tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34764405262218033352024-02-06T21:04:00.607-08:00Sardines Are Only Packed OnceRandom slices of Portland, Oregonnickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-46574794312316584372016-10-25T12:47:00.002-07:002016-10-25T12:47:21.327-07:00PATHOS IN PORTLANDI was coming from a job interview that had gone well, I thought. The job title is “eCom Content Researcher.” If hired, I'll be turning database gibberish into nice bullet points for a product catalog. Pay is not much, but after a lengthy purgatory of unemployment, any job that doesn't include a free meal of saturated fat and salt with each shift sounds like heaven to me. <br /><br />So I had a carefree bounce in my step as I strolled to the bus stop.<br /><br />The interview had happened in an office in the Eastbank Commerce Center on Water Street. This big old industrial building was originally the Auto Freight Transport Building, and the central east side hub for freight shipping. Now it's full of “creative” businesses – ad agencies, fashion designers and tech startups. The celebrated clarklewis restaurant fronts the building.<br /><br />Even while the area, inner Southeast Portland, booms, it remains home to many who do not share the wealth. On my walk I passed a dozen or more tents housing the unhoused, as well as doorway sleepers, shopping cart pushers and ghastly pedestrians sheathed in rags and filth. <br /><br />Next to the streetcar/ bus stop at Grand Street and Stark, an emaciated pair of street ghouls stood guard. Based on their predatory glances, I guessed them to be in the employ of Master Meth. <br /><br />An old man sat alone in the shelter, a cluster of stuffed bags at his feet. He looked at me, with too much interest, I thought, but who knows. I turned away to see that the streetcar was in sight. When I glanced back at the shelter, the old man was lying on the ground. <br /><br />His eyes were open and he seemed calm. <br /><br />I asked, “Are you okay?”<br /><br />“No,” he said. “I need help.”<br /><br />“What kind of help?”<br /><br />“Hospital.”<br /><br />I did not have my phone. There was one other rider waiting at the stop, a woman whose phone had transfixed her.<br />
<br />I said, “Can you call 911 for an ambulance? This man is asking for help.”<br /><br />She took a moment to come out of it. She looked at me, then looked the old man over and then, as the streetcar pulled up she said, “Why don't you ask the driver?”<br /><br />The old man yelled. “Help! Help!”<br /><br />I pointed the guy out to the TriMet driver. She took over like an expert. She got out of the cab, locking it behind her. She tried to talk with the old man, who repeated himself.<br /><br />“Help! Help!”<br /><br />I watched from a window seat as the driver handled the situation. She called in, then communicated to the old man that help was coming, and announced to the riders that she was required to stay until the paramedics showed up. She stood outside keeping an eye on the old guy.<br /><br />He called out, “I can't see. I can't see.” The driver squatted, trying to talk with him.<br /><br />Within five minutes a fire engine drove into the nearby side street, colored lights playing.<br /><br />Then the man sat up. <br /><br />He leaned back against the bench and said, “Sorry. I'm sorry.”<br /><br />What the? Was he okay? Was he playing a game with us?<br /><br />Suspicious twit that I am, I had to scrutinize him again. I saw that his eyes, which I thought had peered closely at me, now seemed unfocused and roaming. He was not so much sitting up as propped, like one of his bags, against the bench. No, he was not well. <br /><br />“Sorry.”<br /><br />Four sturdy responders walked up and took charge. One had a word with our driver, who then climbed back into the cab and drove us out of there. <br /><br />Thank god for Trimet.nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-20977365939492142202016-06-27T15:00:00.001-07:002016-06-27T15:03:54.425-07:00PREACHING TO THE WRONG CHOIR<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Because a lot of people who are homeless, mentally ill, in
the throes of addiction or otherwise marginalized don’t drive, they ride the
bus. In the impersonal and crammed aisles and one-size-fits-all seats, they’re
commonplace. And though <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/environment/climate-change/earth-day-5-charts-that-show-how-much-were-killing-our-planet-10195035.html">climate
change is killing us</a>, <a href="http://www.census.gov/hhes/commuting/files/2014/acs-32.pdf">very few average
middle-class people have abandoned their cars</a> for the wiser alternative. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The underclass, I’m saying, is well represented on public
transportation. They’re not the condiment, they’re the main course. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because a bus ride is often the only
shelter available, there’s always a good chance some visibly unfortunate rider is
dealing openly with the pain, sickness, demons or grief a middle-class person
would handle at home. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Today, James Junior (not his real name), riding my 75 bus,
was dealing.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I boarded, James was sitting on the right front bench,
preaching his personal gospel to a teen sitting on the left front bench
straight across the aisle from him. The topic was “Respect.” James was on fire
about respect. </div>
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<br /></div>
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He was declaiming, “You don’t let nobody disrespect a woman.
Ever. EVER!” He repeated this assertion more than once, and glanced around the
bus to show that, though he was talking to one person, we were all included in
the situation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
James’ emotional state contained notes of anger,
grandiosity, vulnerability, and a hint of possession. He leaned forward in his
seat and spoke to the kid in the tone of an overbearing, disappointed father. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They are queens. Every woman is a queen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said this again, and then again. And then, to stress the
point, James Junior greeted women around him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello, Queen! You are a beautiful creature and I love you!”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He seemed sincere and passionate. One woman smiled. Another
one tried to ignore him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
James declared, “I can have any woman I want.” He meant it,
and repeated the statement, but I doubted him. No woman there stepped up to get
a piece of James.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
James’ fiery speech was meant, as I say, for all of us. And
though he filled the bus with self-esteem, he got nothing back from us. No
surprise. From what I’ve seen, a fiery speech given on public transportation does
not fall on deaf ears. Instead, it falls like a small bomb into the midst of
captive strangers who are trying to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">block
out</i> their ride. Half of bus riders wear <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">earbuds</i>.
Most riders are going to take even divine inspiration, if it interrupts a
podcast, as a really annoying distraction, if not a sign of mental illness or even
a threat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
James carried on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m James Junior and THERE IS NO HELL. NO ONE goes to HELL.
