The Mighty 6

'We are not third-graders'

2009-01-12T12:37:00.001-08:00

By Mary

So in September or so I'm aboard the 54 on my way to work and following my usual routine: knitting to avoid eye contact with my fellow passengers while simultaneously eavesdropping to make sure crazy people aren't getting too close. As a TriMet strategy, it's pretty much infallible.

Today some lady sits nearby and angrily dials her cell phone, muttering that she's had enough, by God, and TriMet's gonna hear from her. I stare at my knitting and listen, wondering what's bugging her about the bus. A rude driver? A late bus? Scary fellow passengers?

It turns out the be that last one. She's had it, she tells the TriMet employee on the line. The bus is just getting too dangerous to ride. Her fellow passengers are torturing her, and she's afraid.

What are they doing? She'll tell you what they're doing -- they're pointing devices at her that cause her great pain.

"I just don't understand it," she sputters into the phone. "I mean, we are not third-graders! Why are they acting like this?"

Do third-graders normally use torture devices? I wonder, knitting faster. I always knew kids were evil.

"I just don't understand how they get away with it," the lady says. God only knows how the hapless TriMet employee responds, because the lady gets more agitated. "No, I can't describe the devices! If I knew what they looked like, I wouldn't sit near them!"

Exactly what kind of training do the TriMet phone people get? I wonder. Are they trained to deal with this? How much would you have to pay me to deal with this? I can't count that high.

The TriMet person, to his or her everlasting credit, does not try to dissuade the lady from her delusion -- she works with her. "Well, I've tried telling them to stop!" the lady cries. "Why do you think I'm calling you? I've exhausted all my other options! Why are they getting away with this? We are not third-graders!"

WTF is it with third-graders? I wonder. If you wanted to fixate on evil kids, wouldn't you pick seventh-graders?

Even I know middle-schoolers aren't human, for Chrissakes. If she doesn't know what the devices look like, will she see me and think they look like knitting needles? Could I use my needles to defend myself? What if I have to stab her? Will blood come out of this yarn?

Mercifully, I never find out, because Crazy Lady leaves the bus, still complaining bitterly to the TriMet worker, who you gotta figure is frantically signaling his coworkers for help by now.

This is why I don't answer the phone at work. And lately, I avoid third-graders, too.

Snow-go mojo

2008-12-29T11:18:00.001-08:00

By Jim

"Momentum is important," the driver says as he gives the No. 44 some pedal to get up a hill as we head downtown on Sunday afternoon. I understand, having just crunch-crunch-clomp-clomped half a mile up a hill to get to my bus stop, my boots sinking six inches into the snow with each step. My personal momentum is gone but TriMet keeps delivering. I tip my ski cap to its mighty drivers and mechanics.

Leaving work at 10 p.m., I run out of the building, boogieing down Broadway. I see a bus making the turn from Clay south toward PSU. I run after it, waving. Yeah, baby, it's No. 44. Great timing! The driver stops. I'm saved. It's his last run of the night. "I've been working 14 days straight," he says, "and this is my 14th hour today."

When I think about the arctic blast of 2008, I'll remember my bus rides. I'll miss the chains a little. Before the snow piled up everywhere, the chains gave the bus a chattering Magic Fingers vibe on bare asphalt.

At 10:27, when we get to the end of the truncated line -- Barbur Transit Center, not PCC -- about 20 passengers head for home. The driver says to us, "Be careful out there. And thanks for the job security."

Same to you, TriMet -- thanks for the get-to-my-job security.

On Christmas, it's a different story. We head downtown for a holiday-spirited night out. The 44 isn't even running, so we'll have to walk farther and catch the 12. We trudge a mile and a half through the snow, to the Barbur Boulevard and Capitol Highway stop. I call Transit Tracker. The message is ominous: The line "may be in service but without predicted arrival. . . . Due to snow and ice conditions, we are not able to report any arrivals at your stop." I confirm that empirically.

And yet we soon see a 12 on the other side of Barbur, headed south to King City. Ten minutes go by, and there's another 12, headed south to Sherwood. Twelve minutes go by and a third 12 rolls on, headed south to King City.

