Bus cartoon by Mozart Marley (click on the picture)

Overheard

Cell phone conversation at noon Monday on No. 14 bus:

"Would you come soon? They're trying to kill me. I'm a Cuban from Miami, and they have the city surrounded." Not sure if he meant Portland or Miami. (Janet)

See where it takes you

By Amy

It was a hot and humid summer day, and everybody on the bus suffered. Even the air-conditioning on the bus couldn't make up for the unrelenting heat. All of the seats had been taken, and the people without seats filled the aisle from end to end and spilled into the yellow-bordered zones near the front and back doors, where passengers usually are forbidden to stand.

If you were wearing shorts, sweat dripped from where your knees and thighs touched. People who already stank got stinkier in the heat. Students pushed their heavy backpacks into their neighbors' bodies just to gain a little personal space—a bus move I call "backpacking," and the people who sat along the aisle had to endure having a standing person's backpack, purse or ass in their face. It was altogether unpleasant.

But the bus driver, a big-boned, tough woman with short, gray hair who looked like she would be at home doling out cooked cabbage to inmates in a prison cafeteria in the former Soviet Union, kept picking up more people and cramming them in. Apparently, our bus was late, or the bus ahead of us was early or simply forgot to pick people up. Each stop meant at least eight more bodies, adding to our misery.

A tiny, mousy, middle-aged white woman in the back stairwell couldn't take it anymore. She was talking on her cell phone, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Hello, is this TriMet? I have a complaint. I'm on the No. 6 bus, and the driver keeps picking up more people even though the bus is full. It makes absolutely no sense, and I think it's a safety violation."

The other passengers rode quietly, ignoring the woman and trying to endure the discomfort. Relief was ahead; the MAX station, where most people debarked on the route, was just a few stops away. In the back, a baby started to cry.

The woman in the stairwell kept up. "I'd like to talk to a supervisor." She again repeated her complaint, apparently to a different person on the line. "No, I said I want a supervisor."

The bus rolled up to a stop near Northeast MLK and Broadway. More people crammed inside. The woman in the stairwell continued to rant.

But something was wrong. Two minutes had passed, and the bus wasn't moving. An outcry erupted from the passengers.

The driver got on the microphone. "If you don't like the way I'm driving, I guess I'll just wait here until a supervisor shows up."

Everyone's attention turned toward the woman in the stairwell, who was still on the phone. "This bus is over capacity," she said. "I want to talk to someone in charge."

Shut up, I thought. Shut up or I'll be late for work in my air-conditioned office building. I imagined punching and scratching my way through the crowd to get to her. It would be bad for anyone in my path.

A grandmotherly black woman dressed for church in a cobalt-blue suit and matching hat turned in her seat and faced the woman in the stairwell. "Shut the hell up," She said.

The complainer's eyes widened. Soon everybody was yelling at her to shut up. Faced with a mob of angry people, she called for the driver to open the back door and got off, but not without a parting shot to the driver: "I'll have your job for this." 

We started rolling again. Two greasy white toughs stood near me. Both had what looked to be blue jail tats on their faces and hands. One man's hair had been shaved to the skin on the sides and left long in back—an extreme mullet of sorts, but more menacing than comical. He stared at the woman on the sidewalk as the bus pulled away.

"Snitch," he hissed.

Victoria's Secret, finally revealed

By Ellen

This is from the 4, coming into town from NE Russell. There were a few seats left in the front. Two were taken up by a massive, greasy-haired young woman who, in previous eras, would have made a perfect sideshow fat lady. A microwave oven was in the seat next to her. A few stops in, a raggedy man got on. He took the seat one over from me, and I saw that beneath the filth, he was sort of handsome and young. He knew the fat woman, I imagined, from some social service. They talked about people they knew, and the woman said it was her daughter's birthday soon. She hadn't seen her in a few years, but she had a picture she dug out from her bag.

