The Sweet Life

He's young, with wild hair that starts out dark at the roots and has been bleached almost blonde -- by the sun, I'm pretty sure; the look is very much “California surfer.” He's sitting in a crowded bus next to an attentive young woman with a pretty face who is enjoying his company. A second young woman is with them, in the bench seat next to their knees. The women are hanging on the man's words.

He's talking about music – his own, I think. The woman sharing the seat says “What do you mean?”

He says, “That's your responsibility. I just use the words.” She beams as if complimented.

Suddenly I remember this type of jock from high school: the animal good looks, the attitude of humorous condescension, the desirous babes.

My mind drifts as their conversation continues. A moment later he says, again to the one next to him, “You know what you're really good at? Excuses.”

She says something I can't hear.

He says,“Excuse.”

She says something.

“Excuse.”

The women have a giggle about this.

This is my stop, ending the eavesdropping. But the high school feelings continue. I'm resenting this guy for having it so easy with the ladies, in spite of his being a jerk and them being dumb.

The best remedy for being outshone by a stud muffin back then was the knowledge that in a few years he'd be working in a gas station while I was having a career. This guy was maybe 25 – very young by my current standards but well out of high school. The women might have been a little younger. He's still playing high school games, wrapping them around his finger. And as for my career – oh, yeah, that didn't really happen, did it?

GRRRRR

On MUNI, San Franciso’s excellent transit system, riders get it: 1) that when the seats are getting full, they have to move to the back of the bus to let other riders board; and 2) that one fare entitles a rider to one seat.  I rode the buses and street cars and cable cars in that city for about 11 years.  Almost always, as a bus got packed the standing riders would drift to the back without being asked.  When a driver did have to call out, “Move back,” or “Make room,” people moved.  

There was a guy who sometimes got on the Market Street bus with me at rush hour who liked to holler “Lady with a baby!  Make way!” if the crowd was a little slow to move to the back.  He didn’t have to do it very often.

In that city I seldom saw a rider splay himself or his stuff across multiple seats.  Nor did I ever have to tap one on the shoulder to get his attention and explain why I wanted him to free up a seat.  

I also commuted by public transit in Los Angeles.  There, you might never see the same driver on the same route and the vastness of the city gives a background vibe that is overwhelmingly impersonal. Of course, drunks and the deranged occasionally got out of hand.  Sometimes a petty crime took place.  I was punched in the face once.  I watched pickpockets at work.  Fare evasion was rampant.

But in L.A., people were usually as well-behaved as angels when it came to moving back and keeping seats open.  (Maybe they were just trying to stay out of harm’s way?)

Yet in Portland, a tamer town than either of those California grease spots, it’s standard procedure when standing to plant oneself in the front of the bus; and if seated, to keep the seat next to you handy for your stuff or for kicking back.  

This week on the 75, crushed between boarding riders and a mash of beings stopped behind, I had to ask twice “Could you please move back and make room?”  And the lug at the end of the line, who had six or eight feet of space behind him, glanced at me without acknowledgement. But worse, not a single one of the rest of the group inhaling each other’s air said a thing. 

Why is this?  What dumb territorial impulse is at work? And even if you are not guilty of the original transgression, why don’t you urge the stand-in-fronters to move back?  Why aren’t there more righteous passengers demanding civilized behavior from their fellow citizens?  

Is it a cultural thing?

BUSTED

One morning last week, the fare inspectors were thick as ants on a PB&J sandwich.  A team of them, including a couple of Portland cops, were waiting at the Hollywood Transit Center, human speed bumps on the way to my destination.

I boarded and found a seat.  A couple of inspectors boarded right behind me.  I'd seen the one who was working his way towards me before.  He's an efficient one, glancing at passes and tickets as fast as they appear with a "Thank you," taking a second longer to acknowledge a transfer, taking his job seriously and calmly.

