Tag: people watching

Cassin Finch

Made my way to the front door. The finch was sitting on the storage box, squinting its eye at me.
“Good Morning,” I greeted,
It chirped an exclamated cuss word at me as it flew out the front door and over my head.

An Early Saturday Morning,
walking out to my assigned bus under the pink glow of TMOBILE Stadium. I saw a fluttering behind the windshield of 7024.
It settled down onto the steering wheel.
We looked each other in the eye,
its little beak tilted, and its eyes seemed to squint at me.
I began to open the side window, which made the little finch flutter again and fly to the back of the bus.
I reached through the window, started the engine and, opened both doors, continued my inspection around the coach.
Made my way to the front door. The finch was sitting on the storage box, squinting its eye at me.
“Good Morning,” I greeted,
It chirped an exclamated cuss word at me as it flew out the front door and over my head.
I uttered back to it,
“Stuck in a bus all night is no place for you”!
I quickly lost sight of that Cassin as it fluttered back to its freedom of sparse trees, brush, and freeway underpasses.
I searched for droppings, just one near the rear door.

My second run of 106 was quite a bit busier than average.
A woman in her 30s entered the bus very thin, worn jeans, faded green hoody, tennis shoes with holes, no socks. Clearly high on some kind of nonweed substance, but she was keeping to herself and quietly sat down about mid-bus, put her head between her knees, and began to sleep.
I checked on her when I reached the last stop in Chinatown.
She was out. I did manage to wake her, let her know where we were. She wanted to sleep. “OK, but you’ll have to exit the bus when we reach Renton” I let her have her sleep and made my way to the layover, then began my 3rd run.
When we reached Renton, she was still out but, after several attempts, did respond to my loud voice.
She wouldn’t leave, I let her know she needed to or I would have to call this in, “Do you need medical attention”?
No, she said,
Mam, I have to ask you to leave. We need to take this bus back on the routes, and you can no longer stay.
” I need a DR, she said.
Mam, I’ll call that in if you do need medical attention. They will make sure you get off the bus.
She faked going back to sleep.
I called it in,
let TCC know she asked for medical attention, but I had my doubts,
He sternly let me know they take medical requests seriously,
“OK, she asked,” I said.
Shortly both the police and fire department arrived,
asked her if they could help her, she declined medical attention.
“We can’t do anything if she declines help.”
the responder said.
The police took her by the shoulders and removed her from the bus.
I quickly closed the door as she tried to re-enter.
Her head was down, looking defeated and confused in my right mirror as I pulled away.
Later that evening, taking my walk through Lincoln Park, listening to birds being busy with their mating and territory calls, fluttering and settling in amongst branches of Cedars, Pine, and Alders.
Walking on Dirt trails between duos and singles found their way through the crowd. We were all wrapped in coats and scarves, knit hats hiding foreheads, cell phones being held to ears.
It was a crowd moving and in mid-stride to their collective destinations.
The Sun began to rest on the slow blue horizon
the crowd’s shadows were long, then disappearing while the sky turned grey.
Waves on the shore kissed rocks and sand
another Cassin Finch flew by my head and cussed a squeak.
I thought of my rearview mirror, a figure, thin,
head down, quiet with no movement, her shadow on the pavement beginning to shorten as the sunlight was above her.

Matriarch

An elderly woman entered my bus just before the bridge in Freemont.

An elderly woman entered my bus just before the bridge in Freemont.
She asked what the best way to get to the convention center over freeway park was.
I responded that I could drop her off at 3rd and Pine, then she should walk to Pike, catch the 10, and let the driver know where she is going. The driver will make sure you get as close to there as we can.
“Thank you. She said”
A young gentleman entered after her; my guess is he is 18 or so, sagging jeans, a red jacket and hat, dark sunglasses. He didn’t speak as he walked by and stood next to her.
They started a conversation,
“My son is giving a presentation at the convention today; I’m going to watch him,
“That’s nice,” he said. They chatted on, and he shared he had just started community college until he figured out what he wanted to do.
They hit it off, she over 80, chatting it up with him, and his heart seemed to warm to her as well.
We arrived at the stop at 3rd and Pike,
He stepped off first, took her hand, and helped her off the bus,
explaining to her that he would make sure she got to her next stop ok.
Together they crossed through the crosswalk. He kicked a used soda can out of their way, trashed papers blew against the building in front of them that had its windows covered with graffitied plywood.