Then she said, "Oh, look. My favorite lotion. It's by Victoria's Secret. Have you ever smelled Victoria's Secret Body Lotion?" The man said he hadn't. The bus was going over the bridge."It's the best."

She opened her bag and started shaking a pink bottle. When she opened it, I'm sure the whole bus smelled it, it was so strong. She was massaging the lotion into her hands, all the while saying, "This is the best lotion. It's so good. Mmm."

Then we were in Old Town, and they both started to stand up. The man motioned toward the microwave and said, "Let me get that." "That's a new microwave I found," the woman said.

The bus stopped with its doors open, waiting for them to get off. "I'm going to try to sell it," the woman said.

The man had the oven in his arms and faced the back of the bus. "Anyone want to buy a brand-new microwave?"

No one moved or said anything, so the couple turned and got off.

Overheard

One young woman wisely advising another: "You don't have to have a man to have a dog." (Jake)

A small ratlike guy to a humongous linebacker-size guy in a Mets cap: "I trust you'll fit in--you won't be offended or offending." (Amy)

Self-image vs. reality

By Jake

The only part of the conversation behind me I heard was: "The first time I had a knife pulled on me was in Boston ..." It was said in the world-wise nonchalant tone of one cool customer sharing with an adoring neophyte, unconcerned with who else might know of wicked ways. All in one it established his wide travels, his too-frequent-to-count dalliances with dangerous locales and his bravado in the face of death. I risked a glance. He was your typical-looking clean-cut suburban blond 20-year-old. I wished I had a knife.

The roughest ride: a question

By Amy

The passenger must have lived a hardscrabble life. Deep furrows had been etched into the leathery skin of his face, and his short, dishwater blond hair looked dried up and wind-whipped. Incongruously, he wore one of those Bluetooth earpieces that make people look like the Borg from Star Trek.

He was talking to two white, middle-aged, mom-types also riding the No. 6., both with short hair and decked out in T-shirts, one lime-green and one coral, that probably were 100% organic cotton. One woman wore dragonfly earrings, like the kind you could find at Backyard Bird Shop or a natural clothing store.

"The roughest buses are the 4, 72 and the 6," the man told the women. "Once you've survived those, you can survive anything."

I thought about what he said. I've traveled many a mile on TriMet, and the roughest bus for me, at least psychologically, was the No. 10. When I took it, about 6 years ago, it passed Fernwood Middle School just as the kids were getting out. 

The kids had no boundaries or self-control. I would find myself, an adult, sitting in the middle of sunflower-seed-throwing fights and children shouting obscenities at one another. I always wanted to ask them "Did your mama teach you those manners?" but I refrained. That was a battle for another day.

So, readers, I ask you, what do you think is the roughest bus, and why?

Impressionable youth

By Jim

A hip guy--cool glasses, olive green Mao cap, "Factory farms are mean and nasty" T-shirt, plaid canvas shoes--is talking to another guy on the northbound No. 44 just out of Portland Community College. "I met an unbelievable girl," he says. "As it turns out, she dug me, too. I kept wondering when the other shoe would drop. Now she's moving across the country to work on a Ph.D. 'Nice to know you.' "

Hipster is a travelin' man: "Portland left such a strong impression on me I had to come back. I'd take it over New York, Atlanta, San Francisco, Toronto, any of the other cities I've been through. I'm trying to contain my wanderlust right now. I've got friends living in Paris saying, 'I've got a couch if you want to come hang out.' Naw, no thanks, I'm headed to the hallowed halls of PSU."

Hipster tells the fellow traveler about "one of the most quality ventures I've come across"--a couple of people who made an indie film about their relationship. It cost them $100,000.

"The fact that two people put themselves a hundred thousand dollars in debt to do that?" Hipster says. "Amazing."

I guess if you have to choose between putting a hundred grand into a down payment on a house, or putting it into a DVD about how you met your girlfriend, the choice is clear.

The fellow traveler gets off the bus at the Hillsdale stop, and Hipster goes back to reading and sipping: "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" by Milan Kundera in his left hand and a Starbucks in his right. Perfection.