I’ve died and come back and I guarantee there’s no Hell to be afraid of. And
anyway, you can’t be afraid to die. If you’re afraid to die, you can’t live.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was seized with feeling – tears, broken voice – he was fighting
against an invisible enemy for something he believed in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He repeated and repeated and repeated that no one goes to Hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to get off the bus before he was done,
but I think I got the gist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take James’ point. I’m a little afraid to die, not because
of Hell, which I don’t believe in, either. What I fear is reincarnating into a
life worse than the one I know and suffering in ways I can’t even imagine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Now, that might be Hell.</span></div>
nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-52795000812915263802016-03-18T16:43:00.001-07:002016-05-13T13:07:27.749-07:00MY INTERLOPERThere was no coffee in the house. A bus was due in nine minutes,
probably time enough to walk a block and a half to Delphina's for an
Americano and then pack myself into the sardine can at the stop near
the store. And in case of a near-miss, the next bus was only three
minutes behind.<br />
<br />
The plan went smoothly. I reached the busstop with my drink as the bus hove into sight three stops away.<br />
<br />
A car slowed on the far side of the street. The driver rolled down the window and waved at me.<br />
<br />
"I have to talk to you."<br />
<br />
I
almost trotted over. But the bus was now two stops away, and I was carrying two bags and a full cup of coffee. Plus
I had never seen this guy before. I tried to put all of these thoughts
into a wave back at him with my "free" hand.<br />
<br />
A car came up behind the waver,
honking. My man drove ahead, pulling to the curb about 100 feet away and
continuing to wave his arm emphatically out the window. <br />
<br />
I glanced around in case something dangerous was closing in. There was nothing.<br />
<br />
The
man kept waving. I got bus ticket in hand as the bus roared up. Without slowing, it roared past. Funny, there were empty seats in it. Sometimes, of course, a driver skips a stop because she's behind
schedule or is returning to the garage for repairs. Usually, I believe,
the reason for passing up riders is that the vehicle is full, and this
drive-by was definitely less than full.<br />
<br />
Well, the next one was due in three minutes. <br />
<br />
The
waver drove to the corner, turned around in the intersection and headed
back towards me. He pulled up, leaned hard to put his face near the
window. The moment of truth.<br />
<br />
"This is not a busstop anymore."<br />
<br />
I
glanced up. In fact, the busstop signpost was gone. I recalled that
the last time I waited at the stop a couple weeks ago, there had been
an announcement posted on the signpost that may have said something
about a change to the stop.<br />
<br />
I looked back at my interloper.<br />
<br />
"This is what I've been trying to tell you."<br />
<br />
"Oh. Thank you."<br />
<br />
"My wife did use this stop every day. That's how I know."<br />
<br />
This
stranger's assertive generosity suddenly sank in. He had detoured from
his trip, probably losing a few minutes from his commute to work, to
save me a few minutes' trouble. <br />
<br />
I thanked him again and "ran" to catch the next bus. nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-36421884416330779022016-03-09T16:05:00.002-08:002016-05-09T11:14:37.151-07:00 Blazing on the Crazy 8<div>
I boarded the 8-Jackson Park just after it turned off Multnomah onto 15th Avenue. Standing room only but a bench seat opened up at the next stop and I snapped it up like the true geezer I'm getting to be. The atmosphere was subdued, the passengers mostly commuters keeping to themselves. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Across the aisle facing me a young man rummaged in a small shoulder bag. His movements were deliberate, in slow motion. He pulled out a smaller zip bag, zipped it open silently and poked a finger around in it. He took something out of the bag, keeping it hidden in a hand. Then he took out a device, an implement, a tool or useful item I couldn't immediately identify. I watched carefully, not wanting to be surprised by a weapon. (Crazy, huh?) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The thing was a vape pen. I watched as the young rider slowly and silently loaded it with what had to be bud. Loco weed. I looked around and saw no one else taking this in. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Weed has been legal for almost six months in Oregon, so I shouldn't be surprised to evidence of its use, even in public, even on a crowded bus. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, I did not expect the man to light up. But light up he did. The guy put the pen to his lips and inhaled. There was no sign of smoke on the inhale, which is the point of vaping, I guess. But then a brief, thin wisp of personal smog came out of the corner of his mouth. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was the only one shocked. No one else noticed that law was breaking in plain sight like a vinyl record hitting the sidewalk at your feet after being tossed out the window of a second-story condo. Why, I remember when the founder of the White Panther Party, John Sinclair, was busted for possession of two joints and sent to Marquette State Prison for ten years. A bunch of counterculture celebrities got together and busted him back out with a concert: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Sinclair_Freedom_Rally </div>
<div>
<br />
The revolution has arrived.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
When the man hit his vape pen again and the wispy evidence trailed from his lips, I said -- loudly, because I wanted the driver to hear me in case there were repercussions -- "Dude, are you vaping on the bus?" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No one cast a glance except the vaper himself, who looked up at me for the first time, caught my eye and smiled. I had to laugh. Then he quietly dropped the pen back in its bag, dropped that bag into the shoulder bag, stood up and walked to the back door. At the next stop, Fremont, he sailed out of there into the future on invisible wings. </div>
<div>
<br />
Like wow, man.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-22440841556757620172016-03-01T16:24:00.001-08:002016-05-09T11:13:20.147-07:00We All LivedIt was after work and, as usual, I had fallen asleep on the Max. It's an art in which some part of the brain remains aware of the stops and I wake up just as the train pulls into the Hollywood Transit Center.<br />
<br />
But I woke a stop early, at the Lloyd Center. I didn't want to, and tried to go back down. A guy had just sat down to my right, on the bench seat, and had muttered something I didn't comprehend. Another guy, sitting directly across from me, was smiling in a fixed way.<br />
<br />
He said, "I don't give a fuck where you from," the smile still fixed. He was gazing at the guy on my right.<br />
<br />
Now I was wide awake.<br />
<br />
The guy on my right said, "I'm not from Portland," in a "what's the matter with you?" tone.<br />
<br />
The guy across the aisle said again, "I don't give a fuck where you from." He kept smiling, the smile maybe bigger or maybe just closer to me, and leaned forward. He was solid, athletic, a forearm across his leg noticeably enlarged by weightlifting. He seemed calm.<br />
<br />
I, however, was alarmed. I said "Don't do it, man."<br />
<br />
The guy turned the smile on me, blinked once or twice, and then turned back to the other guy.<br />
<br />
"Please," I said politely, "don't duke it out here." <br />
<br />
I looked around. No one else was paying attention.<br />
<br />
The guy to my right began to slowly, deliberately, remove a watch from his right wrist.<br />
<br />
A woman immediately to his right said, "Aw, look. He's taking off his watch. Damn."<br />
<br />
She turned to a woman who looked like her -- maybe a sister -- and said "Get my baby out of here." The sister got up and pushed a stroller that was in the aisle further down to the right.<br />
<br />
The first woman stood up and got right in between the two men. She was tall and queenly. She had a neck tattoo. The only emotion I could discern was the amused sternness of an authority figure who has done this a hundred times. She looked down at the guy to my right and said, "You don't know what you're getting into here." The guy looked unconcerned, almost bored. He said nothing.<br />
<br />
She put her face close to the guy across the aisle and spoke quietly to him. I heard her say, "We're getting off at the next stop. Let's go." He flicked his eyes at her and the smile diminished.<br />
<br />
"Let's go." He got up, putting the mad dog stare back on my neighbor, along with the smile. <br />
<br />
The woman laid a hand gently on her partner's or brother's or good friend's arm and urged him down the aisle after her sister and the baby. She kept herself deliberately between the men until they were well away from the guy next to me. Her guy kept his eyes and smile fixed on a spot to the right of my shoulder.<br />