Finally, in the distance, we see a bus heading north. But this bus says "DROP-OFF ONLY." I've never seen that before. The bus stops right next to five cold, tired would-be passengers at the red light but doesn't open its door. I knock on the window. The driver points backwards -- that's TriMet middle-finger-speak for, "There's another bus coming along behind me." The light turns green and she rolls off, leaving us in the freezing cold.

Another bus comes after a while, and it's a 12. We ask the driver what's up with Miss Drop-Off-Only. "She's late and she's trying to make up time, so she's not picking up any passengers," he says.

That makes absolutely no sense. EVERY SINGLE BUS OUT THERE IS LATE! WHO CARES IF SHE'S ON TIME? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? JESUS! JESUS CHRIST! How do you NOT pick up five freezing travelers on Christmas day when you're stopped right next to them at a red light?

Well, whatever, at least we are on the No. 12 now. But this one is making a loud, hideous noise. TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK, TA-LUNK.

A passenger says to the driver, "You've got a loose chain."

He says, "I know. It's been that way all day. I'm really going to miss that noise when I get home."

Now I've changed my mind. If I get home, I won't miss the chains.

New blog catchphrase

2008-12-24T11:24:00.001-08:00

By Mary

The place: 3rd and Madison

The time: Saturday night, the middle of the snowstorm from hell

The scene: A small herd of angry, cold people, some of whom have been waiting more than an hour for the 54 or the 56. Huddled together like a group of pissy penguins, stamping our feet, we take turns dialing TriMet and tracking our bus and its lack of progress. Finally, headlights pierce the swirling flakes as a squad of buses moves down 3rd. We perk up immediately. Surely one of them is a 56 or a 54!

But it's not to be. Instead, the buses turn out to be 9s and 6s. NOTHING but 9s and 6s. Out of six buses, how can they ALL be 9s and 6s? It's all the more galling because they're not even FULL! As the last 6 rolls smugly past, carrying maybe four people, one intrepid soul takes action: he seizes handfuls of snow, starts lobbing snowballs at the bus, and in a voice hoarse with cold and hatred, screams what we're all thinking: "FUCK THE SIX! FUCK THE SIX! FUCK THE SIX!!"

Well, hell. It needed to be said.

12-packs on the 19

2008-12-06T20:47:00.003-08:00

By Angela

Two dudes ready to party get on the No. 19 bound for Southeast, one carrying two 12-packs of Bud; the other, two 12's of Natty Light. They aren't on long and we haven't even pulled away before Dude 1 starts carrying on, loudly, about nothing in particular. It's really not that annoying, and kind of funny after a long night at work, but apparently the driver was being nice in the first place in letting them on with the beer. He waves them off, tells them to walk it off; they apologize and won't budge. He waves them off again and threatens the cops. As they're stepping off, Dude 2 says, "Do you want ME to drive?" And just like that, they're gone.

Jingle what?

2008-12-06T20:47:00.001-08:00

By Jake

My nanny told me today that on her bus a woman in a wheelchair started singing "Jingle Bells" and encouraged the rest of the bus to sing along. My nanny, who is Nepali, didn't know the words and couldn't sing along even though she wanted to. However, the only person who did sing was a Chinese man, who apparently didn't know the song past "Jingle all the way." Nobody else on the bus felt the call of the season. I probably wouldn't have sung either, which I find incredibly sad. Years of Christmas specials have taught us that the highest joy of the season is communal caroling, and yet I have never seen, nor participated in, any sort of fun-loving group sing-along.

A mighty wind

2008-12-06T20:46:00.001-08:00

By Jim

At the 35th Avenue stop in Multnomah Village, an energetic, clipboard- equipped alternative-energy solicitor said, "Do you have a few minutes to punch global warming in the face?" Yes, I thought, that's why I'm standing here waiting for the bus.