The 100-proof philosopher

By Jim

A crazy, drunken singer got on the northbound No. 12 at the Safeway on Barbur Boulevard around 10:45 p.m. "I'm a rock star," he crooned. "I got a little crazy last night." His singing was as goofy as the hat he was wearing, a wide-brimmed sun bonnet. He kept on about why cowboys like cowgirls--no real surprise there, it has to do with their thighs.

Then he lets loose with the line: "I feel pain, so I know I'm not dead."

Wow. Heavy. I think he spoke for everybody on the bus that Friday night.  

Let Freeman ring

By Lisa

Morgan Freeman drove my bus this morning. When I got on the No. 44 downtown headed to PCC-Cascade, I hadn't paid any attention to my driver. I pulled out my A&P textbook to study for my quiz and settled in for the ride. When he announced the stop in Chinatown, I took a peek. OK, so he was a little shorter and a little softer, but definitely a resemblance. But the voice. I wanted to stay on the bus just to hear more stops in the narration of my life.

To constrict and serve

By Mary

One of the things I've always loved about public transit is the strange camaraderie that can develop among people who normally wouldn't dare to make eye contact with one another. Take the Raccoon Incident at 5th and Main several months ago. Where else but at a bus stop could you find a guy surveying his fellow transit riders on the wisdom of feeding his sandwich to a hefty 20-lbs.-or-more raccoon currently making his way down a tree? (The consensus from our group of TriMeteers: For Chrissakes don't lure the thing to you, but only a wuss screams and sprints into traffic if it waddles near him.)

So it was after this year's Starlight Parade when I arrived at a 56 stop just after 11 p.m. to find a guy soliciting feedback from fellow riders as to the best way to smuggle his 5-foot python ("His name is Ennis. Wanna pet him?") aboard the bus. The guy was earnest, and Ennis, half in a backpack, half wrapped around his owner's arm, was phlegmatic as only a creature capable of crushing, swallowing and digesting a small child could be. The group waiting for the bus was less so, and suggestions ranged from the duplicitous ("Dude, just say he's a service animal. Say he helps you with shit. They gotta let him on then.") to the profane ("Man, get that shit the fuck away from me! It's a fucking SNAKE!"). Ennis' owner finally jammed him entirely into the backpack and got him on board without a word to the driver. If anyone noticed that the pack was writhing and that no one wanted to share a seat with it, they didn't say anything. Ennis and his owner departed near Wilson High School without incident.

Fare thee well, Ennis. I sure was happy to quit you.

Rashaan and Juliet

By Amy

 

I'm on the bus for five minutes and already I'm dropping down into everybody's business like Spiderman on his thread. I have my sunglasses on and my face behind a magazine. Perfect cover for my mission. Hell, I'm so stealthy I should work for Homeland Security.

 

Two men in seats across from me are talking, but it's more like they're orating; their voices are loud enough for the benefit of all passengers. One's in his mid-20s at the most and wears a crocheted Muslim skullcap. A red T-shirt strains against his bulging, muscular chest and arms. The other's a long, lean elderly gentlemen in a black baseball cap, green Army-issue jacket and gold-lensed aviator sunglasses.

 

"So I gave her an ultimatum," the young man says. "You can choose me or the money. She chose the money.

 

"Her family was white and upper middle-class. They didn't like their daughter being with a black man, and they threatened to cut her off if she stayed with me. So she chose them."

 

The young man lets that soak in, and then continues.

 

"But for a while there it was cool. They lived on some property near Monmouth. Her dad had a boat. And they had horses.

 

"In fact, that was how we met. She came to Job Corps to teach us how to ride horses. That was the first time I ever touched a horse. I was good with them. I was the only one in the group who could back one up without it kicking."

 

"That rodeo talk," the old man says. "I don't know much about rodeos."

 

Outside, on MLK, a cop car guns past the bus, sirens wailing.