<br />
That guy to my right slowly put his watch back on his right wrist.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-18646242903794880722016-02-28T10:45:00.002-08:002016-05-09T11:11:35.932-07:00He LivedAfter tens of thousands of hours riding public transportation, the worst physical violence I had experienced personally were a couple of punches to the head that did no damage. And I'd never seen another passenger assaulted (I'm just lucky, I guess.) Then, a couple of weeks ago, I had my first brush with serious violence. <br />
<br />
The first thing I remember about it was walking absently down the concrete steps from the Max to the bus mall at the Hollywood Transit Center. Why so many people there, between the Max platform and the bus mall? They were mostly teenagers, milling, shouting, cutting up. Leaning and leaping. Racing by. There were a lot of them at the bottom of the steps, too. Maybe there'd been a game at Grant High School.<br />
<br />
Once on the ground, finding my way through the crowd, I heard the angry shouting.<br />
<br />
A couple of teenage boys had taken off their shirts and were loudly challenging someone, who was hidden from my view by the multitude. One of the boys was fearsomely muscled. He was bellowing threats and emanating fear. I slunk by – dinner was calling.<br />
<br />
About 20 yards from the madness, next to the northbound 75 busstop, a a young man sat on the curb. His right hand held his neck. Blood was pulsing from between his fingers and soaking his shirt. A man came up next to him, bent over and said a few words while adding his hand to the hand trying to stop the blood flow. <br />
<br />
The extra hand slowed the leak to a slow ooze. The crowd was quickly thinning, most of them fleeing up the steps to the Max. A security guard called 911. A couple other bystanders were making phone calls. Most people walked by, either unseeing or uninterested. <br />
<br />
The shirtless kids stopped by. <br />
<br />
The big one said, “He's my cousin,” speaking to the amateur EMT and meaning the injured kid. To his cousin he said,“Come on, you got to go.” <br />
<br />
The kid shifted in his spot and put a hand down to help himself up but was being held firmly in place by his rescuer, who said “Sit here and stay calm.” <br />
<br />
Another man, who looked more like the kid's cousin than the self-proclaimed cousin, repeated “Stay calm.” <br />
<br />
The kid was not going anywhere, and a moment later the shirtless ones had disappeared towards the Max. <br />
<br />
For about three minutes – or it may have been just one, time felt sped up – nothing much happened. Hands were on the kid's neck, blood leaked, people were on phones, people walked by. Some of us were waiting for an ambulance. The kid tried to get up again, but was told to sit and stay calm and did so. <br />
<br />
His eyes, which had been restlessly roaming, grew still. He spit up some blood. The man holding the kid's neck took his hand off, gesturing futilely, and shouted, “If we don't get an ambulance here quick, he's gonna bleed out.” I thought so, too. The kid's shirt and jacket were more shining red than not. The man got his fingers back on the kid's neck.<br />
<br />
I ran down to a medical clinic a block away, realizing it was probably pointless but not knowing what else to do. The clinic was closed. A woman coming out said yes, there were doctors inside but they were not allowed to work outside the building. A siren started up nearby. I went back to the scene.<br />
<br />
First came two police cars. At the scene, four cops hit the asphalt and assessed the situation. They were in no rush. A couple of them got within a step of the kid and looked him over. Our hero exchanged words with the cops, which I couldn't hear. <br />
<br />
Next came a fire engine with an ambulance on its tail. The EMTs exited the vehicle already sporting blue latex gloves. At the same time, a small group came out of the building, also in blue latex gloves. Two of this group, young women, stood by like trainees waiting for orders. A third woman in blue gloves joked around with a young man who wore the gloves and a shirt that read “Personal Trainer.” <br />
<br />
While the EMTs bandaged the kid's neck and hoisted him onto a cot, a middle-aged man showed up and tried to convince them to let him ride in the ambulance to the hospital. <br />
<br />
“Who are you?”<br />
<br />
I couldn't hear what he said, but the response was “We can't do that, sir.”<br />
<br />
“Somebody who knows that boy should be riding with him.”<br />
<br />
I couldn't hear why the EMTs wouldn't let him ride in the ambulance, but iI suddenly had a theory of why he wanted the ride<br />
<br />
The kid was African-American. Every other one of the dozen or so people in the close vicinity, including the man who had been tending the kid's wound, was white, except for this black man asking for the ride. I believe he was concerned that the kid might die on the ambulance ride with only white witnesses there to say what happened. I think he didn't trust the EMTs to do everything they could to save his life. <br />
<br />
Makes sense to me.<br />
<br />
<br />
The story as reported by the Oregonian: http://www.oregonlive.com/portland/index.ssf/2016/02/man_suffers_life-threatening_i_2.htmlnickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-4428539889514667892015-08-30T14:21:00.003-07:002016-05-09T11:16:28.146-07:00Eternal QuestionsI was waiting at the southbound 75 stop, 7537, at Northeast Sandy and 42nd Avenue on a gorgeous, sunny weekday morning. From around the corner, a frail old lady on a walker came into sight and shuffled up. She sat on the blue mesh metal seat, well-protected from the glaring beauty of the day by a hat, sunglasses and long sleeved sweater.<br />
<br />
She gazed towards where the bus would come from. Then she turned towards me and asked, "Why do you think people become Christians?"<br />
<br />
Why do people ask questions like this? That's the real puzzler. But my mind machine sorted automatically through responses for something both kind and truthful. Didn't want to offend an old lady.<br />
<br />
"I don't know. I'm kind of a borderline Christian myself."<br />
<br />
She waited. <br />
<br />
"To answer your question,I suppose most of them are born into it," I said. "I was. I was born a Catholic."<br />
<br />
"That doesn't count," she snapped. "You have to accept Jesus as an adult."<br />
<br />
I didn't know that rule. But, fine.<br />
<br />
"Oh, okay."<br />
<br />
The old lady said, "The reason I'm a Christian is I don't want to go to hell." <br />
<br />
Why, Grandma, why? The statement sailed past my frontal lobe, landing right on the "You're wrong, lady" trigger. <br />
<br />
Still trying to respect my elder, instead of "You're wrong," I said very gently, "What makes you think there's a hell?"<br />
<br />
"Well, just look at all this." She waved at the world. "Man didn't make all this."<br />
<br />
"What's that got to do with hell?"<br />
<br />
Beams of spiritual pity shot from her sunglasses at me.<br />
<br />
"If there's a heaven, there must be a hell."<br />
<br />
"Oh." Faith. Blind faith. <br />
<br />
"Jesus spoke of heaven and hell in the Bible." Where else?<br />
<br />
"I have to tell you, I'm not convinced."<br />
<br />
She shook her head and seemed about to reply but at that instant the bus came. I trotted to a seat in the back where I could miss the rest of the conversation.<br />
<br />
At Belmont and 42nd, I disembarked. So did the Christian lady.<br />
<br />
We crossed 42nd on the same light, though I reached the other side first. Then we stood waiting for the next Belmont light together. She turned to me, eye beams undimmed.<br />
<br />
"You really should accept Jesus into your heart."<br />
<br />
What if she's right? What if I'm bound for Satan's sad, painful and eternal workhouse? It's possible, I guess, but the day -- this day God has made -- is too fine to dwell on something as remote as the hereafter.<br />
<br />
"I've actually thought about it quite a bit."<br />
<br />
"I'm sure you have," she said, and turned away.<br />
<br />
The light changed. I won't say I skipped ahead, but I left her behind to do God's work on her own.nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-27667449784998410982015-06-12T17:57:00.001-07:002016-05-09T11:20:25.262-07:00A SPAT<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/Portland_Compassionate_Caregivers%2C_4020_Cesar_E._Chavez%2C_Portland_(2014)_-_1.jpg/800px-Portland_Compassionate_Caregivers%2C_4020_Cesar_E._Chavez%2C_Portland_(2014)_-_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/Portland_Compassionate_Caregivers%2C_4020_Cesar_E._Chavez%2C_Portland_(2014)_-_1.jpg/800px-Portland_Compassionate_Caregivers%2C_4020_Cesar_E._Chavez%2C_Portland_(2014)_-_1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Near the 75 north bus stop, #7449, on Cesar Chavez near Gladstone, there is a 24/7 Plaid Pantry and next to it, a 24/7 Compassionate Caregivers -- a marijuana dispensary. As I crossed Chavez towards stop 7449, my stop, around 7:30 pm on a Wednesday in May, it was still very light outside. A guy was yelling in anger. He was at stop 7449 gesticulating like a children's storyteller to someone seated in the bus shelter.<br />