I showed my pass for the second time in five minutes.  Two seats down, a man flashed his wallet and the inspector said, "That's September.  Do you have an October pass?"

The rider was a 30-something white guy dressed for work, definitely not a typical target for harassment.  But he did not have the pass.  As the conversation continued, his voice rose higher and higher, as if he were being harassed, which he was not.

In his defense, the rider showed that he was carrying passes from several prior months and even found a receipt  proving that he had bought an October pass.  The officerr opened his ticket book.  The rider blurted out that his wife must have borrowed it over the weekend and not replaced it.

At this point, I knew the man was in trouble. You might assume, having bought a monthly pass, that you could loan it to another person.  Obviously, only one person at a time can use a pass, so what's the problem?  Well, in its accounting for estimated income from passes sold and estimated income from people nabbed using passes wrongly, the head bean counters have concluded that the best numbers will occur when there is no pass sharing. Remember, these are the same people who eliminated Fareless Square and significantly cut back service within the last year or so.

"May I see your identification, please?"

The man replied, "Hold on," and made a phone call.  The inspector, to my surprise, kept patiently quiet.  I suppose the rider was hoping to find out if his wife had returned the pass to his lunch bag, or some other unlikely but possible spot that would save the cost of the coming ticket.

But the call didn't connect, and  the cop had to ask again for ID.

"Why?" the violator asked, handing over a driver's license.  "Don't you like me?  Are you trying to bust my chops?"

The cop muttered something about procedures while scribbling.

The violator said, "This is not fair, that I should have paid for this month, not to mention many other months, and this one time. . . "

The cop glanced up at him.

"My wife borrowed it and didn't return it to me," he said. Whining and trying to blame his poor wife. I felt sorry for (and superior to) the violator for his ignorance. 

The inspector gave him the ticket, saying "Sharing a pass is not allowed.  The pass is issued to one person, for his sole use."  The violator stared like a dead trout.

See?

The inspector went on to explain the violator's options.  He could pay by mail or credit card, or he could appear in court.  The inspector had conveniently already set the court date and time.

The violator was done protesting.  The cop was done explaining. The $175 (or more) ticket was doing the talking now.

ROLL TITLES

It seems like everyone now is fixed on their electronics. My guess is that better than 50 percent and maybe as much as 75 percent of reading on public transportation is now done cybernetically.  It makes me wonder what they're reading, which is seldom obvious.

It is much easier to see what those readers who are reading "real" books are reading.  I have, therefore, documented here some titles of paperback or hardback books recently being read on Trimet (with some commentary):

Missing Persons by Stephen White.  The reader was a middle aged man wearing an Obama badge.

Quantum Leaps In The Wrong Direction: Where Real Science Ends...and Pseudoscience Begins.  It took me so long to write down the title that the guy reading it left before I could make a note about him.

The Great Divorce by C. S. Lewis.  This looked like a 50-year old paperback. The reader was a young woman sporting a baby-doll look including: ruby red lipstick with matching shoes and white knee socks.

If Looks Could Kill.  Amazon lists at least six different novels by this title.  As I didn't catch the author's name, I can't tell you which one it was. The reader:  a middle-aged woman.

High Noon by Nora Roberts  ("This is just a dirty little village in the middle of nowhere. Nothing that happens here is really important."  Oh, sorry, it's not that High Noon.)  The reader:  a middle-aged woman.

A Japanese paperback.  The reader:  a young woman with Asian features.

Victims by Jonathan Kellerman.  I did not make a note about the reader.  Assume I was distracted by another title.

Organizing Knowledge.  The reader was, I'm pretty sure, judging by the PSU jacket, a student.

My Monumental Suffering.  Actually, this is the title of a book I intend to write.

Another Nora Roberts book.  I could see Nora's huge name on the spine and cover, but not the book's title.  The reader:  a middle-aged woman, a professional secretary type -- graying, well-fed and well-dressed.