 

"I thank God for police officers, the old man says. Without them it would be the wild, wild West."

 

"People are jackals," says the young man.

 

"Well I thank God for the police. They saved my life," the old man says.

 

"I been in jail twice," the young man says.

 

"We all make mistakes. That's what we do," the old man says, with genuine compassion. "I thank God for police, lawyers, doctors. Authority. That's what they represent. Authority. Saved my life."

 

Artist agog-o

By Mary

Growing up riding the subways and buses of New York City, you learn certain rules of conduct. Never make eye contact with your fellow transit passengers. Carry a weapon. Don't spit near someone bigger/meaner/more heavily armed than you. To ignore these rules is to invite disaster. Would that all TriMet riders knew this.

There's a guy who rides the 54 who likes to talk. He's an artist, wears a beret to prove it, and he loves to chat up his fellow passengers. "What're you reading?" "Whatcha knitting?" "Where're you going?" He's nice, he's harmless, and he's a sitting duck. He made the mistake of talking to some lady who's also a frequent 54-ite. She's easily identifiable by the reams of documents she carries in a small wheeled suitcase and in a tote bag. She sits down next to Artist Guy, and he immediately asks about her papers. She's in the middle of a divorce, she tells him, and the papers are her documentation of abuse by her ex-husband.

Artist Guy clucks sympathetically. "You have no idea the things that man did to me," Document Lady says darkly. "With microwaves."

"Microwaves?" says Artist Guy, baffled.

"He used microwave frequencies to poison me. And my attorney," Document Lady elaborates.

"Ah," says Artist Guy, edging away and looking around the bus for an empty seat.

"It happens all the time," Document Lady says ominously, leaning in closer. She launches into a detailed explanation of how it's done, how she can prove it, and the hideous effects of microwave poisoning, which apparently seems to mimic the flu. She starts to dig through her papers for the proof as Artist Guy swallows hard and looks around in vain for a vacant seat. About 10 minutes later, Document Lady finally reaches her stop and debarks with a cheery wave to her new friend, who's now slumped in his seat nervously fiddling with his beret. Some new passengers get on, and one of them takes Document Lady's seat.

Artist Guy doesn't look up, doesn't make eye contact, doesn't say a word. He knows better now.

Bus lore

By Lisa

An old scraggly-beard guy on the No. 12 says you can ride from Portland to Seattle on city buses, and it only takes four hours if you time it right. He said something about taking the farthest line of C-Tran that heads north, and then you pick up a bus from maybe . . . Centralia? Then Olympia, Tacoma and then connect into the Seattle system. I am really curious to know if it is possible, but not curious enough to actually figure it out.

A flip but no flop

By Bob

It was an after-work ride on the No. 12 Barbur. It was a warm summer night on an overcrowded bus with almost all the seats filled and a half-dozen people standing in the aisle.

One of the standees had little to do but let his eyes wander aimlessly at his fellow passengers. Eye contact can be dicey sometimes. Staring out the window or at the floor is unlikely to bring trouble.

But what's this? Something about a guy sitting in an aisle seat a few rows ahead seems amiss. He's an average twentysomething with longish hair, wearing a tank top and shorts. And he has lots of tats on his legs and arms. But it's his feet. Or rather what is and isn't on them that draws some casual attention.

He's got a flip-flop on his left foot, but he's barefoot on the right side. Whoa. It must make for an interesting walk. The standee has time to speculate. The flip-flop guy doesn't look destitute or out of it. He's got an iPod and nice backpack. He's texting, too. Why the unusual footwear?

As the bus makes its way along Barbur, it slowly starts to empty. People depart; seats become available. People who are standing find seats. People who are sitting with strangers move to open seats with empty seats beside them. Room to spread out.

Amid the game of musical chairs, the man with one flip-flop moves up a row and settles in next to a woman about his age. They soon start to act like a couple -- they were apparently sitting apart while the bus was packed. A few stops later they get up to leave.

