Riding With The Enemy

This morning the Max was very full at the Hollywood Transit Center

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.

"Transients hang out there," she said, talking herself out of the trip without any help from the man.

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!"

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?"

"I'm an electrician."

"That's a good job. Pays good, too. That's where you're goin'?"

"I go to school today."

"What are you studyin'?"

"To be an electrician."

"So you're not legal yet?"

"I could be more legal."

"Do that!" The giant laugh filled the train car.

The big blonde mentioned he's been in the Marines, GI bill, studied computer science. His buddy went to nursing school.

"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."

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.

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.

"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."

"Wow."

"Yeah, he netted less than the 20K he would have had on a 30K income."

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."

He paused to glance around. I looked away.

"We don't want your stuff. We can't sell it for what it's worth. We just want your money."

A minute later the Blond Bomber left and a mentally disabled guy spoke up.

"Who was that? Is he a comedian? What was he talking about?"

"Taxes," someone replied.

"What's taxes?"

"That's when they take your money away and give it to someone else."

Happy Tax Day!

The White Dress

The White Dress from inside looking towards The Real Mother Goose

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.

I watched a young woman adjust a wedding dress. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

Ruminating on the woman in The White Dress, I thought of my wife. 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. 

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.

The Virtuous Fare Inspector

My favorite fare inspector boarded the westbound Blue Line at the Rose Garden.

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.

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."

So I like the guy because he was merciful.

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."

The bicyclist said, "Are you gonna hold the door for me?"

Not "Would you mind holding the door for me?" but "Are you gonna..."

The fare guy said "No. If the door closes, push the button."

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."

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.

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.

"Hey," he said, waving the phone at the inspector. The inspector glanced over, peered at the phone and said "That's no good."

"Excuse me?"

"I'll be with you in a second." He turned back to the shlumpy rider.

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.

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.

"I can see you've got the app but you haven't paid the fare for this ride."

"I'm paying the fare right now." He swiped and showed the screen. "I was waiting for you."

"You're required to pay the fare before you get on."

"I was a little preoccupied.  You interrupted my attempt to board."

The inspector leafed to the next citation on his pad. "Can I see some I.D.?"

The biker whipped out an I.D. and followed up by showing the phone again.  "See, same name as on the phone."

The inspector took note of the name and called in to find out if the subject's name was already in Trimet's database.

"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."

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."

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?"

The litttle smile, which had gone away, appeared again on the biker's face. "How do you live with yourself?"

"It's dealing with good people like yourself that makes my job worthwhile."  And the inspector moved along.

So I also like the fare inspector because he's fair. Handing out mercy and justice, what a great guy. Made my day.

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