An Agatha Christie book.  Again, the author's name was plain to see and much larger than the title.  The reader:  a 60ish man.

A Nick Hornsby book.  The reader was a slender, sad-faced woman in black jacket, black jeans and long, black hair.

Interviewing in Action In a Multicultural World.  The reader was a young woman in matching blue-green argyle swirl vinyl rain jacket and vinyl cowboy rain boots.

A J. K Rowling book.  Must have been the new one that's got nothing to do with Harry Potter, as it was only about 250 pages long.

Can't Find My Way Home.  To judge by the worn backpack, boots, beard and long hair, the reader was a hiker (Of course).  He was reading avidly and about halfway through the book.

Prime Witness.  Steve Martin. The Steve Martin?  The reader was an extremely middle-class, middle-aged white guy, wearing crappy PayLess shoes that looked like they were chopped out of old tires with an ax.

This seems a likely random stopping place.

NEVER TO BE SEEN ON TRIMET

There's the hip Portland of bikes, beer, food carts, sustainable businesses, urban farms, jobs in the comic book industry or IT, and, of course, Portlandia.  And there's Portland, The Center for White Liberals Who Don't Know Any Black Folks. There's the city that boomed during the heyday of the shipyards and the timber industry, adding 160,000 to its population during World War II, the same city with a current official unemployment rate of 8 percent that is probably closer to 15 percent after counting those who've stopped looking for work, who never started looking, or who are part-time.  There's the city crawling with thousands of medical marijuana cardholders. There's a city trying to keep itself Weird, where zombie walks and 200-tuba concertos and heavy tattoos are supercool. There's a city with a police force that shoots too many unarmed citizens. And there's a town that gets six or seven months of rain a year, which a national magazine determined a few years ago to be the unhappiest city in the country. 

(I don't believe that last one, though.  Dark colors and extra weight do not depression make.) 

And there's the Portland seen riding on Tri-Met, which gets reported on here. 

I came across some people recently who are located in Portland, but whom you will never, ever see riding TriMet. They are beautiful and handsome. There are beautiful and handsome folks here, but not like this. These have come from somewhere else, I'm pretty sure: L.A. or New York or outer space. Oh, they may have started out as children in any old towns. But somewhere between birth and now, something happened. They emerged from the 99% into the realm of big media. Their faces, and more, have become commodities.

They are being sold by a company called "Option Model and Media," which has an address in inner Southeast not too far from OMSI.  (The nearest stop is where the 15 Belmont meets the Morrison Bridge.  Stop No. 4028.)  Here's the link:  http://www.optionmodelandmedia.com/website/home/

There are three faces -- headshots -- on the landing page:  a male "Actor" in a checked shirt, a female "Model" wearing heavy Goth eye makeup and a "Kid" who is impossibly still and grave. The eyes of each of these people look out at you with startling clarity. Bravo to the photographer who captured these faces.  Bravo!

MISSED CONNECTION?

Take this guy coming down the Max aisle on his way out.  Who dressed him this morning?  He looks like Elvis Presley's runty brother.  He's got bedhead, his eyes are slits, the expression on his face suggests he's getting a second taste of the Cheez Kerls and Cherry Garcia he had for dinner last night.  But his shirt is clean and tucked into his Dockers and he's wearing new shoes and it's 7:30 a.m., so he must be going to some kind of job, right?

In my own way, I've been there.  Slept through the commute.  Missed my stop.  One morning, a guy sidled up to me in a standing room only train and whispered "Your fly is down."  Imagine trying to zip up in that situation . . . Somehow, I did.

Another morning, after changing an inside-out sock discreetly at my desk, followed by a conversation with my boss, I found a booger poking out of my nose.

So, looking at this young man I was looking at myself.  But in slow motion.  He moved freely enough, without a prosthetic, cane or other helpful technology, without leaning on the seat backs for support, in a lucid, syrupy dream.  As he oozed along, his face stayed smooth and bland.  He put one pod in front of the other.  Took a moment.  Put the other pod in front. Took a moment.  If I could have just heard the motor in there, I would have known he was remote controlled and figured the battery was about gone.
        