I continued south on 3rd to the Marion stop
and remembered a building that was recently replaced.
There was a mural painted on the side of a building.
It was an advertisement for Coca-Cola that had been painted long ago.
It faced north. Over the years, its red background softly blended into the wall of brick the building was made of. The white letters of Cocacola greyed of Seattle’s salt air and urban grime.
I had always imagined it had been there for decades facing north, it’s classic graphic lasting those decades from being bright and new, fresh in appearance and promise of being of the times.
A testament to excellent marketing.
Then fading with its nostalgia becoming part of the background, to fading that softened with its color as a newer building demands its space. Then one day, the graphic against those old, well-witnessed bricks are gone and replaced with new metal, glass, and stone that will take the oversight of Seattle’s buildings and comings and goings for the next any number of decades as it takes in the saltwater air and urban grime.
That is the task of our buildings as we walk in and out and pass them.
They are tools that are built for our convenience. Our current fashion will add paint decoration or slapped on attributes,
When they begin to lose their convenience, they have lived their life and will make room for another that will become the new witness in their place.

I often think of a phrase spoken by a Monk:
We are what we think; All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the world.
And I find all this humanity, In a Bus.

 
TT Chaufer
AKA: Eric Hall, 22673 Ryerson Base
For more stories: Transittransientsandotherstories.com

Firelight

The woman sipped out of her campfire mug, the steam breathing upwards as the light rain dropped to the ground.

Firelight

In the first hours of daylight savings, driving by Goodwill on 6th and Holden.
On their loading dock, a small campfire was burning. A woman in a wheelchair, red blanket wrapped her body, green knitted cap wrapped her head.
The fire was being attended to by a man in a plaid flannel shirt, jeans that had been rolled up over his boots.
His Trucker hat tilted towards the fire as he pushed pieces of wood into the fire.
I thought
The loading dock door must’ve been good for reflecting back the heat and the light.
The woman sipped out of her campfire mug, the steam breathing upwards as the light rain dropped to the ground, silent in the black sky and hum of traffic.
Winter had been stubborn to leave this year.
Its cold and wetness keeping spring at bay for a while longer.
I’m driving the D line up 3rd Ave that day.
Similar Fires have been made at James, the 7-11 at Marion, Pike,
then Virgina.


Street people standing or sitting around the fires,
drinking, eating, smoking.
Wrapped in blankets and coats,
trash feeding the fires.
Their conversations breathing steam upwards with no rain to wash it down again.
I head West onto Elliot, then North on 15th Ave W.
The clouds have parted for the Sun on our first day of spring; the winter air bites back through my cracked side window.
A slight smell of smoke in the air.
I listen to my tires against the pavement, then over turtles as I approach Dravus.
One of the regulars steps onto the bus, swipes her Orca card as I wish her Good Morning.
She says,
Happy Spring.

Last Moments Of A Mallard

Her babies nervously quacking and jittering movements the Mom quacking back torn between leaving him and protecting her babies.

I’m driving North on College way at about 7:15 am on a Saturday.

It lays in front of North Seattle Community College, which has a Park like feeling with Natural growth trees and wetland.

I have seen birds of all varieties, rabbits, raccoons, many squirrels.

It makes a nice drive as it is in contrast to my trip through town with its landscape of homeless camps, broken windows, traffic.

That morning as I arrived at 98th   street stop sign,

To the right, almost to the sidewalk, a mother duck was pecking at what I believe was her male. Its Greenhead twisted over its back, legs splayed in a way that isn’t possible for unbroken bones.

Her babies nervously quacking and jittering movements the Mom quacking back torn between leaving him and protecting her babies.

Ducks seem to struggle daily to get by.

I pull into my next stop.

One of my regulars, an elderly gentleman whose right arm hangs dead

He tucks the hand of that arm into his jacket pocket as he moves by me.

A young couple are blowing out a mouthful of weed before they enter the bus.

They look at me confused when I say good morning, move to the back without a word or paying.

Traffic is a bit heavy that morning as I make my way to Market Street in Ballard. Then right to head south on Leary way.

I pass homeless tents that have been there through the pandemic.

One of the Tents has a fire going in their pit. Its black smoke is dirty from burning some oil-based product.

The Sun hits my eyes pretty strong just before I pass under the Ballard bridge as I move closer to Freemont.

I open my door at the Leary way and 8th street stop.

A young man, 20 maybe…. Has his fentanyl pipe out, as my doors are open he says, wait a minute… then lights his pipe.

I close my doors refusing him entry as I continue on to Freemont.

He is yelling at the bus as I pull away

“Are you kidding me”??

“Fuck you”!!

I’m stopped in Freemont where the bridge is up, load up another regular on his way to work, taps his card, and sits in the center bench seat very back.

The young couple try to engage him in conversation,

He has no time for them.