Coins of the realm

2008-11-09T17:49:00.001-08:00

by Jim

A rider got on the King City-bound No. 12 late Friday night, and while fumbling to put her change in the fare box, dropped most of it. The coins landed with a loud, high-pitched tinkle, maybe a buck fifty bouncing around the floor of the bus. A passenger in the front turned to the man next to him and said, "Trickle-down economics." They both laughed, apparently in a good mood over the election results.

Thank you, TriMet

2008-11-07T11:07:00.001-08:00

By Jake

It's the little extra efforts that make riding TriMet so special. About a year ago they tore up my bus stop and threw away the bench. But they gave me a "Temporary stop" a half-block away marked by a laminated paper taped to a utility pole. So on Tuesday, I was standing at the "temporary" stop, counting the buses going the other way and wondering when one would show up going my way. Finally, I see one, but it does not appear to be slowing. I wave. It blows on past even though I can see it is nearly empty. Now I am going to be late for work waiting for the next one. But the kind driver was thoughtful enough to point over her shoulder as she raced by me standing in the rain. I looked up the street and, sure enough, my old stop now had a sign sticking out of it. No shelter, not even a bench, but it did have a new sign and some fresh concrete. Apparently it had opened THE DAY BEFORE. Obviously, there was no way the driver could have stopped for a frequent rider waving from a stop that had been in place for a year.

They had his back

2008-10-30T00:14:00.001-07:00

By Bob

Crowded late-night bus. People standing in the aisle. Weary man gets on the No. 12 Barbur in downtown to head home. Long shift at work. Needs to relax and pop open a beer. Got to get through the ride first. And to do that, a seat would be nice. To sit. To nod off for a while. Perchance to dream.

There, way in back. It could be an open seat. Squeeze through the standees. Stumble up the steps to the rear area. Why, it is an open seat.

About a dozen pairs of eyes seemingly stare through him as he approaches. Starts to sit. Suddenly . . .

"Hey, old guy. There's gum all over that seat." Two teenage girls chirp out the warning from just behind him.

He looks closely at the seat. They're right. Nice kids. Could've let him sit in that mess and just laughed.

Standing isn't so bad. That High Life is getting closer by the minute. And they had his back.

Actions, not words

2008-10-23T10:46:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The twenty-something woman had been talking loudly to the person next to her, and anyone else in the vicinity of the front of the bus, since the No. 44 had pulled out of Multnomah Village and headed up the hill toward the PCC Sylvania campus. Her chatter, illustrated by constant arm movements, became background noise for most of the riders on a crisp, clear fall day.

When the bus reached the entrance to the campus and stopped to let off several people, she exited first. As she began to cross the traffic lane that leads down into the heart of the PCC campus, she turned her head to her right and, waving her arms again, began to make a point to one of her former seat mates. At just that moment, coming from her left and building up speed, chugged the bus that she had just left.

"My ex-boyfriend always says that I should take care of myself first," the talkative woman proclaimed. Fortunately for her, a fellow traveler grabbed one of her arms and tugged her back onto the sidewalk just before the bus passed.

Sometimes, apparently, ex-boyfriends have sound advice.

No-fool zone

2008-10-19T00:41:00.001-07:00

By Amy

Another reason why Big Mama bus driver is an exceptional person:

ADDLED MALE PASSENGER TO BIG MAMA: Good afternoon, sir.

BIG MAMA (without the slightest pause): I ain't no sir, sir. I'm a ma'am.

COMMENTARY: I appreciate a woman who says her mind. She didn't get angry, and she didn't ignore the mistake--as I probably would--out of apathy or to spare that man's embarrassment. Another fool learns a lesson to pay a little more heed to the human beings around him.

Canned scam

2008-10-03T10:39:00.001-07:00

By Jim

I'm waiting for the No. 44 out of Portland Community College when a clean-cut guy walks up to the bus stop. "Are you paying or do you have a pass?" he asks.

"I've got a pass. The fare is two bucks now."

He replies with his real question: "Can you spare 80 cents so I can get on the bus?"

I wish I could say: "Here's a hundred dollars so you can get on your feet."

But he's wearing a nice knit sweater and hip jeans -- he's dressed better than I am. It always strikes me as a market-research failure when guys in decent clothing ask grizzled, white-bearded, backpack-toting, down-and-out me for a handout.

