ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN DAY

It was Anything Can Happen Day.  I was on the 12 Sandy bus instead of the 75 Lombard-St. John's, in the afternoon instead of 7 a.m.  I had just passed a state insurance license exam, which had been on my to-do list for many months, so I was riding the crest of an accomplishment wave on my beast of metal, glass and rubber.

Also riding my beast:  across from my mid-bus aisle seat, a woman in big headphones played a movie on a tablet. The sound track suddenly poured into the bus -- music, dialogue, effects: the works.  Heads turned, muttering comments.

She was absorbed, blithely innocent of the aural trespass.

The driver jumped in through the intercom.  "Please turn down the volume!  You are playing your device too loud!"

She didn't respond.  That was my cue.  I reached over and tapped the woman's arm.

Her face said, "What?" and I pointed at my ear and her device and mouthed "Too loud."

Her face said, "You are a lone oversensitive nuisance and I'm going to ignore you," but I gestured sweepingly, to indicate "everyone" and mouthed "We're all listening."

She took off the headphones.  The sound still filled the bus.  Glances came at her.  Her face said, "This is not what I expected."

I said, "We can all hear your movie."

She turned it off with some exasperated lip English.

Then, saying her first words, which I couldn't understand, the woman held out the headphones, inviting me to partake.

I may have laughed at her.  I know I shook my head "No" several times. 


A few minutes later on the Max train, I caught a whiff of something troublesome. I was guessing, but I'm very familiar with a revulsion that sometimes hit like a heavyweight when I was jobless for a year. It went bone deep.  And now it was nearby again.

Of ten people in my line of sight, all were male, one a boy of 11 or 12, two men of 45 or older and the rest between 18 and 40.  Six of the seven young men were wearing T-shirts or sweatshirts and jeans, shorts, or baggy pants.  Six wore running or gym shoes.  One or two of these were neat and clean enough that it's conceivable, barely, that they were on the way to work.

In other words, at least half of the adult males riding with me on a Monday afternoon in April were not working.  Nor were they looking for work, I guarantee you.  I have to guess that they were hanging out.  They were enjoying life.  As riders boarded and left, there was one constant:  half of the men of working age were doing as little as possible.  Most of them had a mobile device but not a single one was reading.

Does this seem about right?  Five of ten men who are out of the house and not at work are slacking?  If they were working, they wouldn't be riding the train, would they? (Answer:  No, they'd be working.)  Any one of them could be on vacation, having a day off, taking it easy.

Oh, hell.  Why not?  Why am I judging? Mid-day is a good time to be out doing as little as possible, especially in this fine, fine weather. I try not to judge, but sometimes I'll glance around the library thinking "At least all these homeless folks are trying to learn something."  The thought just happens.

Never mind.  I passed my insurance exam.  I helped a lady on the bus.  The world and the day are big enough to hold a worker like me and -- whatever those guys are doing, too.  Bless them. 

BEHIND THE MASK

I think I’m a little autistic.  This might explain why, at the Hollywood Transit Center platform, I was watching the highway traffic - and enjoying it.  In that spot, nothing but the Max tracks and a short wall separates you from the river of cars.  The river was flowing freely this morning, and the air was cool, and payday is getting close.  The blur of racing metal was soothing. 

When a Max train pulled in, I looked into it and saw a row of somber faces.  All but two or three riders were interacting with their devices.  I think I look like they do when I’m ill, or after a bad argument – not too often, I think.  Not every day. Do I?

Why, in a time when you can immediately get and hear and see anything in the world on your mobile device, is the result a peanut gallery of blahs and blues?  Laurel and Hardy movies, symphonies, brilliant lectures, a conversation with a friend on the other side of the world – all of these are at our fingertips.  The ride to work can be a vacation, an escape from the crushing blankness, if that’s what’s bothering you, Bunky.

Instead, my esteemed fellow riders appear to endure a circle of hell reserved for bad party guests, doomed to listen to white noise on their earbuds forever.  But I’m interpreting the facial expressions and body language of strangers.  They’re in a setting where they’re inclined to express as little as possible.  No doubt my insight is mostly fantasy. 

Inside the train, looking around again, I don’t believe this.  A couple is laughing.  Joking with each other.  Breaking all the morning Max rules.  How bizarre!  But they’re not really a couple – an old white guy in mud spattered overalls and a middle aged Latina in office clothes.

