At the Park & Ride, three elderly gentlemen climb aboard.  Each of them brings a small “carry-on” sized suitcase.  The first time I saw them I assumed they were going on a trip – but this is now the seventh or eighth time we’ve traveled together and at each encounter my curiosity grows.  Sometimes it’s a week or two that they don’t ride, but it’s been as often as three days in a row.  Occasionally a woman rides with them, whom I assume to be a wife; but not today.  One of the men sits next to me on the side facing seats, another sits across from us, and the third traipses to the back of the bus.  I am not surprised when the two nearest me begin speaking in their own language.  I am not an expert but it is definitely eastern European…I would say Polish, maybe.  They are in their late sixties at the youngest.  The man next to me wears serviceable khaki pants, sneakers of no discernible brand, a plaid work wear shirt with an army green quilted vest over it.  He wears a cap – it’s literally a trucker’s hat, but not the kind the hipsters wear…he reminds me of my father, who wore them on the weekends.  Its navy color has faded and is travel-stained, and advertises something I don’t understand; maybe a worker’s union?   He also, like my father, wears large, square, horn-rimmed glasses, a holdover from the 1980’s.  The lenses are thick…very thick, and magnify the many lines around his eyes.  His skin is onion-skin, pale, translucent and speckled with signs of age.  His friend across from me wears what my dad called dungarees.  Jeans, but definitely work wear jeans – and a safari-type jacket and a newsboy cap.  They continue to converse and I wonder what they discuss.  I wonder, what’s in the suitcases?  I wonder, where do they go with those suitcases?  What could they possibly need them for?  Why do they always travel together?  Do they speak English at all?

Also at the Park & Ride a young man enters, probably about 16-17.  He’s wearing the thug uniform, jeans with the waistband practically down to his knees, striped boxers (I shouldn’t even know that…), an over-large black t-shirt with some kind of graphic on it, a varsity style jacket and a baseball cap (price ticket still attached...I know I’m dating myself, but I always think of Minnie Pearl when I see that.)  The ubiquitous ginormous diamond earring is in his left ear.  I have seen him before; he’s quiet and listens to his iPod, mostly. I mention him today only because at the 7-11 bus stop another similarly uniformed young man hops on and as he walks down the aisle, the first boy starts to get animated.  He pulls out the earbuds and grabs the second young man’s arm and shouts, “Pooh Bear!”.  They bro-hug, and I can’t help but smile.

On my other side is a man, in his mid-twenties, I think.  He is a fairly regular rider but this is the first time he has sat next to me.  My grandmother’s generation would have described him as “looking like a poet”.  He has chin-length wavy brown hair, a long, delicate face with a prominent nose and gray eyes.  He pauses often as he reads his kindle to push his hair out of his face.  I can’t see what he’s reading (yes, I’m nosy, I always check - can’t help it!) but every so often I see him from the corner of my eye – he touches the reading pane and lifts his chin in silent laughter.  Now I really want to know what he’s reading….  He wears non-descript clothing, chinos, a jacket, all in neutrals.  Across his shoulder he wears a type of messenger bag.  It’s very small, almost like an old-time mailman’s bag – its leather is very carefully distressed.  He’s nearly a walking cliché and I want to know how much of his appearance evolved naturally and how much is carefully affected.  I suspect it’s almost all natural.  We near the tunnel and all of us who are addicted to our smart phones pull them out for the last check before we lose service.  The Poet is no different – he brings out his iPhone and then I know that he and I are friends, and I have a strong suspicion of what he has been reading.  His home screen reads “Don’t Panic!”.