I’m driving through downtown, on 3rd ave, they have done a lot to clean up the streets.

Less tents, less garbage, but I get the impression they are playing homeless “whack amole “as people are just more spread out now.

Union stop I let someone off

A homeless guy unshaven for months, old dirty jeans, t-shirt dirty coat, hair crusted with gunk jumps on eating his cereal out of a plastic cup. Gets off at the next stop, grunts then throws his cereal cup onto the floor spilling its milk and raisin bran onto the floor.

I’m now at my layover in front of the Central base.

The Security and Sheriff people are with another homeless guy who is laying on the sidewalk next to a bus stop.

His pants are below his hip, the rest of his clothes are a mess,

The Sheriff is loudly asking him…..

Heroin? Did you take Heroin?

The sun is directly over them, blue sky with very few white clouds, there are shadows cast by standing people in the center of this turmoil, sidewalk with trash of old food, cans, liquor bottles.

Police car lights flashing orange, red, white.

It is the Mallard I think of,

Crossing the street with his family in front of him at the sidewalk as he is struck, twisting his neck and back as he is forced under the car then thrown to the side.

His last moment had his family in view walking towards a pond amongst trees with the sun in the sky with few white clouds to cloud his day.

For Better, or for Worse

I have seen them as I drive by, sitting on their mattress, eating, drinking, laughing together, chatting.

For Better, or For Worse

Just south of the overpass called Freeway Park

On the West side of the freeway is a space between columns,

It’s a small incline that ends with a cement wall that separates the space

From 6th avenue.

The freeway just beside it exits to James.

I watch it as there are a homeless couple who have made a tent there,

Or rather a collection of items that include a broken tent. Of which

Stands next to their mattress, which is surrounded by increasing amounts of garbage.

Paper, food containers, plastic what nots, cans, bottles.

They dress like they may have blue collar jobs and keep clothes somewhat in reach of their mattress.

Of which is bare, weathered, stained.

I have seen them as I drive by,

Sitting on the mattress, eating, drinking, laughing together, chatting.

One afternoon about 5 on a Saturday, I finished route 5 and was deadheading back to base

As I drove by their place

They were naked, making love on their mattress amongst the garbage and trash,

It was sunny out, near 80.

They were vigorous and passionate.

Seeming unaware of the freeway as

traffic was heavy, busy as cars changed lanes vying for places in line.

The next Saturday,

As I drove by again, finished with route 5

The area had been cleaned,

The broken tent was gone, the mattress gone.

The area had been raked clean of all the garbage.

In the area where the mattress had laid,

The Dirt seemed darker, barer.

I remembered the look on her face as they made love,

Her open mouth, eyes closed, brow furrowed.

Her feet laid on garbage,

For better, or for worse,

For Richness or poorer,

Sickness or in health.

Saturday 7:30 AM

Its grey changes slightly from

Its just before sunrise

The fog feels thick, dense,

Its grey changes slightly from the medium grey where it touches the ground to a hint of blue in what would be sky.

The Ground, dark grey, trees green-grey, streetlights not quite white orbs that glow with a mist showing small droplets moving at diagonals.

He is dressed in a blue down jacket, hood, ski pants, boots.

He rocks side to side as his legs take small steps.

In his arms are bags that hold the weight of all his belongings.

His dark silhouette emphasizes the smoke from his cigarette as it disappears as it mixes with the mist in the air.

He walks down the middle of the street, double yellow line under his feet.

There is no shadow behind, or beneath him, only the dark grey of pavement.

He walks under a light, its conical shape of mist triangles a sign of Shoreline Community College Everyone welcome here.

He walks past me, to a bus stop with a shelter bench, he places his bags on the ground

Sits, then lays on the bench, his legs from the knees bent, so his booted feet are on the ground.

He takes the cigarette from his mouth, holds it in his had as he breaths deep.

Brings his right forearm across his forehead.

The fog is getting lighter, less dense.

Sunrise is beginning.

Its time to start a new day.

A runner with her dog passes by

 her breath denser than the fog.

The sunrise brings her shadow.

A rumble of a diesel engine starting.

Lament

I recognize this state, have been there.

Last summer on Saturday Mornings I drove east on Columbia, then North on 3rd, She kneels just a bit back from the curb of the street.  Arms at her side, she rocks back and forth as she balls, completely, her tears compete with the drops of rain around her.  It is a cry of hopeless sadness, pain.  Her eyes wide, her arms loose, her gaze at nothing in front of her.  Her sobs are from what’s behind her that does not leave her.

I recognize this state, have been there.

In college, finals week.