Hold on.  What in the name of Holy St. Michael?  Now what?  The world’s been turned upside down, there’s another odd couple, laughing it up.  Where am I?  Two couples laughing.  The hair on my neck is bristling.  Now the couples are taking turns.  This couple laughs.  That couple laughs.  

I’m sweating.  Are we in a nightclub?  We’re in a nightclub, that’s it, a floating nightclub, way, way after hours.

Breathe.  Slow down.  The truth will come through.  There it is now.  Between bouts of hilarity the masks appear.  The protection. The farmer is Grim Acceptance, his girlfriend is Resignation, and the other couple is Exhaustion and Discomfort.  So, all is well. 

Soon they all calmed down and I calmed down and we rejoined the rest of us, saving ourselves for the important day ahead. 

A big fella snored, loudly and too quickly.  That's more like it. An emergency nap, for sure, and  a tough log he was sawing.  His head fell back and his chest heaved with a sharp jerk on each breath as if he were climbing at 10,000 feet.  It’s a good thing he was lying down.  Every minute or so his eyes would open, he'd snort and instantly drop back into the nod. 

The rest of us kindly let him have his restless rest. 

The train plunged into the Sunset Tunnel.  The small lights on the tunnel wall were blipping by, lulling me.   

I’m drawn to it, the reliable, steady stream of lights.  Yeah, maybe I’m a little autistic. 

SAFETY AND COMFORT

I was riding the 75 northbound, north of Sandy Boulevard around 8:30 on a weekday evening. Three or four other riders were scattered around the bus. A group of high school kids got on. Some of them sat in front, on the Honored Citizen benches. The rest, standing up, had a quiet discussion. They were looking my way, but not at me. I heard one of the boys say to one of the girls, “Is that him?” The girl nodded her head.

The boy who had asked the question walked very seriously back towards me, two other boys following him. He ignored me, stopping in the aisle to face a man sitting directly behind me, on the bench opposite the door. The other two boys took their places on either side of this great leader.

These young men were dressed as if coming from a special event, or from a private school: business casual shirts and pants with a belt, dark shoes and plain jackets. I was half expecting a pitch for Jehova's Witnesses. and half expecting trouble. I turned to watch.

The leader spoke. “Are you a stalker?”

The man glanced up, held the kid's stare for a second and went back to his newspaper. He was maybe 55 years old, thin and tall. His clothes could have come from the same Sears where the boys got theirs, but from the blue collar aisle instead of the white collar aisle.

“I'm talking to you. Were you stalking that girl?”

The man looked up, an inoffensive smile pasted on his face. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

The boy looked down the aisle at his other friends. “Is this the guy?” I counted two girls and two boys, all watching intently. One of the girls nodded.

“My friend says you were stalking her.”

The man continued to smile and hold the boy's glare. He shook his head and went back to the paper.

“Look at me. I'm talking to you.”

No response.

“Are you afraid?”

I was beginning to feel nervous. The boys were not quite full grown, but big enough together to hurt this guy – or me, for that matter. I thought that if they suddenly got physical, then I would jump in to break it up. I didn't speak up, obviously, because I was not the one in their sights and didn't want to get in line for a beating, if that was where this was headed. The kids up front were glancing around nervously, too. And what was up with the driver, who was silent?

The leader sat down. “I'm just gonna wait here until you get off. And then we'll settle this outside.”

He sat, smiling, while his henchboys continued to stand.

A few seconds later, one of the boys in front called back. “They want to get off.” He meant the girls. The leader immediately stood up and jabbed a finger at the man, “I'll see you again,” and as the bus stopped, he spit on him. He and the lieutenants got off the back, but before the door could close he turned and yelled (what else?) “Fuck you.”

Now the driver's voice came over the intercom. “Sir, are you all right? We are here to ensure that you have a safe and comfortable ride. Intimidation and threats and physical confrontation are not allowed on TriMet. Have you felt threatened at any time, sir?"

I turned around to the man. He still wore the bland smile, which was turned on me. He got up and talked with the driver. The driver asked him some questions. The man was saying, “No. . . I don't know. . . . I have no idea.” He came back to his seat, still smiling, strangely unaffected.

I said to him, “Those kids had you in their sights.”

He shrugged. “I didn't do anything,” as if that were a guarantee that everything would be okay.

I said, “Did you really have no idea what they were talking about?”

“None.”

