Tag: transit

Just Before Lunch

Next stop
5 or 6 passengers are spread out at the stop area, with a distance from the bench, where a woman in her 50s, dressed for the streets is sitting alone.
I recognize her, Mental Illness. Not sure how she gets by in the world
I think she stays at several different shelters, she is loud, has aggressive expressions, cuss words, she is angry

A couple in their 30s step onto the Bus on College way.

He has a $5 bill that he slides into the cash box as I hand him 2 transfers.

“Thank you, sir, I have a question” sure I said leaning toward my plexiglass screen to hear him.

“My wife and I are having lunch in the International district.

Will this bus get us there?”

Yes, it will be my last stop, and I’ll make sure I announce we are there.

“Thank you”

They make thier way to their seats in front just behind the ADA section on the door side.

Next stop:

5 or 6 passengers are spread out at the stop area, with a distance from the bench, where a woman in her 50s, dressed for the streets is sitting alone.

I recognize her, Mental Illness.  Not sure how she gets by in the world

I think she stays at several different shelters, she is loud, has aggressive expressions, cuss words, she is angry.

The passengers hurriedly load before her, she takes her time to grab her stuff, sits in the ADA section just in front of the young couple.

As I pull out she is starting to cuss and chew out the invisible people in front and behind her.

At the next stop, a few people move away towards the back.

We continue through Ballard, Freemont, and Westlake as she relives whatever torments her as her volume gets louder, then she’s quiet, then starts in again.

We are downtown on 3rd and Marion,

She exists the bus, in front of the couple, He leans in in front of his wife

Protecting her from what might be an unexpected blow from her,

The woman is looking at me as she exists and is yelling at me

As I am now the focus of her anger as she exits.

The couple relax and lower their heads when she is gone.

My next stop is 3rd and James.

(1 stop away from the last stop)

Another woman, a little bit older,

Same condition gets on the bus,

Sits a few seats behind the couple,

Begins her rant,

We arrive at the end of the route, 3rd, and Main,

I ask if they are good from here,

Their eyes are wide open, she is visibly shaken.

He is not happy with their choice of transportation for the day.

“yea, were good” he says as his head shakes.

My layover at the base was quiet

Cookie and coffee.

Made my way back North

3rd and Union,

I have one passenger on my bus.

There is a Man, 20s with blood on his head, inebriated,

I watch him as I pull in and hope he doesn’t want on.

He sees my bus and backs up indicating to me, that this is not his bus.

I begin to pull away.

He walks into the side of the bus,

I stop.

He swaggers, then falls

I call it in.

My supervisor arrives, fire dept.

The one passenger steps off waits for another bus, wishing me luck.

A pedestrian has the incident on her phone and explains to the supervisor how he just walked into the bus.

And was drunk and yelling about a girl before the incident.

He is ok as the fire department arrived

He refused care, wished us all a good day, and to drive safe.

Metro towed the bus back to base (no damage just to do some prep work in case he tries to sue)

They drive me back to base, arrange another bus for me, send me out

I finish my day at the end of the next run,

Go back to base,

Fill out the paperwork

Go home, make myself a peanut butter sandwich,

Go to bed listening to a Sasquatch Podcast.

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.

House on the Hill

She has a small pallet board homestead

She stands about 5′-2″—wind-blown Jet-Black hair. Dark skin, she Weighs maybe 90lbs. Because of her small size, her striking features, I think she might be South American. She wears jeans, plaid shirts, sometimes a black jacket over the shirt.
She has found a place behind Seahawk stadium, facing 4th avenue. Small empty green space, slight incline, a small tree to the north side of the clearing, small bushes on the street side.
She has built a small pallet board homestead. Shes lined her home with tarps, pieces of wood she has found.
The home sits on pallet boards as well. She steps up to the opening that is used as a door, pushing the tarp to one side, then steps in. Her place appears to be about 3 or 4 feet deep, 7 or 8 ft wide.
The area that she cleared for herself is clean. The grass is pulled, weeds are pulled. I have seen her collect garbage that blows its way into the area.
I have driven by in the mornings and have seen her sitting in front of her place eating. She uses a bowl and utensil. I begin to wonder where she has come from, how long she has been there. As the city has cleaned out other tent towns and homes over the last couple of years, she seems to have survived this, her house always clean, always separate from others, no one has moved into her territory. I have wondered why.