The twentysomething woman is wearing flip-flops on both feet, but the one on her right foot has markings that match the one on her companion's left foot. And she's holding a broken flip-flop in her hand that matches the one on her left foot.

She strides off the bus in a comfortable manner. Her companion follows, though his stride can best be described as irregular. A flip but no flop to his walk.

Chivalry lives.

Begging: the question

By Jim

A bunch of us TriMet vets have been noticing Statue Man for a few months now. With his right hand out, he stands perfectly still and perfectly silent, facing the 7-Eleven at the corner of Broadway and Market downtown, just across the street from a stop for the southbound #8 and #19. We hike past him every night at 10:32 p.m. to catch our buses.

He's got great peripheral vision -- sometimes his hand will be at his side, but as you approach him, the hand rises to the begging position, like an animatronic robot at a dystopian Disneyland staffed by the down-and-out. Or maybe he senses motion, like a security light. Or maybe he senses emotion.

On Saturday, as I arrived for work at 2:25 p.m. -- on a near-90-degree day -- he was at his station, already working it. I broke the No. 1 rule: Never talk to people who might be crazy. My inner journalist got the better of me. "You're out kind of early today, aren't you?" I said.

"Yeah, I just woke up," he mumbled.

When I saw him that night at 10:32, same corner, same position, I said, "Wow. You're still here. How much did you make?"

"A little over eight dollars," Statue Man said.

I don't want to do the math on his hourly wage; it's too depressing, too sad. Because I think he might work harder than I do. And I have health benefits.

His luck turned

By Bob

It was nearing midnight on the No. 12 Barbur. The bus was still about half full as it reached the Burlingame Freddies on its run from downtown to the 'burbs on a sticky summer night.

A couple of people exited at Fred's, while a bike rider in his 30s stuck his head in the door and asked the driver a question. He wanted to know whether he could bring his bike aboard since the rack on the front of the bus was filled.

Now, apparently, it's against the rules to have a bike inside the bus. But sometimes an easygoing driver will let it happen if the bus isn't too crowded. There was plenty of room for a bike inside the bus this night. But the driver wasn't in an accommodating mood. "Sorry, guy, you are out of luck," she said. She closed the door and the bus chugged off.

We headed up the hill toward the Barbur Transit Center. The bus made several stops along the way, letting a half-dozen or so people off. We also hit a couple of red lights. It wasn't the swiftest journey.

We pulled into the transit center parking lot and a couple more people departed, one them removing a bike from the rack. The driver said she was getting out and would be back in two minutes. Potty break.

As the driver left the restroom and was returning to the bus, from out of the darkness came the bike rider from Fred Meyer, pedaling for all his might. He swooped up to the bus just as the driver hit the steps.

"I guess it's your lucky night after all," she said to him.

He was out of breath. All he could do was nod back. He had just pedaled up a long incline of perhaps a mile and a half.

He stuck his bike on the rack, struggled up the steps into the bus and displayed his pass. He staggered to a seat and sank into it. He took off his helmet, leaned against the window and closed his eyes.

The driver closed the door and No. 12 headed back out onto Barbur and headed for the 'burbs.

Identification nation

By Jim

Pulling in to the 4th Avenue and Hall stop downtown, a male passenger on the northbound #44 tells an attractive woman in the seat across the aisle about his recent misfortune: "I lost my wallet, which really sucks. It had my driver's license, my Social Security card, all my IDs, my fake ID, and a hundred and fifty dollars in it. Even if I hadn't lost all that money, I'd still be pissed. My fake ID is irreplaceable."

Maybe, maybe not. These days, a new Social Security card might be tougher to get. 

Ride of shame

By Ellen

It was pouring rain. A woman got on the #51 to Portland via Vista at 8:45 a.m. in lucite platforms and a backless--and almost frontless--minidress. Her platinum blond hair, worn loose down her back, was soaking. As was the rest of her. She must have been in her early 20s, and was really quite pretty, outfit and flower tattoos aside. She paid in change from her large pale pink bag (which was stuffed with something, but not an umbrella or jacket apparently) and sat clutching it in one of the front seats. She had to ask the driver where the bus was going. She said she heard it went downtown. I spent the rest of the ride wondering what cad could have sent her out in the rain without giving her an umbrella.