The driver made another short speech on behalf of TriMet about safety and comfort. He said none of us should ever hesitate to report a problem to the driver.

As I was getting off, I asked the driver if he was aware of the encounter while it was taking place. He said he was, but he couldn't do anything unless someone touched someone else or made an overt threat. I thought the body language was about as overt as could be and told him so. He said yes, he saw that.

He then said, “Some drivers are cowards and will do nothing in a situation like this. I was ready to stop the bus, and I have made a call to TriMet security.”

So, yeah, the driver probably did his job well enough, and the victim's neutral behavior may have kept things from escalating. But nothing has been resolved. If the man and the kids meet again, the threat will still be there.

HOLLYWOOD STYLE

Many posts here recount moments on TriMet that were dark, or at least twilit.  A few, however, glimmer happiness, or at least amusement.  The following is a repost of an entry from 2011.  It did not take place on TriMet or at a bus stop, but on a detour during the commute home -- close enough!

I hit the Hollywood Trader Joe’s at least once a week. T.J.’s has deals, like $2.99 for a bottle of drinkable wine or a can of organic beans for $.69. (My family is as organic as a benzene ring.) And the store is on the way home.

One dark, wet, cold evening, I was in my T.J.’s, loading up. Into the shopping cart went deals on two pounds of organic, fair trade coffee for about $12, a couple of chocolate bars for under $2 each, a bunch of (organic) bananas, and a few jars of (organic) tomato sauce.

The store, which is always either busy, or some level of busier than busy, was busier than usual. Carts were jammed in every aisle. Despite the usual friendly efficiency of the employees, eternity gained ground. Lines got snaky long.

At last, my turn came. The cashier rang up $22 and change. I slid my debit card. Tick tick tick -- the moment got snaky long.

“No, it’s not working. Please slide it again.”

I slid it. Tick tick tick.

“I’m sorry, it’s disapproved. Showing insufficient funds. You can try it again, as credit.”

Only midly surprised, I slid it again.

“No, sir. It’s not approving.”

All right. I probably sighed loudly. I asked the cashier if she would keep the bag of groceries at the checkout for a moment. She nodded and turned to the next customer.

I sat down on a kid-size bench kept near the front door. I pulled out my phone and tried to reach my wife to have her move some money over, which would take no time, problem solved. But she didn’t answer.

After a couple of tries, I looked up. A woman I didn’t know was standing there, smiling warmly and fanning some currency at me.

She said, “Here, let me take care of your groceries.”

“No,” I replied politely but with some force. “No thanks. You’re very kind, but I’ve got it handled. Thanks.”

She went away. I tried again to reach my wife, while entertaining resentful thoughts, like “I’ve got a job,” “I’m not at the end of my resources,” and “Do I look like I need a handout?” Again the electronic connection failed to materialize.

There was nothing to do but leave. I zipped up my jacket tooth by tooth, pulled my hat down and adjusted it, over the left ear, over the right ear, took my gloves from my jacket pockets one at a time. But the call did not come.

Then the cashier was coming at me. She had a bag of groceries, which she set down at my feet. I could see my tomato sauce and bananas.

I said, “Did that woman pay for these?”

“Yep. She said to pay it forward.'”

The angel was still at the checkout; I caught her at the door and thanked her.

“Enjoy,” she said pleasantly, without slowing down.

“Do you want to exchange names?” 

“No," she said over her shoulder, "just pay it forward.”

THE END

YET ANOTHER

Some days, much like walking down Dr. Seuss's Mulberry Street, there's nothing new under the TriMet fluorescents.  Today was like that.  On the morning commute, it was one "yet another" after another.

I took note of yet another:

• foreign-born individual watching a news show on a phone in a language I didn't recognize.
• woman dressed like she's going to a folk festival (electric blue and white sneakers, turquoise knee socks, a multi-colored peasant dress, pure white jacket and straw fedora.
• teenager sucking down a 20 oz. Starbuck's -- maybe a mocha, judging from the whipped cream on his chin.
• music fan bopping so hard to the sounds in his earbuds he takes up a seat-and-a-half.
• woman well over six feet tall.
• woman tweezing her eyebrows.*
• rider looking at me as if I were an alien, ghost, zombie or long-lost twin.
• rider I've seen whose blank demeanor never changes.  Today, for the first time, he seems to notice his surroundings. 

  And yet another picturesque crossing of the Steel Bridge -

  overcast, lights twinkling, shadows drifting in the river.

