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?