Preoccupied with everything, paying no attention to the moment, I arrived at home, opened my car door and did not notice my cat trying to enter my car as I slammed the door.

It took her minutes to die.

I was completely, utterly destroyed.

My knees were also on the sidewalk wailing.

Her pain echoes across the worst of memories and possibilities.

I drive by her slowly, carefully, painfully, my window is open, the smell of salt water, seagulls cawing.

Diesel engine hum.

45 mins later, I drive by going the opposite direction.  She is still there, tears have not stopped.

Behind her now, a middle aged man in a wheel chair eats a hot dog.

This Saturday, another woman, small in stature, reddish tone to her skin, drops her cigarette places her bottle of Dom Perignon on the ground.  I notice that its about one fourth full of water.

She steps on the bus, screams Fucker!! Sits down rings the bell. I stop at the next stop. She does not get off.  I pull forward, she rings the bell and yells Stop!  I pull into the next stop, she ignores where we are at.

I continue my route.

She starts to yell the words from “Always and Forever”

She uses one note. Monotone.

She is angry. Yells it louder.

Then cries, leans her head on the window.

Cusses “Asshole”.

I arrive at Denny and 7th.

She steps off the bus, leans on a bench.

She sobs.

I continue on my route.

Behind her a couple are walking their dog, phones to their ears

Hesitate as the dog sniffs from a safe distance.

A lament or lamentation is a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.

The Prayer

He unrolls his prayer rug to face east, kneels with his arms reaching in front, the drops of rain sticking to his skin, darkening his white tank top

Turning North on 6th from Holgate, 5:40am, on the sidewalk just east of Salvation Army.  A man, dressed in shorts, white tank top, bare feet carrying a prayer rug, it’s sprinkling out rinsing the soot of the recent fires in Oregon that have been sending their smoke North to Washington and Canada, there has not been much wind in the past week, it is smoggy, thick with the smell of smoke, you can feel the air stick to your skin and the sprinkle of rain creates a darkening mist just above the ground.

He unrolls his prayer rug to face east, kneels with his arms reaching in front, the drops of rain sticking to his skin, darkening his white tank top.

His pup tent door is open to the sidewalk, it is also facing east.

 I continue to drive by as I hope Allah is listening,

I as well speak to the great Creator, asking for wind, and perhaps if he feels it appropriate, a downpour of rain to help all the creatures of his world as I pull into our parking garage.

It’s noon, I pull into the Burien Transit center, drop a small group of riders off, There by the building 5 policemen have a man on the ground, he is kneeling, his hands cuffed behind him a small crowd surrounds the scene.

  I continue clockwise around the building and come across a small flock of pigeons that have been slaughtered a few are missing heads, it does not look like they had been run over by a bus, I wonder if the handcuffed man had something to do with this.

I’m at home, close to 9pm, in my yard, through the haze, my binoculars are focusing on the moon that has begun it’s crescent phase, it has a slight red tint to it.

Orange Needle

Crows are present, they have found stops like these offer foods for the day, materials for nests, a reason for territory arguments

This August morning started with greys and mists, sun orange behind clouds the warm light casting mild shadows.

Its early enough the sounds of cars, traffic and people are still singular sounds, muffled by their distance. I am at a stop at 12th and Lane. This stop is often busy with human services and care, by this stop is a small tent city know for its drug use, crime.  Some are waking up, some are returning home, they are moving around, one lady makes her way to 12th, She doesn’t seem to know she’s on the street, nor does she see me, she drops her pants, her skin is blotchy, potted, she pees, then vacates her rectum a few yards in front of me.  She cleans herself with a towel she tosses to the sidewalk.  My door is open, I smell the garbage that’s littered, wrappers, beer cans, broken bottles, clothes. I can smell alcohol and the garbage in the air. A siren in the International district echoes between the buildings.

Crows are present, they have found stops like these offer foods for the day, materials for nests, a reason for territory arguments.

Two Crows look to be molting, they are skinnier than most, not a jet black, more of a light charcoal, feathers hang loose from their bodies unpreened,  their movements are quick, they seem angry, they have found an orange needle the kind that is handed out by the state, they are pecking it.  One goes to pick it up, the other pecks at its beak, the needle is dropped, the crows fight each other. Viscous, not normal territory squabble.

I had to ask myself, are they fighting over the needle for its drug?

They are rolling on the ground, talons out, pecking for eyes, one flutters away chased for a bit.

I close my door, continue south across the Rizal bridge,

I can see T Mobile Park lighted in Pink, in the distance behind, Puget Sound then the Olympic Mountain range rises above the park, its peaks are blue to white, to a soft glow of the yellow sun touching grey clouds.