The small tree on her homestead is about 20 feet away from her door. She argues with it. I have seen her shake her fist at it. Break a branch, throw it on the ground. Then stomp to her house.
I have seen her stand at her property line, next to the street as cars and buses, trucks buzz past. She doesn’t seem to notice us. She stares past the hustle. Her dark eyes are busy with things on her mind. And She is busier than the street in front of her.
She looked my way last Sunday, I was hoping to see into her eyes, but we never connected there. She turned again to the tree, waved her arms, stomped to her door.
Behind her, lights of Century Link Stadium.

Somedays I wish for a Zombie Apocalypse. The good news though, Seahawks are 4-0

I have more than once heard: A society is measured by how they treat the most vulnerable.
I think it’s evident how we measure up.

I’m going to rant a little bit.
I like my job. I find it interesting. It’s a job like no other if you’re a people watcher. It’s been said that bus drivers encounter more people than Presidents or the Pope on a weekly basis.
So, that is what gives me a license to rant.
Today, 3rd and Cherry, I have seen this man several times this past year. He sits in a provided manual basic wheelchair, the kind Hospitals give to people who need them just before they are sent back into the street or shelter.
He has no legs. He is far too skinny to look healthy.
He has one arm.
He struggles to use this chair. I have seen him trying to push the wheels forward. It’s, to say the least: Awkward.
Back to today. 2 pm. He sits on the street side of the sidewalk, facing uphill on 3rd and Cherry. His head is tilted to the side, his eyes vacant. His one arm dangles next to the wheel. He looks exhausted. He is in a dangerous place as a car speeds up the hill and misses him by a couple of feet.
I see a Prostitute that I have seen with him before. They have struck me as friends, not business. She is a blond, short polyester skirt, stained with street muck, white leather jacket; blond hair pulled back. White skin that is blotchy red, she is moving as quickly towards him as she can to help him.
My light turns green. I move south on 3rd ave.
I am repulsed by what I just saw.
A man with no legs. one arm living on the streets. His best friend, a drug-addicted Prostitute, who probably has a heart of gold. Nonetheless, her occupation creates a risk to her longevity, and her obvious drug addiction also creates risk.
Why do we allow this? Is this the best we can do?
I have more than once heard; A society is measured by how they treat the most vulnerable.
I think it’s evident how we measure up.
The same trip, on 1st between Holgate and Lucile.
Another man has his sweatpants down to mid-thigh, his jockstrap is down too, he is scratching under his testicles, he sees me and tries to wave me down. He has a grin on his face, desperately tries to get me to stop.
I don’t stop; I can’t have that on my bus, I have people that I am responsible for their welfare and safety.
I drive down streets, where both sides of that street have homeless, drugged, handicapped mentally ill. These streets have garbage everywhere, decay, destruction as we build high-end high rises.