The sun sets early here, and apparently with it goes some people’s sanity.  It’s early evening and yet the atmosphere in the tunnel is more like midnight…there are some strange folks wandering on the southbound side.  Someone walks in front of me as I lean against the marble wall, tired and wishing for my bus.  I am completely unable to ascertain this person’s gender, although I lean toward male, so I’ll use that for my description.  He is about 5’9”, Asian, and I would guess of Korean descent; shoulder-length black hair in long, messy curls.  His face is covered with inexplicable clown-like makeup, the whiteface faded until it is a strange grey color, red oversized lips drooping, bizarre black marks smeared and blurred across his cheeks.  He wears some kind of enormous cargo pant that swirls around his ankles as he walks – it flows as if it were made of silk but his mien belies that extravagance.  His t-shirt is white and has some sort of graffiti print, and over it is a heavily used vintage Levi’s jacket strewn with dozens of buttons crying out slogans and affiliations. “That might be too much flair…”, I think to myself.  But we’re not done – he also has on a Hello Kitty backpack from which dangles all sorts of feathers and hoohas.  It’s quite a sight to see.  He has a companion with him, a nondescript sort who flies right under my radar;  I’m too busy watching this guy without appearing to be watching him.

The bus pulls up and as it does, this person starts laughing maniacally, loudly, so that it echoes throughout the tunnel.  I wonder if security will let him board?  Apparently he is not strange enough to pose a threat because he does board, and sits in one of the farthest back seats, he in the aisle, his companion at the window.  He still giggles loudly at intermittent intervals.  I climb into my seat and and immediately pull out my kindle.  It’s one of those rides…

Suddenly the clown sneezes theatrically and then laughs.  As he sneezes he tosses his head around and does not cover his nose or mouth.  It’s the most efficient way to spread germs I’ve ever seen.  I feel very sorry for the people he sits near.  Whatever reaction he was looking for must have occurred because he sneezes, then laughs, again.  And again.  And again.  Everyone turns to stare – I refuse and keep my eyes firmly planted on the screen in front of me. (Reading The Hobbit, for about the 275^th time, in preparation for the movie.) This continues, off and on, interspersed with loud incomprehensible speech and strange facial expressions, for about 25 minutes.  Everyone is annoyed and frankly disturbed by this guy, but what do you do in that situation?  He’s so downright weird that no one wants to talk to him, and he’s far enough away in the double length bus that the driver has no influence.  Eventually he gets off and we collectively sigh with relief.  His exit is quiet, almost humble, as if he’s exhausted his performance for the evening.  It’s anti-climatic and I feel a strange disappointment…like when a car chase ends in peaceful capture.  Where’s the show?!

It’s very cold, very wet, and very dark out this morning.  The eight of us waiting at the bus stop each form a one-man huddle for warmth, then move in unison, like a school of fish, as the bus rounds the curve and approaches our stop.  It’s a mindless thing, shuffling aboard, scanning the ORCA card; then we seamlessly switch into mental overdrive - scanning quickly and efficiently for a spot to sit (“not by him, too talkative; not by her, too many packages; never by that one, those kids are out of control”) while simultaneously avoiding the eyes of those watching us board.  Humans are endlessly interesting.

After I sit I find I’m restless this morning, no desire to read, so instead I begin to daydream a bit.  At the next stop my friend, the little guy who caused a ruckus one evening in the tunnel by singing and being generally obnoxious, gets on.  I’ve begun calling him Squirrely Joe for lack of a real name.  (In my inner monologue, everyone is a “Joe” – my dog is wiggly Joe or smelly Joe, depending on the circumstances.)  Squirrely Joe has been a model citizen ever since that first day, and I continue to wonder about him.  Today I watch him covertly as he fiddles with his iPhone and drowses, and I extrapolate several scenarios that may have made him act out that evening…most of which include some kind of medication (or lack thereof).  The mystery continues; I wonder if I’ll ever know?