But perhaps he was "Being Here Now," savoring the moment -- the Cheez Kerls coming around for the second time, the smell of the crowd, the fluorescent limelight.  What is a journey on Trimet, anyway, if not life's strange journey in miniature?

Shorty Presley finally reached the door, watched his bus go by, said "Damn, that's what I get for making music," and with surprising energy, trotted out onto the street.

WORK RELEASE

The Max was bulging with passengers.  They leaned to make space for me.

A young guy said "There you go" in a friendly tone and pushed aside a hanging bicycle so I could claim my one square foot.

He was joking with two other guys, having a great time.  His voice and delivery reminded me so much of the comedian Bob Saget that I'll call him "Bob."  Bob was doing most of his joking with a guy who looked like he was cut from a block of lumber.  I'll call him "Woody."  Though they never used one another's names, Woody and Bob both called their mutual friend "Taylor."  So Taylor it is.


Woody, Bob and Taylor were crammed tight next to each other in a semicircle, in that order..

 "How's that feel?" Bob said to Woody. Woody's look was unreadable..

"Can you grind?  I like the grind,"  said Bob.

Woody had some play in him.  "Coarse grind or fine?" 

"I don't care.  Just so I get cream in my coffee."

Woody said "I'm going to pry open the train door and push you out."

Bob said, "I have a hand in Taylor's pocket so it might not be so easy.  Taylor's built like an anchor."

Taylor said, "In prison they told me I was built like a Barbie doll."

Bob said, "You got some hips, Taylor, but I don't know what else those good old boys were looking at.  Did you stuff some TP in your shirt?"

There followed jokes about Barbie and Ken.

"Ken was actually gay, you know," said Woody.

"Oh, yeah.  He was all over G.I. Joe."

"Right.  I suppose Rock Hudson was gay, too."

"Who's Rock Hudson?"

"You are so young, Taylor."

They compared ages.  Bob was 27.  Woody was 23.  Taylor was 22. 

Taylor said "I turned 21 the day I went inside."

Bob said, "Taylor, you need a father figure.  You can be my son.  But you've got to have respect for your elders."  

Taylor didn't respond and Bob asked him what was the matter.  Taylor said he was tired.

Bob said he had lots of energy, though "not as much as when I was tweaking."

Then Bob asked Woody if he was tired, too. I looked Woody over.  He gave off a whiff -- covertly, but still -- of the threat and fear that sometimes hangs around ex-convicts.  He said that "Last night the X-man tried to get in bed with me."

It was chilly last night," chirped Bob.

"I told him he better move on or I'd kick his ass."

Taylor said "X-man couldn't sleep and he kept going to the front for Ambiens.  I'm sure he had no idea what he was doing."

Bob said to Woody, "But you'd still have to kick his ass, right?  Whether he formed an intent or not?"

"Yep."  

"Man, you have got good boundaries. I'm proud of you for that."

They were silent for a long moment.  Then Bob said, " I was going to say something rude but I held back.  Out of respect." 

He went on, "You're too young to be tired, Taylor.  Look at me -- much older than you and I've got plenty of energy." 

"I always had plenty of energy when I was tweaking," said Woody, lifting his eyebrows to touch the brim of his cap. 

"That's where I got all my confidence from," said Bob, striking a tone of irony, self-deprecation and truth that Bob Saget couldn't touch.

Taylor said, "You got a little overconfident." 

"That's right, son.  Do as I say, not as I do.  When you get a little older, I'll teach you about the birds and the bees." 

"Too late, Dad.  My girlfriend's pregnant."

Bob said, "Who's the father? I want to congratulate him . . ."

They got off the Max at Third Street, heading towards Pioneer Square.  Happy to be free.


Nick O'Connor
copyright 2012