I’m a little angry at this point. I have to say, this kind of sequence of events is not outside the norm. This is the world we have built, and its no different in just about any big city across this country, and I’m sure other nations as well.
We are Irresponsible people.
I am one person; I fully admit that I do not have the money or resources to change anyone’s life. I simply have enough money to get by day to day and save a little for tomorrow and hope for the best. There is also only so many good deeds that I am capable of doing and still take care of my own life.
I recently saw the Walking Dead.
It’s a great series, not just for the acting, writing, effects, and eye candy. It’s great because of the portrayal of what happens when we don’t take care of each other.
The people in that series return to tribal status. They have found themselves with a group of people; they work for the better good. When they don’t, things predictably go wrong.
So, they bone up; they take care of each other the best way they can. It’s not always about being a better fighter, sometimes its intelligence, creativity, choosing to walk away, or learning to enjoy the moment. Every person has a place there; every person is important to their tribe.
We obviously do not do this.
We have the wealthiest nation on earth. We have the most powerful nation on earth.
We have a divided nation. The have’s are telling us, that there is nothing to be done to help the homeless, the poor, the disabled, the druggies. Nor can we afford to educate people. They say we can’t afford to help people that won’t help themselves. We cannot afford healthcare; it is not a right; it’s a privilege.
They think these people are lazy, unworthy.
They say this while the rich, the extremely rich get more tax breaks, broader control over the planet, more overall control over consumers. In other words, we spend our money foolishly on the wealthy.
We are a sick Nation, there are days I try my best in my own world to help the people around me, and I do these things selfishly because my world is better because of it. Then I feel better about my world.
I am a Seahawk fan. I am thrilled that they are now 4-0.
Isn’t it great that we have young millionaires playing a game. Owned by the super-rich who makes more money from people with enough money to buy tickets and merchandise to support this lifestyle.
( I say this knowing that so many of those players and teams do good things in their communities.)
Is this the best we can do?
Seriously, who would you rather talk to about life?
A football player, or a teacher, or a social worker. Who would give you the most wisdom regarding life?
I pull into a stop at Chinook street under the West Seattle bridge,
I lower the bus for an elderly man pushing his belongings in a rigged up cart of a dolly and plastic milk boxes.
It tips and spills his items out of the top milk box, some toilet paper, a half loaf of bread, a peanut butter jar, some clothing. He cusses. The 2nd milk box holds a pup tent. A young man with a skateboard who was waiting for his turn to board bends to help him. The old man starts to cry, and it’s obvious he is embarrassed; the young man gets things stacked again, pats him on the shoulder, then boards.
It’s about 230 pm.
I am pissed.
I have tears in my eye.
I drive slow to Avondale, where I take a left, head up a hill.
I am thinking a Zombie Apocalypse just might be deserved.
I am not kidding.

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.

The Kiss

I have watched a man walk his dog during that time frame, a good looking Pit bull Labrador mix that has a brindle coat.

I have been driving the same route in the same time frame for about a year now, and at different times almost two years before that.  I have watched a number of people on this route and know some of their routines.

I have watched a man walk his dog during that time frame, a good-looking Pit-Bull Labrador mix that has a brindle coat.

He had been walking her up and down 35th sw, happy dog, smile on her face when she greets people, she has that squirm and her ears go down when she meets people, and she loves them all. 

He is over 50, shaggy beard carries a ball for her, I have seen her run and catch, fetch be distracted by birds, dogs and people as she brings it back to him. 

I have seen her become grey, and this past year, she has slowed.  He had stopped carrying her ball early last summer, she was walking with her head down, her tail swings slow left and right, she stops, her nose in the air and sniffs, he patiently waits for her to move again. 

I missed seeing them over the past few weeks, saw them today. He lives by a stop, I am letting on an old gentleman that needs the ramp as he scoots his walker past me I watch the pair, I’m saddened:

Her back legs are not working right, her hip overly swings, her front legs are weak as she shakes to walk.  They are at the end of their front walk of his house where it meets the sidewalk grass, she stumbles falls, whimpers, she seems blind now, scared, he bends down next to her, lifts her front torso up, kisses her head and sooths her.

I am taken by this moment, I leave my door open and watch this grotesque, horrible but beautiful moment. 

I know he is talking to her, softly, as his lips are to her head, he slides his other arm under her back, to her hips, then lifts her, she subtly jerks, he whispers again, holds her as he stands and kisses her head again, she relaxes, her head loose over his arm, her tongue out, he is holding his head against hers in a hug as they turn towards his door. 

I close my door and start to pull away as he carries her to his door.

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.