<br />
I slowed down, approaching with caution. The guy was in his 20s, athletic, head shaved, black T-shirt, brown shorts (I was thinking of how to describe him to the police if I had to). His feet were bare.<br />
<br />
The object of his tirade, I saw, was a young woman.<br />
<br />
"Come on, come on. Let's go," he bellowed.<br />
<br />
She said, "Give me my purse."<br />
<br />
She was crying.<br />
<br />
I was pretty close to them now. They paid me no mind.<br />
<br />
He said, "You're embarrassing me, standing here with my butt in the street trying to get you to move."<br />
<br />
Really.<br />
<br />
"Give me my purse."<br />
<br />
He did, indeed, have his hand on the strap of her purse, a red leatherish bag. She held the other strap.<br />
<br />
She stood up and turned to look at me.<br />
<br />
Tears streaming, she said, " He's trying to rob me."<br />
<br />
"How am I robbing you? I'm getting my Social Security card out of your purse, which you put there. I suppose it's my fault you're homeless now, too?"<br />
<br />
"Please call 911," she said. "This is a robbery."<br />
<br />
Her makeup was running, her face was melting, and I was putting the phone to my ear.<br />
<br />
The man released the purse. The woman walked past me, looked back and the man was at her heels, yapping on. She said something to him that I couldn't hear. He muttered back to her.<br />
<br />
They went around the corner.<br />
<br />
During the next 30 seconds, I waited to connect to the 911 operator. Meanwhile, my bus shlepped by. I sauntered to the corner to keep tabs on the couple. They had vanished.<br />
<br />
The operator asked me what happened, what the couple looked like, whether any weapons were in play, and where they were now. I felt superfluous. The woman had retrieved her purse from the scary boyfriend and was already behind an unidentifiable apartment door with him.<br />
<br />
As the call ended, a police cruiser rolled slowly by, past where Romeo and Juliet were last seen alive. The car drove on, a block, two, three blocks before turning left.<br />
<br />
I was really hoping I would see the cops roust the angry guy but, no. Just another 911 call without a resolution. nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-40801803327244694062015-06-02T22:33:00.003-07:002016-05-09T11:55:06.475-07:00BUS ETIQUETTEI boarded the good old 75 bus southbound. Going from home to the Hollywood Library. I sat on the front left bench. Across from me two very large women were chatting. One, in a wheelchair, was wheezing for breath despite inhaling oxygen through a nasal tube.<br />
<br />
Her friend sat directly across from me. The two were nodding and quietly cracking each other up. Though I tried, I couldn't hear the words. <br />
<br />
A skinny woman boarded and traded nods of recognition with the other two. She held a worn Bible in one hand and tread carefully, as if on a small boat. She sat down a couple rows back from me. At the first stop, she tread very deliberately to the front as if leaving. But instead, the woman grabbed a handful of paper towels from a dispenser next to the driver. On the way back to her seat, a towel flapped to the floor. <br />
<br />
The wheelchair lady looked at me, looked at the paper towel, and then gestured. She wanted me to pick up the towel and give it back to the skinny lady.<br />
<br />
I picked it up, and as the skinny woman turned around to sit, held out the paper towel for her to take.<br />
<br />
"I don't want that paper towel that's been on the floor."<br />
<br />
"Okay." I withdrew the towel.<br />
<br />
"Would you use a paper towel that's been on the floor?"<br />
<br />
I shrugged and tried to smile, thinking I <i>might</i> use one, depending on what kind of mess needed cleaning up.<br />
<br />
"No you wouldn't."<br />
<br />
Oooh. Were those fangs?<br />
<br />
"l just got out of the hospital and I'm not going to use a dirty paper towel."<br />
<br />
OH. Oh. Aha. All right, I got it. I glanced over at the wheelchair woman, who had encouraged my kindness. She smiled. Her friend smiled. I smiled back as best I could, feeling uncomfortably warm.<br />
<br />nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-29934435128918208512015-05-13T12:33:00.000-07:002016-05-09T11:55:43.310-07:00Cracker Jungle<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 10); line-height: 120%; text-align: left; }p.western { font-family: "Liberation Serif",serif; font-size: 12pt; }p.cjk { font-family: "Droid Sans Fallback"; font-size: 12pt; }p.ctl { font-family: "FreeSans"; font-size: 12pt; }</style><br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Last Saturday was library visit number 387. Every Saturday afternoon since
before she could read, my daughter and I have gone to the Hollywood
library. As she's now 13, it may have been 500 weeks since this
weekly ritual got started. We've missed weeks, usually because she
was busy, but not many. So call it, conservatively, 387 visits.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some
aspects of the ritual remain unchanged. It's the day I make
breakfast for her – tea, bacon, toast, a lettuce leaf or two. I
pack a lunch. We check online to find out which library books are due
and which can be renewed. We often get mad as we're leaving the house
because we're trying to catch a bus and one of us remembers something
at the last second that causes an anxiety-provoking delay.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some
things have changed a lot. My girl now reads anything and
everything. She tore through all of Harry Potter years ago. She
dresses stylishly, more like New York City than Portland. Recently
she' s been leaving before me and taking the bus on her own, and I
catch up to her at the library.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today
I caught up to her before the 75 bus came and we boarded together. At
the next stop, a couple got on. The woman I hardly noticed, because
the guy was so riveting. He was not wearing a shirt. Warm day, right?
But he was not only naked from the waist up, he was fat, hairy and
wore a couple of large Band-aids on his back. Grimy baseball cap over
a curtain of greasy hair? Check. Three-day beard? Check. Blurry blue
tattoos? Yep. Missing teeth, torn jeans falling off his butt, and
working his way through a bag of Twizzlers? Indeed so.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Six
decades into my own sometimes unsightly life, seeing this character
was not a shock. The streets of Portland are littered with such
bedraggled unfortunates. No, the sight was touching. I really
thought: <i>That could be me. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">In
fact, he's more like me than most of the world. That guy is white,
American, and can buy candy any time he wants to. And it appears that
there's a woman in his life. Our politics might be the same. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">For
all I know, we're related. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">And
then my daughter </span><span style="font-style: normal;">said, “Dad,
you've got something on your face.” </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">What?”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">She
showed me. It took a couple of tries to brush off the bit of
chocolate bacon or whatever the hell it was, largely because of my
three-day beard. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Her
look said, “What a slob.” </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">Thanks
for not calling me a slob.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">She
just shook her head. </span><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
am so exactly like that guy. </span>
</div>
nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-75971534370469388462015-04-14T10:08:00.000-07:002016-05-09T11:59:18.684-07:00Riding With The EnemyThis morning the Max was very full at the Hollywood Transit Center <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://justmytruth.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/unclesam-with-hand-out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://justmytruth.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/unclesam-with-hand-out.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>
and I was resigned to standing. But a couple riders got off the bleachers - the five seats in rows that face each other -- and I took a place. A talkative woman was weighing the plusses and minuses of bicycling the Springwater trail on her own for the listening pleasure of a man I thought must be her husband -- such a good listener he was.<br />
<br />
"Transients hang out there," she said, talking herself out of the trip without any help from the man.<br />
<br />
As she got up to leave a big, blond guy sitting on the bench down from me, across from her said, "You're afraid of a transient who sleeps out in the cold and drinks beer all day? Kick his ass!"<br />
<br />
The guy's big laugh infected me and drew grins from all directions. He got talking with the man I had thought was the husband, asking "What do you do?"<br />
<br />
"I'm an electrician."<br />
<br />
"That's a good job. Pays good, too. That's where you're goin'?"<br />
