The Whine and the Crash

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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. 

The thought of home was soothing, the thought of an emergency room sad, so I went home.

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.

THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 had decided to take a header onto the tracks, she was too far away to have stopped him.

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.

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. 

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.

"Can I see your fare, please?"

Never a good liar, I said "I don't have it."

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.

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.

"I ride every day with an All-Day ticket."

Without showing emotion, the inspector lowered his book and said he was letting me off.

"I'm allowed to grant a certain number of warnings each day. You're one of today's lucky winners."

I thanked him. I did not hang around for small talk. 

Texting While Holding Hands

 They both loved holding hands, the color red, and multitasking.

ACTING LIKE A HUMAN BEING

I 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.

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.

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.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Are you okay?"

"I think I'll make it."

"No harm, no foul."

"You're one of those nice Portland people."

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.

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.

"Hungry?"

"Starving.  I'm homeless."

"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.

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.

She said, "I'm just gonna eat it."

The bus was fairly crowded and I had to stand. But she found a seat on the front bench and ate.

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."

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.

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.

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.

A man boarded, He was skeletal, with sickly yellow skin and buggy eyes. He was dragging a large garbage bag filled with clanking cans.

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.

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.

At 9:56, the man clanked to a seat. There was still time to get to the store, if the driver would now go.

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.

"Will this take care of it?"

The driver, showing obvious embarrassment, said "Yes, it will."

A few seconds later we were moving.

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.

The End

MY INTERLOPER

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.

The plan went smoothly.  I reached the bus stop with my drink as the bus hove into sight three stops away.

A car slowed on the far side of the street.  The driver rolled down the window and waved at me.

"I have to talk to you."

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.

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.  

I glanced around in case something dangerous was closing in -- no.

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.

As I said, the next bus was due in four minutes.

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.

"This is not a bus stop anymore."

I glanced up.  In fact, the bus stop signpost was gone.  Oh.  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.

I looked back at my interloper.

"This is what I've been trying to tell you."

"Oh.  Thank you."

"My wife did use this stop every day.  That's how I know." 

Wow.  What a good neighbor.  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.  And I had tried to ignore him.

I thanked him again and ran for the next bus. 

ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN DAY

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

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

She was absorbed, blithely innocent of the aural trespass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned it off with some exasperated lip English.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

BEHIND THE MASK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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