Little dog

By Amy

Sometimes after a stressful night at work, or if I'm simply in a cranky mood, I don't want to deal with anyone on the bus, even though since I started this blog I have made it my mission to be on the lookout for bus stories.

When I'm in stress mode, I cease to observe. I cross my arms and try to keep my leg from touching that of the person sitting beside me. I stare out the window, avoiding eye contact with passengers as they board or turning around to find out who's causing a ruckus in the back seats.

I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to hear anybody's drama. I shut down.

But on this particular summer night, as I waited under the antique street lamp in the South Park Blocks for the No. 6, I felt open to life. I wore a summer dress that let the warm breeze play on my arms and legs. The tall, gnarled trees smelled moist and lush, and the park, with its formal concrete walks and benches below a canopy of green, reminded me of the parks in the historic district of Savannah, Georgia, one of my favorite places. All that was missing were whispers of Spanish moss draping from the tree branches.

I forgot, for a few sweet minutes, my usual worries: about being 40 and childless; about being completely dependent on a job that I like a lot but has social-life depriving hours. I forgot about the people whom I had loved and lost, and how I wronged some people who had loved me.

In the park, at that moment, I had hope for myself and for humanity, for the present and the future. If someone had asked me for money right then, I would have gladly parted with a dollar.

Giddy and bright-eyed, I got on the bus and sat in one of the forward-facing seats. After we traveled a few blocks, something brushed against my ankle, giving me a start.

"Excuse me," someone said.

I turned around. There sat a woman, a husky blonde of about 50, in a flowered blouse and beige slacks that looked like they came from Sears. She looked like the type of woman who had given up and let her looks go, who had left behind her hopes of romantic love the day she crossed over into women's plus sizes. Indeed, she wore no wedding ring.

I smiled at her. "I thought a little dog brushed my leg." I said. "Made me jump."

"A dog?" she said. Her voice rose. "That wasn't a dog, that was my purse." Her eyes were small and beady beneath a pair of plastic-framed, utilitarian glasses. 

She spoke as if she were spitting the words at me. "Why would I bring a dog on the bus?" she said. "Who would think something so crazy and stupid?"

"Excuse me for fucking living," I said. I could barely get the words out, and I'm not sure if she even heard me. I turned away from her and faced forward in my seat. My breath became shallow and my throat tightened. Good old fight or flight.

Then the tears came, and I knew I was a goner. Once I start crying, it's very hard for me to stop. Crying when angry runs in my family: My mother is a chronic case, and my brother used to be until he hit his teen years. Hair-trigger criers completely undermine any semblance of toughness or dominance or nonchalance they are trying to put forth. It should be considered a disability.

Teardrops splashed on my dress, leaving dark, wet circles, but I kept silent. I didn't want anyone to know I was crying, and I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me, especially HER. Irresponsibly, she had allowed her meanness to roam off-leash, and it bit me in the nuts. Fuck it, I thought. I give up.

Heading north, we passed the darkened storefronts and dimly lit bars along Southeast MLK. If anyone had stepped on or off the bus I didn't notice—I was that upset. But, by the time we crossed Burnside into Northeast, I had managed to calm down somewhat.

We reached my stop. As I was about to stand up, the woman tapped me on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry I was mean to you earlier," she said. "That was inappropriate."

That was all she said. No "I'm having a bad day." No "my dog just died." No explanation. No excuse.

"It's OK," I said, avoiding her eyes as I made for the door.

After I stepped off the bus, I began to cry.