<br />
"I go to school today."<br />
<br />
"What are you studyin'?"<br />
<br />
"To be an electrician."<br />
<br />
"So you're not legal yet?"<br />
<br />
"I could be more legal."<br />
<br />
"Do that!" The giant laugh filled the train car.<br />
<br />
The big blonde mentioned he's been in the Marines, GI bill, studied computer science. His buddy went to nursing school.<br />
<br />
"We all basically laughed at him, but he was working already when he was in school, got everything paid for, was making good money as soon as he got discharged. Thirty-four dollars an hour? Or forty-three? I forget. And when he started, as much overtime as he wanted. Not so much now, but still plenty of work."<br />
<br />
The two agreed nursing was a good job. Travel anywhere and work. The husband guy told of a friend who did that -- a nurse, worked three months here, six months there.<br />
<br />
Blondie said he worked for the IRS. I suddenly felt a little different about him, like I knew we could never be friends. He told a loud tale about a man, a self-employed roofer, who made $90K a year but only claimed $30K on his tax returns. He was injured several times, as roofers often are, and in his fifties applied for Social Security disability. <br />
<br />
"They qualified him but only for two-thirds of 30K benefits, from his 1040s. He was so upset he protested that he'd been making 90K, talking with an IRS revenue agent. Agent said, 'Yep, you been makin' 90K for quite a few years.' So he got more disability but was in debt to the IRS for hundreds of K."<br />
<br />
"Wow."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, he netted less than the 20K he would have had on a 30K income."<br />
<br />
Blondie went on. "When the Revenooers come for yor assets, they've already sent at least three warning letters and they're no longer negotiating. They're itemizing. Inventorying. They'll take everything but your house and car."<br />
<br />
He paused to glance around. I looked away.<br />
<br />
"We don't want your stuff. We can't sell it for what it's worth. We just want your money."<br />
<br />
A minute later the Blond Bomber left and a mentally disabled guy spoke up.<br />
<br />
"Who was that? Is he a comedian? What was he talking about?"<br />
<br />
"Taxes," someone replied.<br />
<br />
"What's taxes?"<br />
<br />
"That's when they take your money away and give it to someone else."<br />
<br />
Happy Tax Day! nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-75174564581663451982015-03-23T23:26:00.000-07:002015-03-24T06:53:01.482-07:00The White Dress<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://powersstudios.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/15-0205WhiteDress-24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://powersstudios.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/15-0205WhiteDress-24.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The White Dress from inside looking towards The Real Mother Goose</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="goog_1980858547"></span><span id="goog_1980858548"></span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"></span><span id="goog_1980858548"></span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547">I was waiting at Stop 8333, for the Max traveling east. This is the next stop on the suburban side of Pioneer Square in front of The Real Mother Goose. It was about 9:30 on a Tuesday evening. No longer early, not yet late, the street lights seemed harsh, other waiting riders were still, barely breathing, shapeless, anonymous, like heaps of rags dipped in a mud bath. Probably just my mood.</span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"><br /></span>
<span id="goog_1980858547">I watched a young woman adjust a wedding dress. </span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1980858547">The White Dress is a bridal shop directly on the other side of the tracks from Stop 8333. In the window are two mannikins in pure white wedding gowns: lacy, layered chiffon and satin. Behind the mannikins, the room is large. A row of dresses, all white, hangs along either side, creating a corridor, or maybe a walk-in closet fit for the cast of an opera. Every corner of the store shines white except the dark, gleaming, wood floor. Two chandeliers cast a soft, searching light from above, but much of the glow seems to emanate from unseen sources. </span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"><br /></span>
<span id="goog_1980858547">The display artist wore a brown jacket over a forest green shirt, with black tights. Her hair was a popular shade of red -- burnt ochre, maybe. Serenely, she adjusted a dress. She was behind the "bride," maybe pinning together a fold to pull the gown snug. The whole magisterial work of art moved an inch. </span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"><br /></span>
<span id="goog_1980858547">The woman then came around the front of the mannikin and made miniscule adjustments to the shoulders. She smoothed the front, and as her hand traveled, she looked over at me suddenly, as if she'd been watching me watch her. She looked boldly, holding my glance for about three seconds. The thought occurred to me to look away but no, I gazed back at her. </span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"><br /></span>
<span id="goog_1980858547">She broke the eye contact and stepped back from the bride, assessing. She then turned directly away from the window and crouched to shape the bottom edge of the gown. Seconds later, in one move she stood and turned to face me. A different look on her face. Caught, embarrassed, I turned away. </span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"><br /></span>
<span id="goog_1980858547">I suddenly remembered that my daughter has accused me of dressing "like a hobo." Though I had been imagining myself a charming bystander, silently admiring the artist at work, I now realized that she may have been thinking of me differently than I was. </span><br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"><br /></span>
<span id="goog_1980858547">After a moment I glanced over and she was still working, partially behind the second mannikin, facing out in my direction. Fussing with the hair. I turned my head away so my attention seemed to be elsewhere, but I was cutting my eyes her way. I saw her checking on me and so turned away and walked a few steps. </span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1980858547">The Max pulled up between us. I took a seat on the near bench. As the train moved, she had come around the mannikin to stand looking out the window. We shared a final second of eye contact.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1980858547"><span id="goog_1980858547">Ruminating on the woman in The White Dress, I thought of my wife. </span>In a few months we'll have a 20 year anniversary. That is a chunk of a life, almost a third of mine. I feel lucky. The chunk has been more difficult at times than I would have liked, less prosperous, with less wisdom gained (on my part) than I might have liked But I declare the chunk to have been good, with many good laughs and a loving, talented daughter. All the credit goes to my wife, who actually knows a few things about marriage. </span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1980858547">And though a wedding day belongs, above all, to the Woman in the White Dress, the trip that follows is shared, like a Max ride at night.</span>
<span id="goog_1980858547"><br /></span>nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-82676011998848820622015-03-15T11:58:00.000-07:002015-03-15T11:58:31.169-07:00The Virtuous Fare InspectorMy favorite fare inspector boarded the westbound Blue Line at the Rose Garden.<br />
<br />
He once let me go when I had boarded without a fare because I was clearly under the influence of pain medication. I boarded in front of Kaiser Interstate, arm wrapped in a bandage, and my man was right there. He escorted me off before the doors closed, ticket book and pen ready.<br />
<br />
When I explained that I was "out of it," he said "I can give a certain number of breaks to riders each day. Today you're one of my chosen people."<br />
<br />
So I like the guy because he was merciful.<br />
<br />
This more recent day was a different story. The fare inspector and his partner got on, one at each door of the car. His buddy was at the other end, behind me. My friend started in my row. At the next stop, Chinatown, a bicyclist tried to drag his mechanical up the middle stairway. The inspector was there and said, "You have to board by the back door, near the bike hooks."<br />
<br />
The bicyclist said, "Are you gonna hold the door for me?"<br />
<br />
Not "Would you mind holding the door for me?" but "Are you gonna..."<br />
<br />
The fare guy said "No. If the door closes, push the button."<br />
<br />
The biker went to the back door and hoisted his supercool road bike up into the Max. The inspector was working his way back there. "Fare please. Thank you. May I see your fare? Thank you."<br />
<br />
A shlumpy lump of anonymity swaddled in a giant hoodie had no fare. The inspector began to write him up. He was straight across the aisle from the bicyclist.<br />
<br />
