T.T. Minor elementary, so we took the 48 (also known as my ride to everywhere) down to Union and walked the rest of the way there. (Note that we could have taken the 2 up the hill, had we been inclined to wait–or disinclined to walk.) The place was packed–with 100 people showing up just for our precinct, which is only one out of many in the district. I’m guessing there were a thousand people there.

I’ll spare you the details of the complete and utter chaos that ensued (we did manage to tally votes and elect delegates)–and my thoughts about how silly our electoral process is–and skip to the part about the bus: At least 10 people we had ridden the 48 with that afternoon participated in our precinct caucus, as well as many more people we had seen on buses around the neighborhood. We’d suspected our nearest neighbor of being a bus chick (more on the telltale signs in a future post), and it turns out we were right; she took the 48 to the caucus, too. One strikingly attractive middle-aged woman I’ve been seeing on the 27 for years (and sometimes on the 48, riding with a little boy I assume is her grandson), and on whom I have a little bus crush, was chosen to be one of our delegates. Now, I finally know her name, and I have an excuse to say hey (He-ey Georgiana!) if (when) I see her on a bus in the future.

Score one for the political process.

Still wondering

Tonight, on my 48 home from Montlake, there was a middle-aged man in the seat slightly behind me and to my right. He was on the phone with a loved one, telling the person in a strained voice not to worry, that he would make it home.

After he hung up, he began moaning softly, then loudly, and when I turned back to look at him, there were tears streaming down his face. He opened a can of something to drink (from my angle, I couldn’t see what it was) and continued to moan and cry.

The bus was rather empty, it being after 8:00 PM on a Friday, and I was one of only a few passengers near enough to this man to know anything was wrong. I turned again, trying to catch his eye, wondering if I should ask if he needed help.

But then, the bus arrived at my stop.

I got off.

On twentysomething men: volcanoes, hurricanes, and the breaking of things

I’m already home from the party, and the last bus hasn’t even left my brother’s street yet. Shoot, the second-to-last bus hasn’t even left. The party was fun, even though I was the only woman there for the first two hours. One of Jeremy’s friends (who also happens to be a bartender at Flying Fish) made a big tub of hurricane punch. I only had one cup, but that was enough to make me grateful for the designated driver (one of the may perks of the bus-chick lifestyle).

From left: Robbie (aka Caligula), Birfday boy (aka Saulty), Billy (aka Biker Boy), Dale (aka Hurricane Maker), and Marty (aka Pyromaniak)

At my transfer point on the way home, I met a guy named Archie. He was waiting for the 128 and wanted to know if I had seen it pass. I hadn’t. Archie took the opportunity to strike up a conversation, and, as is the custom of many people I meet at bus stops, he started with one of those questions. Despite this, and despite fact that he had a hard time keeping his eyes on mine, Archie’s cool people. He’s 25. He lives in White Center. He works construction. He likes music and really liked the Goapele song I downloaded yesterday and have been listening to on my Schmipod (aka affordable MP3 player that actually has a radio tuner) nonstop since.

When his bus finally came, Archie gave me a hug goodbye and suggested I write something about him. “Write about how I break it down,” he said.

And so, I am honoring that request, even though, to be quite honest, I am not sure exactly how Archie breaks it down. I do know this: He certainly knows how to make the time pass at a bus stop.