 

The rookie

By Jim

A new driver was at the wheel of the northbound #44, with a trainer hovering at his side, giving tips on how to recognize the tree-shrouded stops along Barbur Boulevard. "You see that silver railing up ahead? Just beyond that is the stop." The trainer had a righteously inked-up left arm -- his tattoos looked like some crazy-quilt, pucey green TriMet route map. Buses would run everywhere except his elbow.

But his road knowledge was deep and wide.

"What's the most important thing for a TriMet driver to know?" I asked, envisioning my own layoff later this year, and thinking about another career.

He quickly answered, "Safety."

The new driver said, "No, payday is on Wednesday."

"Oh, that's right," the trainer agreed. "Payday is every Wednesday, then safety, and then nothing is personal."

Ba-dum dum

By Amy

A woman with long, pink and glittery artificial nails was talking on her cell phone:

"Hi. This is Grandma. I just wanted to tell you I'll be at the courthouse today to see what's going on with Destiny. She's supposed to show up there around three."

In other words, Grandma has a court date with Destiny.

Two-faced

By Jake

I'm getting on a fairly full bus so I'm looking for a seat to share. Toward the back is sitting a man who is turned taking to the two women behind him so all I can see is the right side of his head. He's probably in his 30s, conservatively dressed, with average-length hair and clean-shaven.  I sit down next to him and stick my nose in a book. 

After a bit I look up to peek out the window and notice I'm sitting next to a man in his 30s, conservatively dressed, who has a shaved head and a full beard. He is now looking forward and all I can see is the left side of his head.

For the next five minutes I'm trying to nonchalantly get a look at him to confirm that he has indeed shaved the left side of his head and the right side of his face. I think he knew.

Lights out

By Bob

It was a warm summer evening on the late-night No. 12 bus, which was heading west on Barbur Boulevard. About two dozen TriMet wanderers were either sleeping, texting, making phone calls, playing video games or staring blankly into space.

Some 20 minutes into the trip we arrived at the Barbur Transit Center, a few riders having departed and a few others having climbed aboard along the way. As we left the center, the lights inside the bus suddenly went off. A few seconds passed and they came back on. It didn't seem important at the time.

We crossed the Capitol Highway intersection and headed up the hill. Someone pulled the cord and we stopped just past the Blockbuster. Two people got off. We headed up the hill again. The next stop was Luradel. A bunch of people usually get off there. It's a street full of apartment buildings.

Sure enough, the cord was pulled and the bell rang once more. The stop was a few blocks away. But then the lights went out again and the bus began to pick up speed. We were barreling along now, surrounded by darkness. A few people murmured, but no one really yelled out. As we approached Luradel, the bus didn't slow down. We reached the crest of the hill, passed the bus stop and headed down the other side toward Tigard and suburbia.

With the lights out, your correspondent fumbled for the cord. An upcoming stop was his and he didn't want to suffer the fate of the unlucky Luradel residents. Finally, he found the cord and tugged. But no response. Curses. The light triggered by the cord was still on at the front of the bus. We hadn't stopped at Luradel to disengage it.

Unsteadily, your correspondent made his way down the aisle, picking up speed himself and stumbling into people's outstretched legs. Finally, a little way before his 53rd Avenue stop, he made it to the front of the bus and gasped into the darkness where the driver sat. "53rd, please," he whispered, pleadingly. He waited anxiously for the driver to react. The millisecond seemed like an eternity.

Relief! He felt the driver touch the brakes. He grabbed the pole with both hands to steady himself as the mass-transit chariot slowed sharply. The bus pulled up to the stop; across the way the familiar bright lights of the Big Bang strip club illuminated the night.

Your correspondent exited the bus, happy that this portion of his journey home had come to a successful conclusion. He looked behind him and noticed about a half-dozen people had used the rear door. They were talking to each other, mostly in Spanish. They seem stunned by the turn of events. Slowly, as a group, they turned back up the hill and began their quarter-mile climb toward Luradel.

Just then, the lights in the bus were turned back on, and it chugged across the intersection and continued down the hill toward Tigard.

He wondered: What was that all about?