The bicyclist I could then see in all of his glory. He looked like an advertisement for a high end bike shop. Tall, lean but with broad shoulders and a magazine smile, golden hair curling out from under his helmet. He wore all the beautiful gear -- the moisture wicking shirt in bold colors, the matching pants showing off the rippling thigh muscles, hi-tech shoes -- the works. He slid a phone out of his backpack and flicked it.<br />
<br />
"Hey," he said, waving the phone at the inspector. The inspector glanced over, peered at the phone and said "That's no good."<br />
<br />
"Excuse me?"<br />
<br />
"I'll be with you in a second." He turned back to the shlumpy rider.<br />
<br />
The attitude coming off the bicyclist as he waited wafted back to me. He was nursing a little grin that said he intended to master the situation.<br />
<br />
The inspector handed out a ticket, said a few words to the shlumpy fellow and turned to the biker, who again showed him the phone.<br />
<br />
"I can see you've got the app but you haven't paid the fare for this ride."<br />
<br />
"I'm paying the fare right now." He swiped and showed the screen. "I was waiting for you."<br />
<br />
"You're required to pay the fare before you get on."<br />
<br />
"I was a little preoccupied. You interrupted my attempt to board."<br />
<br />
The inspector leafed to the next citation on his pad. "Can I see some I.D.?"<br />
<br />
The biker whipped out an I.D. and followed up by showing the phone again. "See, same name as on the phone."<br />
<br />
The inspector took note of the name and called in to find out if the subject's name was already in Trimet's database.<br />
<br />
"Look," the biker said, continuing to wave the magical phone like a Bible in front of a werewolf. "Look, I buy a bus ticket every day. There's the record."<br />
<br />
In a clear and empathetic tone the inspector said "I believe you. But the rule is you need to pay the fare before you get on the train."<br />
<br />
He handed the biker a ticket and explained, among other things, that the fine was $175, but if the biker went to court the judge could discount it. "Any questions?"<br />
<br />
The litttle smile, which had gone away, appeared again on the biker's face. "How do you live with yourself?"<br />
<br />
"It's dealing with good people like yourself that makes my job worthwhile." And the inspector moved along. <br />
<br />
So I also like the fare inspector because he's fair. Handing out mercy and justice, what a great guy. Made my day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-57509147630868928492015-03-07T00:33:00.000-08:002015-03-07T22:51:46.447-08:00The Whine and the Crash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.rolleasyblog.com/storage/speed_movie_bus.jpg?__SQUARESPACE_CACHEVERSION=1352751723977" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.rolleasyblog.com/storage/speed_movie_bus.jpg?__SQUARESPACE_CACHEVERSION=1352751723977" /></a></div>
<br />
Riding east on Barnes Road on the 20 Burnside in December just after dark, I'm nervous. Barnes is snaking down a hill and the the bus is picking up speed on the wet pavement as the driver makes it whine. The bus feels too big for the lane. Bursts of commuters zip by to the left, an arm's length away. I try put it out of my head, the crash. It's silly to think about a bad moment that will probably never come. Whether we hit a car or a tree it would be bad, yet at no more than 35 or 40 miles an hour and the driver taking some evasive action, the trauma should be survivable. And the crash will transform my life in a way that I can't spin as actually good. Pain, blood, broken bones or deep lacerations, shock, lying out on the miserable freezing asphalt in muck and gravel waiting for an ambulance. These stupid thoughts keep pushing into the foreground.<br />
<br />
The nightly commute down Barnes is loaded with these uneasy thoughts. My heart rate climbs. To keep the old ticker in check, I read. I write. I breathe deeply. I remember the odds are with me. The heartbeat plateaus at a wakeful pace.<br />
<br />
Not long ago, I had an accident on this very line. I boarded in front of my building across the street from Providence St. Vincent and left the emergency room behind. The 20 bus is usually pretty empty at this point, but that night it was pretty full. I saw that one of the cozy corner seats in the very back was vacant, and headed there.<br />
<br />
As you may know, some of the newer buses have two levels, with a couple of steps leading up to the back mezzanine. This was one of those. As I stepped up, the bus surged forward, i.e., opposite the direction I was walking, executing a perfect judo throw on me. I reached ahead to catch myself and the extended thumb of my reaching right hand, bearing most of my weight, caught on a vertical support pole and bent backwards, hard. This saved my face from floor damage. But it really hurt. I yelled something and went to my knees.<br />
<br />
Several people asked if I was all right, including the driver, who asked more than once. I got up and walked to the seat in the back corner saying, "I'm okay." several times.<br />
<br />
I curled over in the seat, trying inch by inch to accept and deal with the pain. The driver asked again and again I lied. "It hurts but I'm okay."<br />
<br />
I was pouring sweat. For such a short fall, the pain was shockingly bad. It was worse than the cat bite last year, worse than the knee in the groin in eighth grade, worse than the broken nose from a Tae Kwon Do kick that ended my quest for a black belt. God, I hope it doesn't hurt like this when I die.<br />
<br />
For the next half hour, until disembarking at Cesar Chavez, I gently, gently manipulated the thumb, deciding whether to skip the hospital. The digit would move through about a quarter of its range, with an unpredictable stab, stab, stab, like a toothache. I could close the hand half way. A bruise, which had discolored the hand, stopped spreading. So did the swelling. <br />
<br />
The thought of home was soothing, the thought of an emergency room sad, so I went home.<br />
<br />
I lived. The injury was slow to heal but it did. Advil at bedtime helped. Now, months later, it's just a story without a middle.nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-73725234555390829912014-05-24T15:53:00.003-07:002014-05-28T13:28:12.838-07:00THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAINI always pay my Max fare -- always, always, always. There have been a few times - and I mean a few - when I found myself standing on a moving Max car and realizing I had not paid the fare. Those incidents were strictly due to forgetfulness. I had intended to pay, I had the money or unvalidated ticket with me, and I had paid the prior 100 fares in a row. So I don't count those failures to pay as fare jumping or stealing from Trimet.<br />
<br />
You should know that only the fare inspectors check fares on Max. Entry is on the honor system. A rider can board a Max train on any platform without paying and no one will know. A lucky fare jumper could ride the Max many times for free. By the same token, even the most well-intentioned passenger can easily forget to pay one time and get busted.<br />
<br />
There are multiple signs at the platforms warning against smoking, riding skateboards or bicycles, and being there without a fare. At the Hollywood Transit Center there's a large "No Smoking" sign at the top left of the single stairway. At the right side of the stairway is a sign saying you must have a paid fare to go any further.<br />
<br />
There are "No Smoking" signs on each of the two kiosks on the platform. There are other signs on the platform reminding us to have our proof of fare with us at all times.<br />
<br />
Every morning, I marvel at the hundreds and hundreds of cigarette butts that litter the Max tracks next to the platform. About half the time, someone is actually smoking on the platform. I have never seen anyone cited for smoking.<br />
<br />
The other day, a woman left her three children alone on the platform while she smoked. The oldest kid was about four. The youngest one was in a stroller. The woman walked down the platform 10 yards to have a nice inhale. Maybe she meant to be polite by creating distance between herself and the rest of us while she was getting her fix. Fortunately, the kids barely moved from their spots. If one of them <i>had</i> decided to take a header onto the tracks, she was too far away to have stopped him. <br />
<br />
I often wonder how dozens or hundreds of people can indulge their habit so blatantly, ignoring the signs and the possibility of a big fine. Eventually, surveillance will reach the point where if you break a smoking ordinance you'll be identified automatically and receive a ticket on your phone. Meanwhile, it's still the Wild West. Smokers smoke and fare jumpers get busted.<br />
<br />
As I said, I have inadvertently failed to pay the fare a few times. On one of these occasions a few years ago I was busted. I walked out of a train right there at Hollywood and into a semicircle of fare inspectors. One of them took me aside, wrote down my name and address and let me off with a warning. <br />
<br />