Across from me is a massive young man.  We’re on the side-facing seats at the center of the bus, in the rotating circle, with accordion folds behind each of us.  There are two seats on my side, two on his.  He fills 80% of his two seats and has a large, very full backpack besides.  He gets on at my stop - I’ve seen him several times, but he never speaks or meets anyone’s eyes.  We’re a generally friendly group who at least wishes each other good morning, but not this one.  Being socially awkward myself I do know the signs of an introvert, but he goes above and beyond.  “Next time I’ll say hi and see what happens”, I think, but today I just observe.  His hair is that indiscriminate light brown that is so common and forgettable, but it’s frothy and fluffy like cotton candy, curling and swirling above his enormous head.  His glasses are wire rimmed and the lenses are covered in fingerprints and who knows what.  He wears a bland grey or beige tee shirt under a corduroy jacket the same bland color as his hair, paired with jeans and sneakers.  The backpack is silver grey and bulges at every possible spot with some kind of protrusion.  What does he carry?  I assume he’s in college, he appears to be in his 20s, but could be older.  But who needs everything they own, every day, even at school?  What catches my eye and my fancy today are three tiny buttons he wears on the jacket’s lapel.  One shows a female anime character – I’m not terribly surprised.  Another says “Jesus is coming – look busy!” and that makes me smile, because I have that same button.  A third inexplicably depicts a strawberry.  Nothing else.  No logo, no design, just a picture of a strawberry.  I am fascinated and befuddled.

At the last stop before the freeway a young man enters the bus.  He’s very well turned out; hair gelled just so, navy cashmere sweater over a sunshine yellow button down shirt, well-fitting dark khakis and cognac dress shoes.  He sits in the empty seat next to me and then I notice his ears…he has giant metal circles stretching out the piercing in his earlobes – they must be at least 1” across.  I shudder a bit – I don’t mind piercings but for some reason, earlobe plugs turn my stomach.  I wonder where he works?  I’ve seen him before so I assume he is commuting (no overfilled backpack here), but where could he work where the ears are appropriate with his dress? 

I wish I could follow all the regulars on the bus to see where they spend their days…the artificial intimacy of the transit system has me feeling that we’re some kind of massive, dysfunctional family and I long to understand what prompts the journey for everyone.  Maybe someday.

It’s a very chilly Fall morning; the sun is low on the horizon still and dawn sends a pink mist over the mountains to the North as I wait for the bus.  I climb aboard half asleep and settle in my favorite spot, wrapped in gloves and scarf and Muse’s new music, my Kindle on JP Moreland.

Across from me is an awkward young man I assume to be a college student.  He has beautifully golden blond waves that tangle in a thousand cowlicks, and a hint of ginger lies in the three-day stubble across his jaw.  Glasses sit crookedly on his nose and I notice a healthy amount of scotch tape holds the right earpiece to the lens portion. My eyes are drawn downward and I see his tee shirt – Halo Reach. Over it is a circa 1984 leather bomber jacket, worn to its last.  Across his lap he grasps a bright blue Under Armour duffle bag that appears to be completely empty.  What, I wonder, will fill it on the way home?  I continue reading but am distracted as he gestures to the empty seat next to him.  He is patting it and moving his head – the way I do when I call my dog up onto the couch – but I cannot see whom he is addressing.  No one moves, and I feel a moment’s embarrassment on his behalf.  ‘Perhaps he’s one of the strange ones,‘ I think, then return to my book.  A few stops later he is still trying desperately to communicate with someone, and finally a girl moves from a spot a few rows up to sit next to him.  I’m still sort of embarrassed…did he just wear her down?  Did she grow tired of the unwanted attention being drawn to her?  She is a beautiful girl, dusky skin and curves wrapped in jeans and a brilliant red Seattle University tee.  She is reading a paper of some kind and appears deeply involved in it. The young man is smiling broadly now and pulls out a cell phone to send a text.  ‘Triumph!’ communicated to a friend, I assume.  I read on in my book but glance up as we reach the freeway; my eyes are drawn to the pair again in mild curiosity.  The man’s arm is now around his companion, and he is lightly brushing her back.  Either he moves very quickly or they know each other better than it appeared because now her head tilts, then rests on his shoulder – altogether it’s a surprise ending to this little vignette.