• unfortunate smoker standing outside a building, looking every bit as cool as he hoped he'd look back when he tried his first cigarette.
• week-old beard.
• black jacket.
• rider wearing a picture I.D.proudly hung around her neck like an Olympic medal.
• old man holding a hand-carved staff topped by a (carved) owl, and wearing a bowling shirt.
• 400-lb. individual overflowing from a wheelchair.
• bike rider who could have bought a car for the amount of money that went into the bike, accessories and clothing.
• guy from Intel (I.D. hung around his neck) playing on a laptop, apparently able to connect to the Internet in the middle of the Sunset tunnel (?)
• woman doing her best to look like a teenage boy.

And finally, yet another blog post posted. 

* Rouge, eye shadow and lips followed.  She finished with a lip smack, a cosmetic kit clack and a mask of satisfaction.

Passing the Day Away

I ran into a friend on the morning 75 and we caught up for 10 minutes.  She’s working intermittently, as a project manager through a consulting company.  In both of her necks of the woods – software projects at large organizations and social justice work – money is tight.  But she's working today, and seemed optimistic.

She got off at Lloyd Center.  Miles went by and I suddenly noticed that we were on 5^th Avenue – dang it, I got on the Green Line – and I had to get off to catch a Blue or Red Max at Pioneer Square.

Often, there’s an event going on at the Square; that morning it was quiet.  I was looking around at the big buildings and imagining the waves of human intelligence and labor that created a city:  those who were stunned, flung and crushed by Progress, those who swam confidently into the warm waters of the middle class or better, and the few stars who had surfed the American Dream, doing tricks and gaining glory as they went. 

Two men stood in front of the ticket machine, talking.  One was tall, bony and worn.  The other, small, plastered in Army camouflage, held a $5 bill in one hand.  He looked up at the tall man, and the way he extended his neck up and out to make eye contact reminded me of a pet turtle. 

Tall One was showing a TriMet day pass and saying “Five dollars.”  I could hear the rural accent immediately. 

He continued, “Help a homeless feller out.  Look, it’s the genuine article.” 

The Turtle took the day pass, looked it over and gave it back, saying, “I’m sorry, I just don’t know.  I’ve got to get to work and I can’t take any chances.” 

I tried to intervene.  It so happened I had a book of day passes with me.  I showed the Turtle.  

 “See.  Same thing.”  But he turned away and used the machine. 

Tall Guy looked around.  What could I do?  I had a five, which I exchanged for his day ticket. 

The Tall Guy was gone and ankling down the street so quick I had to check the gray market day pass against my genuine article for signs of counterfeit. 

But it was good.  

COFFEE POWER

Sometimes riders show up whose suffering is beyond what one should have to bear. For instance:

A garbled human exclamation pierces the train behind me, loud enough to make me jump.  A moment later, it happens again.  It is unhappy.  The sound repeats and repeats. It is like coughing and talking at the same time, and doing both badly.  I turn to see.  The vocalizations are coming from a person in a wheelchair.  I can only see the back of his balding head.  No one is acknowledging him.

Tourette's maybe?  Choking?

As the man continues in this way, I get up and walk to a seat past him from where I can see if he actually needs help.  He is wearing only light clothes, though the temperature is close to freezing.  The clothes are old and dirty.  He is shivering violently and coughing.  He is a portrait of misery.

There is a big sleeping bag on the seat behind him, which slips to the floor and alarms him.  He yells what sounds like "Please help me."

I jump up to put the bag back on the seat but a woman who is sitting closer to the man beats me to it.

At least, I think, he's not being ignored.  I sit and resume my role of secret gawker.

A minute later he's calling out.  "Otter!  Otter!"

Sitting between the man and me are a woman and two men who've been talking with one another and are also carrying sleeping bags. The woman turns to the man in the wheelchair and says "You need water?"

He shakes his head "Yes."  I have none.  There's some head shaking from a few other passengers. But the woman offers him her paper cup of coffee, which he takes.  "Thank you," he says distinctly, and he visibly relaxes.

His shivering lessens.  After a moment he says, pretty clearly, "Green Line?"

The woman says, "No, this is the Blue Line.  You'll have to get out and go back to the Rose Garden to catch the Green Line."

When he doesn't get out at the next stop, she reminds him that he's got to get off the train and go back the other way.

He nods and says, "Too cold." 

She says, "That's all right, baby, you'll get there."