Because a ticket would cost $175, I have been very careful since that first mistake. Then last week, I had another lapse. I had been at a doctor appointment at Kaiser. I had run to catch the Yellow Line Max and was still panting when a familiar inspector was suddenly next to me, asking his familiar question.<br />
<br />
"Can I see your fare, please?"<br />
<br />
Never a good liar, I said "I don't have it."<br />
<br />
He asked why. I told him about the appointment, the running for the train. I showed him the stitches in my arm. He had me get off at the next stop with him. It was the Rose Quarter.<br />
<br />
As we stepped off and he raised his citation book, I explained that I was medicated and "not myself." I flashed my book of All-Day tickets and opened my wallet to show a stack of used tickets from the prior week.<br />
<br />
"I ride every day with an All-Day ticket."<br />
<br />
Without showing emotion, the inspector lowered his book and said he was letting me off.<br />
<br />
"I'm allowed to grant a certain number of warnings each day. You're one of today's lucky winners." <br />
<br />
I thanked him. I did not hang around for small talk. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-83136925256880001942014-05-14T23:09:00.001-07:002014-05-14T23:09:39.482-07:00Texting While Holding Hands<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwLPNlxOXmHrK_3cAJ_WV4J1PAqg-llXr97ckJcSIE720pmHqej1P1ZqfRgzQ-YbmbLsRUG48FQPeUKIygMraqlTFScRa_5PMeYB3mEPRUGrNRcXZzT0agM1iPKyMMbZMxVmaPCsjUgZ6/s1600/0512140809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwLPNlxOXmHrK_3cAJ_WV4J1PAqg-llXr97ckJcSIE720pmHqej1P1ZqfRgzQ-YbmbLsRUG48FQPeUKIygMraqlTFScRa_5PMeYB3mEPRUGrNRcXZzT0agM1iPKyMMbZMxVmaPCsjUgZ6/s1600/0512140809.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
They both loved holding hands, the color red, and multitasking. nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-7453089972846804252013-08-25T19:30:00.001-07:002016-05-17T14:58:11.393-07:00ACTING LIKE A HUMAN BEINGI took a different bus last Tuesday and had an evening I never had before. It was around 6:00 p.m. I was headed for a meeting at a place directly under the OHSU Tram in an area called Lair Hill. <br />
<br />
Trimet's Trip Planner had recommended picking up the 9 Powell downtown and getting off at the Ross Island Bridge. But a 17 Holgate showed up first. I had an idea it stopped at the bridge, and the driver confirmed my suspicion.<br />
<br />
I sat in front, on the bench. At the next stop, a man sat next to me and, in whipping out earbuds, whacked me on the nose with one. The force was something less than a nerf bullet.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"<br />
<br />
"I think I'll make it."<br />
<br />
"No harm, no foul."<br />
<br />
"You're one of those nice Portland people."<br />
<br />
We discussed the very niceness of Portland people and agreed that being nice didn't mean becoming friends. And we didn't. But the encounter set me up for the rest of the evening.<br />
<br />
Around 9:30 p.m., after my meeting, I made it back to the bridge stop. A woman was waiting there. She let me know the bus was due in 10 minutes. She watched me go into a paper bag, where I had a bagel sandwich. As I unwrapped it I saw her staring.<br />
<br />
"Hungry?"<br />
<br />
"Starving. I'm homeless."<br />
<br />
"Take half." I held the sandwich out. She grabbed the whole thing. As it came apart into halves she took one, saying, "Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted me to break it in half," and giggled.<br />
<br />
We started eating, which made the bus come immediately. I was able to shove my half sandwich into the bag, but my new friend had no bag.<br />
<br />
She said, "I'm just gonna eat it."<br />
<br />
The bus was fairly crowded and I had to stand. But she found a seat on the front bench and ate. <br />
<br />
After each bite she muttered how delicious the sandwich was. She asked me where I got it and all I could tell her was "some place on Corbett." <br />
<br />
A crowd of ten or so young adults boarded together. My new acquaintance - not friend -- said hello to one of them and they bantered. Another woman, already seated, eagerly greeted one of the new male riders.<br />
<br />
Suddenly everyone was talking to everyone. Turned out a lot of them had been at an evening meeting that had to do with recovery. I heard conversation about sober houses, roommates, jobs. The volume level increased by the block, but I had to leave before the party reached the next level.<br />
<br />
I caught the 75 at Powell and Cesar Chavez. In a text exchange with my wife I planned to pick up a few things at Whole Foods, which was going to close at 10:00. At 9:52, the bus stopped at the Hollywood Transit Center. Whole Foods is two stops past the transit center, about a three or four minute walk.<br />
<br />
A man boarded, He was skeletal, with sickly yellow skin and buggy eyes. He was dragging a large garbage bag filled with clanking cans.<br />
<br />
The man and the driver talked. As they talked, the driver took out a small pad and took notes. I thought of walking to Whole Foods, but figured even a longish conversation would get me to the store a couple minutes before closing.<br />
<br />
After a minute, the driver switched to a clipboard so he could write more extensive notes. Then the driver handed the man some of the notes. The man made some notes on the notes while they continued to talk. If I had known the lovely couple were on an actual date, I definitely would have walked.<br />
<br />
At 9:56, the man clanked to a seat. There was still time to get to the store, if the driver would now go.<br />
<br />
A woman and two teenage girls boarded. The girls sat and shared a cell phone while Mom searched for the fare. She found some money, but not enough. She pulled stuff from her purse, found a wallet, went through that without luck. Then she negotiated. Again, the back and forth between a passenger and the driver delayed my plan. At 9:58, I walked up and held out an All-Day ticket between the two of them.<br />
<br />
"Will this take care of it?"<br />
<br />
The driver, showing obvious embarrassment, said "Yes, it will."<br />
<br />
A few seconds later we were moving.<br />
<br />
At the next stop, I jumped out and trotted across Sandy Boulevard, only to confirm that Whole Foods had, indeed, closed. I turned from the locked automatic doors and -- luck was with me. The next 75 pulled up.<br />
<br />
The End nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-66711604016923633672013-05-31T09:30:00.000-07:002013-07-14T15:02:02.291-07:00MY INTERLOPER<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">There was no coffee
in the house. A bus was due in nine minutes, probably time enough to
walk a block and a half to Delphina's for an Americano and then squeeze into
that particular sardine can at the stop nearest the store. And in case of
a near-miss, the next bus was only four minutes behind.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">The plan went
smoothly. I reached the bus stop with my drink as the bus hove into sight
three stops away.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">A car slowed on the
far side of the street. The driver rolled down the window and waved at
me.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">"I have to
talk to you."</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">I almost trotted
over. But the bus was only two stops back, and I was stretched
physically, carrying two bags and a full cup of coffee. Plus I had never
seen this guy before. I tried to put all of these thoughts into a wave
back at him.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">A car came up
behind the waver, honking. He drove ahead, pulling to the curb about 100
feet away and continuing to wave his arm emphatically out the window. </span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">I glanced around in
case something dangerous was closing in -- no.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">The man kept
waving. I got bus ticket in hand as the bus roared up and, without
slowing, roared past. Funny, there were empty seats in it.
Sometimes, of course, a driver skips a stop because she's behind schedule or is
returning to the garage for repairs. Usually, I believe, the reason for
passing up riders is that the vehicle is full, and this drive-by was definitely
less than full. Go figure, I thought.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">As I said, the next
bus was due in four minutes.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">The waver drove to
the corner, turned around in the intersection and headed back towards me.
He pulled up, leaned hard to put his face near the window. The moment of
truth.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">"This is not a
bus stop anymore."</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">I glanced up.
In fact, the bus stop signpost was gone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right -- the last time I waited at the
stop a couple weeks ago, there had been an announcement posted on the bus stop
sign that may have said something about a change to the stop.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">I looked back at my
interloper.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">"This is what
I've been trying to tell you."</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">"Oh.