We near downtown and at the first tunnel stop a man gets on.  He’s very slightly built with a riot of brown curls that flow down into a full beard – he seems top heavy, as if his diminutive limbs can’t support that hair, so he might topple over at any minute.  As he gets closer to me I notice several things about him that keep my attention.  He’s very unkempt; dirty, in fact.  He’s wearing denim shorts cut off at the knee, a tee shirt that once must have been white but now is somewhere on the spectrum between filth and grime.  A dingy green golf sweater rounds out the ensemble, and he cradles in his hands a simple woven basket (the type Italian restaurants use to serve a loaf of bread, perhaps).  He sits in a seat near me but across the aisle, facing me at an angle.  I can’t help continuing to study him covertly, wondering as I always do about the story behind the person.  I finally notice that he is wearing no shoes.  No socks either – he’s barefoot.  In the basket that is now on his lap, still held protectively, is a book whose title I cannot read and, of all things, a football helmet.  I sit and ponder for a moment; where are his friends and family?  Is he living in this way by choice?  What circumstances converged to bring him to the bus this morning, in the cold, with nothing to keep him warm?  What significance does the helmet hold?  Memories of someone he loved, or is it maybe a gift for someone else?  A talisman?  He gets off at the central downtown station - quiet, diffident, and alone.  I feel the tears building as I think about it, so I do the only thing I can in the situation: say a prayer.

I’m tired this morning – it’s tough to get my body out of bed and down to the bus stop, knowing that my daughter and all the pets will be just hanging out and enjoying the day at home.  But, I do it, because at least on the outside I’m responsible adult.

I secure my favorite spot on the elevated, side-facing section at the middle of the double-length bus, just before the accordion folds.  I am not sure why I like this spot – it just seems to be the most comfortable.  It’s probably because I like being elevated, that way I have a clear view of everything that goes on. 

At the stop after mine, the bus fills up rapidly.  A squirrely young man swings into the seat next to me and I just catch a glimpse of him as he turns; I’m concerned.  I’m fairly certain this is the guy that had a serious case of the crazies last week…as it turns out, I’m right.

I remember last week, it was on the way home.  I was in the Metro tunnel a little early, and had sidled up next to the large marble benches.  The tunnel, by the way, is amazingly beautiful for a transit station.  It gives a nod to Art Deco, all beige marble with oversized carved marble benches in a deep brown color, architectural details everywhere.  Each of the downtown tunnel stations is decorated differently; the International District has oversized Origami art on the tunnel walls.  At Pioneer Station, it’s a nautical theme.  University Station is the highbrow area, with the Seattle Art Museum, Library, etc., and its symbol is a pair of opera glasses.  Westlake Station, mine, is the downtown shopping district.  The frieze across from where I stand covers the gamut of celebrity, fashion, and commerce. 

But, back to last week – I sidled up to the large marble bench and sat on its corner stand.  I watched a young man, probably early to mid-20’s, walk towards me singing loudly.  He sat on the empty bench next to me, and proceeded to sing a song of his own making, using observations of what he saw around him as lyrics.  I had my iPod on but could still hear him clearly.  I have a long-standing policy of not giving attention to anyone who is clearly begging for it, particularly in an offensive or destructive way, so I ignore him completely.  He catcalled to women walking by, making continuous commentary on everyone who passed.  I started to wonder if he had a mental illness, or if he was being deliberately obnoxious.  He grew louder, and I contemplated confronting him but decided against it.  You just never know how people will react, and he wasn’t being abusive.  He hit a crescendo as the bus arrived, and we all filed onto it juggling for a position.  Once settled (I had gotten my favorite spot and was able to view the whole bus) I glanced back at where the boy sat – he’d continued singing off and on, but had lessened the offensive quotient.  When I looked at him, his eyes met mine and they were completely clear, looking directly at me.  I knew, then, that he was mentally stable, but was acting out for some reason.  I felt sad for him…he was small, frail, a bit unkempt, but nice looking.  I wondered what circumstances had occurred for him to feel that misbehaving in that way was his only ticket to being noticed.  At what point does negative attention become the substitute for the love and acceptance of family and friends?

Anyway, today he is calm and sleepy.  We ride in silence as he nods off, and I continue to wonder about the hows and whys of what made him. I wonder if there may be some opportunity for me to reach out to him someday.  I hope so.

The bus is very full now, standing room only.  There is a young Asian girl standing to my right, at the very edge of the accordion folds.  She holds on for dear life – that’s a dangerous spot to stand, because the floor of the bus has a circle that moves as a centrifugal spot working with the folds, allowing the bus to bend in half.  I notice she wears a UW headband, in purple fleece.  Then I see her jacket – it’s purple also.  The shirt she wears under her jacket is – you guessed it – purple.  I think, “She loves her college a lot!”.  I know the fans here are fierce but that is still pretty impressive for a Monday morning.

We arrive at the first stop after the freeway and a man gets off.  I didn’t notice him before, but as he walks slowly, carefully along the sidewalk toward the back of the bus all I can think is “Santa!”  He wears a crimson and white Hawaiian print shirt, of all things, with khakis and a light jacket.  Why not?  Santa needs a vacation too, I suppose, and Seattle is probably warmer than the North Pole.

After the first stop in the tunnel the bus clears a bit, and the UW fan moves into a seat across from me.  I can’t help it – I take inventory again.  She has a purple iPhone case, purple laces on her black sneakers, a purple wallet and, finally, a purple and white polka-dot umbrella.  She wins, fan of the year!

A young man enters, the height of hipsterdom.  He’s attractive in a shallow, meaningless way. A few commuters behind him is a shy-looking but pretty teenage girl in a bulky sweatshirt and yoga pants.  She sits in front of me and I watch her eyes follow the hipster as he passes me.  She immediately pulls out her cell phone to text someone.  I assume it’s about the boy…at that age, most things are.

An old man steps onto the now very crowded bus, faded Levi’s, button down shirt, brown Members Only-type jacket.  His cognac colored fedora covers his hair but it must be grey (if he has any), same as his neatly trimmed beard.  He asks the bus driver a question I can’t hear, but the answer was apparently satisfactory. He has a cane in one hand, with the price sticker still stuck to the shaft.  As he steps toward the crowded seats, he looks confused and a thirtyish woman who had been gossiping with a friend jumps out of her seat and offers it to him.  I’m touched by her gesture and I think, ‘He looks like Indiana Jones’ great uncle who wandered out of the Home’.

Sitting across from him is a monstrous woman, a mountain unto herself; shoulder-length graying dishwater hair pulled back into a lazy pony tail.  She has a knee brace on one tree-trunk leg; her legs are splayed apart onto the floor as if she is a weight lifter, feet in worn sandals, toes neglected.  She holds a pink cell phone up to her ear, but I never hear or see her speak.  She seems to only be listening…but to what?  In her other hand is another cell phone, this one tiny and black.  She holds them both in one paw, glaring at them, then listens to the pink one again.  What is so important?

At the last stop before the freeway, a man enters.  He’s black, about 35, wearing a royal blue football shirt with the #1 emblazoned in bright yellow.  His basketball shorts are a strange powder blue, long and past his knees, and he wears his athletic socks pulled all the way up so that no leg can be seen.  He has a black do-rag on, and I keep thinking there might be a pony tail at the back but I’m not positive. He has a large duffel bag that he places on the floor as he decides to stand for the rest of the ride.  I look back at him a few moments later and notice he has placed his hands through the loops provided for safety in such a way that it looks like he’s shackled there, at the front of the bus.  I wish I could draw, or paint, or somehow unobtrusively take his photo in order to capture that moment, but it’s not to be.  I wonder, what is he prisoner to?  Mass transit?  Cultural mores? Fitness?