Thank you."</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">"My wife did
use this stop every day. That's how I know."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Wow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a good neighbor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His generosity suddenly sank in. He had
detoured from his trip, probably losing a few minutes from his commute to work,
to save me a few minutes' trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
had tried to ignore him.</span></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">I thanked him again
and ran for the next bus. </span></div>
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<![endif]-->nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-16066158148198216212013-05-12T16:06:00.004-07:002016-05-17T14:59:06.685-07:00ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN DAYIt 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
She was absorbed, blithely innocent of the aural trespass.<br />
<br />
The driver jumped in through the intercom. "Please turn down the volume! You are playing your device too loud!"<br />
<br />
She didn't respond. That was my cue. I reached over and tapped the woman's arm.<br />
<br />
Her face said, "What?" and I pointed at my ear and her device and mouthed "Too loud."<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
She took off the headphones. The sound still filled the bus. Glances came at her. Her face said, "This is not what I expected."<br />
<br />
I said, "We can all hear your movie."<br />
<br />
She turned it off with some exasperated lip English.<br />
<br />
Then, saying her first words, which I couldn't understand, the woman held out the headphones, inviting me to partake. <br />
<br />
I may have laughed at her. I know I shook my head "No" several times. <br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>working.</i>) Any one of them could be on vacation, having a day off, taking it easy.<br />
<br />
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 <i>learn</i> something." The thought just happens.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The End nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-30654415851791967692013-04-02T18:29:00.001-07:002016-05-17T15:01:58.858-07:00BEHIND THE MASK<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I think I’m a little autistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This might explain why, at the Hollywood
Transit Center platform, I was watching the highway traffic - and enjoying
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that spot, nothing but the Max
tracks and a short wall separates you from the river of cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The river was flowing freely this morning,
and the air was cool, and payday is getting close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blur of racing metal was soothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When a Max train pulled in, I looked
into it and saw a row of somber faces. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
but two or three riders were interacting with their devices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I look like they do when I’m ill, or after a
bad argument – not too often, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Do I?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ride to work can be a vacation,
an escape from the crushing blankness, if that’s what’s bothering you, Bunky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
I’m interpreting the facial expressions and body language of strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re in a setting where they’re inclined
to express as little as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doubt
my insight is mostly fantasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Inside the train, looking around again, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I don’t believe this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A</span> couple is laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joking with each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breaking all the morning Max rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How bizarre!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But they’re not really a couple – an old white guy in mud spattered
overalls and a middle aged Latina in office clothes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hold on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What in the name of Holy St. Michael?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The world’s been turned
upside down, there’s another odd couple, laughing it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where am I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Two couples laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
hair on my neck is bristling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now the
couples are taking turns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This couple
laughs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That couple laughs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m sweating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Are we in a nightclub? We’re in a nightclub, that’s it, a floating nightclub, way, way after
hours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Breathe. Slow down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth will come through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There it is now. Between bouts of
hilarity the masks appear. The protection. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The farmer is Grim Acceptance, his girlfriend
is Resignation, and the other couple is Exhaustion and Discomfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, all is well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Soon they all calmed down and I calmed down and we rejoined the rest
of us, saving ourselves for the important day ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A big fella snored, loudly and too quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's more like it. An emergency nap, for sure, and a tough
log he was sawing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His head fell back and
his chest heaved with a sharp jerk on each breath as if he were climbing at
10,000 feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a good thing he was
lying down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every minute or so his eyes
would open, he'd snort and instantly drop back into the nod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The rest of us kindly let him have his
restless rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The train plunged into the Sunset
Tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The small lights on the tunnel wall were blipping by,
lulling me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m drawn to it, the
reliable, steady stream of lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah,
maybe I’m a little autistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-25358628736559533792013-03-29T14:31:00.002-07:002016-05-17T15:04:26.947-07:00SAFETY AND COMFORT<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The leader spoke. “Are you a
stalker?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'm talking to you. Were you
stalking that girl?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The man looked up, an inoffensive smile
pasted on his face. “I don't know what you're talking about.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My friend says you were stalking
her.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The man continued to smile and hold the
boy's glare. He shook his head and went back to the paper.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Look at me. I'm talking to you.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No response.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Are you afraid?”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The leader sat down. “I'm just gonna
wait here until you get off. And then we'll settle this outside.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He sat, smiling, while his henchboys
continued to stand.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I said to him, “Those kids had you in
their sights.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He shrugged. “I didn't do anything,” as if that were a guarantee that everything would be okay.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I said, “Did you really have no idea
what they were talking about?”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“None.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-35306248785800055142013-03-16T13:05:00.005-07:002016-05-17T15:36:46.943-07:00HOLLYWOOD STYLE<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b>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. </b></i><i><b><i><b>It did not take place on TriMet or at a bus stop, but on a detour during the commute home -- close enough!</b></i></b></i> <br />
<br />
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. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No, it’s not working. Please slide it again.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I slid it. Tick tick tick. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’m sorry, it’s disapproved. Showing insufficient funds. You can try it again, as credit.” </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Only midly surprised, I slid it again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No, sir. It’s not approving.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She said, “Here, let me take care of your groceries.” </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,” I replied politely but with some force. “No thanks. You’re very kind, but I’ve got it handled. Thanks.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I said, “Did that woman pay for these?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yep. She said to pay it forward.'” </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The angel was still at the checkout; I caught her at the door and thanked her. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Enjoy,” she said pleasantly, without slowing down. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do you want to exchange names?” </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No," she said over her shoulder, "just pay it forward.” </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
THE END</div>
nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-76891100510581371102013-03-14T13:14:00.000-07:002016-05-17T15:37:16.375-07:00YET ANOTHERSome 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.<br />
<br />
I took note of yet another:<br />
<ul>
<li>foreign-born individual watching a news show on a phone in a language I didn't recognize.</li>
<li>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.</li>
<li>teenager sucking down a 20 oz. Starbuck's -- maybe a mocha, judging from the whipped cream on his chin.</li>
<li>music fan bopping so hard to the sounds in his earbuds he takes up a seat-and-a-half.</li>
<li>woman well over six feet tall.</li>
<li>woman tweezing her eyebrows.*</li>
<li>rider looking at me as if I were an alien, ghost, zombie or long-lost twin.</li>
<li>rider I've seen whose blank demeanor never changes. Today, for the first time, he seems to notice his surroundings. </li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9_R_fLM50O64l8Y56NZOwBbmgxcg4zu68YBgbJrgBOEjgSN8Lntf1iHjb7zGQ2Mu9V-J6pyY6E7-xT9i57EtrPEFpVPXroZrPzZcCzExsbtO6dc7kYcXlSrP2JqA57kDmyfm-qyRgqgy/s1600/Steel+Bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9_R_fLM50O64l8Y56NZOwBbmgxcg4zu68YBgbJrgBOEjgSN8Lntf1iHjb7zGQ2Mu9V-J6pyY6E7-xT9i57EtrPEFpVPXroZrPzZcCzExsbtO6dc7kYcXlSrP2JqA57kDmyfm-qyRgqgy/s320/Steel+Bridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b> <u>And yet another</u> picturesque crossing of the Steel Bridge - </b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b> overcast, lights twinkling, shadows drifting in the river.</b></div>
<ul>
<li>unfortunate smoker standing outside a building, looking every bit as cool as he hoped he'd look back when he tried his first cigarette.</li>
<li>week-old beard. </li>
<li>black jacket.</li>
<li>rider wearing a picture I.D.proudly hung around her neck like an Olympic medal.</li>
<li>old man holding a hand-carved staff topped by a (carved) owl, and wearing a bowling shirt.</li>
<li>400-lb. individual overflowing from a wheelchair.</li>
<li>bike rider who could have bought a car for the amount of money that went into the bike, accessories and clothing.</li>
<li>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 (?)</li>
<li>woman doing her best to look like a teenage boy.</li>
</ul>
And finally, yet another blog post posted. <br />
<br />
* Rouge, eye shadow and lips followed. She finished with a lip smack, a cosmetic kit clack and a mask of satisfaction.nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-50437564080943371732013-02-27T14:05:00.003-08:002016-05-17T15:40:08.880-07:00Passing the Day Away<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">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. <span style="font-size: small;">But she's working today, and <span style="font-size: small;">seemed optimistic.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">She got off at Lloyd Center. Miles went by and I suddenly noticed that we were on 5<sup>th</sup>
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.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">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. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">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. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Tall One was showing a TriMet <a href="http://trimet.org/fares/1daypass.htm"><span style="font-size: small;">day pass</span></a> and saying “Five
dollars.” I could hear the rural accent
immediately. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">He continued, “Help a homeless feller out. Look, it’s the genuine article.” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I tried to intervene.
It so happened I had a book of day passes with me. I showed the Turtle. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"> “See.
Same thing.” But he turned away
and used the machine. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Tall Guy looked around.
What could I do? I had a five,
which I exchanged for his day ticket. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Tall Guy was gone and ankling down the street so quick I
had to check th<span style="font-size: small;">e<span style="font-size: small;"> gra<span style="font-size: small;">y mar<span style="font-size: small;">ket</span></span></span></span> day pass against my gen<span style="font-size: small;">uine article</span> for signs of counterfeit. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">But it was good. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476440526221803335.post-54130626849255801052013-02-17T11:51:00.000-08:002016-05-17T15:42:50.696-07:00COFFEE POWERSometimes riders show up whose suffering is beyond what one should have to bear. For instance:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Tourette's maybe? Choking? <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
At least, I think, he's not being ignored. I sit and resume my role of secret gawker. <br />
<br />
A minute later he's calling out. "Otter! Otter!"<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
His shivering lessens. After a moment he says, pretty clearly, "Green Line?" <br />
<br />
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." <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He nods and says, "Too cold." <br />
<br />
She says, "That's all right, baby, you'll get there."<br />
<br />
<br />nickareenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08771839264204100867noreply@blogger.com1