Plus his timing is bad. Just 30 minutes ago, I was on the phone with Chase Mastercard. For the second time this year, the fraud squad is calling to tell me my credit card number -- XXXX-XXXX-XXXX-4308, if you'd like to be one of the many people with access to it -- has been stolen.

This time the scammers tried to buy $237 worth of anime videos from an online outfit in Florida. Chase denied the charge, much to their, uh, credit. Apparently their digital oracle knows I would never spend more than $150 at one time on anime videos.

Last time, the thieves succeeded in getting an $80 advance from a bank in Thailand. Now my credit card is canceled again. Since I have the card in my wallet, I'm guessing the number was taken at a Portland retail establishment.

Mr. Cable-Knit Sweater gets my quick answer: "Sorry." He turns and walks away -- away from downtown. If he wants to get on the No. 44 -- which is heading downtown -- shouldn't he be walking north, not south?

So I saved 80 cents. You see, there are people who need the money more than Sweater Man does, people like Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, Wachovia Bank, Bear Stearns, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. I'll be giving those big Wall Street players $2,300 next week. They dress a lot better than I do, too, but when they ask for money they don't walk away.

Machines say the funniest things

2008-09-30T09:33:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The newer TriMet buses have an automated system that calls out the approaching stops. It's supposed to be helpful, and probably is to newbies, but to most riders it's annoying background noise. But it gave one rider a laugh on an otherwise dull late-night run.

As the No. 12 approached the YMCA on Barbur, the monotone recording of a male voice rang out: "YMCA -- Southwest Hooker Street."

Immediately, a thirtysomething woman chirped to the dozing half-full bus: "Hooker Street! Here? No, way. They should use that on 82nd or Sandy. Now those are hooker streets."

Badda-bing.

Breathe, stupid, breathe!

2008-09-28T15:05:00.001-07:00

By Amy

A tweaker guy takes a long, final drag of his cigarette, and is about to climb aboard the crowded No. 6, but then Big Mama Bus Driver stops him.

BIG MAMA: You make sure you blow your smoke out before you step in here.

TWEAKER: What? What do you mean?

BIG MAMA: You know what I mean. Nobody wants to breathe that mess.

COMMENTARY: It's a sad reflection on our country when someone has to be told to leave his smoke outside. It's even sadder when he takes offense and argues with the driver over it. What in his life has brought this man to this point? What would his own mother say? This reminds me of that old Warner Brothers cartoon "Dough Ray Me-ow" in which the cat is so stupid that he forgets to draw breath: The parrot has to slap him and shout "Breathe, stupid, breathe! You forgot to breathe again."

PSA

2008-09-25T12:38:00.001-07:00

By Jim

One passenger to another on the late-night No. 12 to King City: "You should stay in school. Look at me. I went to Chico State for two semesters, and then I dropped out. Now I have to grow weed for a living."

Looks like muskrat love

2008-09-23T11:37:00.001-07:00

By Jim

The first odd thing I notice as I take a seat up front on the 10:36 p.m. No. 12 is a handtruck holding a cat carrier, with one end cut out of it. The second odd thing is the owner of the handtruck, wearing a battered leather cowboy hat laced with rawhide around the outer edge of the brim. Hatman is holding -- up against his face -- a white rat with an eight-inch-long tail. More than holding. Stroking. Incessantly stroking. And kissing. As in fur to lips.

After a while, he begins to talk to the rat, soft murmurings. If my lip-reading is correct, he's saying "I love you." The stroking and kissing continue from the Portland State University stop to 4900 SW Barbur, where Hatman pulls the get-me-outta-here cord. He stands, opens his leather jacket, places the rat inside on his left shoulder, then closes the jacket. Hatman wheels the handtruck off the bus and is gone.

Maybe the rat is a service animal, though it's difficult to know who is serving whom. Another possibility: the 4900 SW Barbur stop is where a grocery store employee feeds the rats with leftovers from work. Maybe it's a playdate. Or maybe rats are the new cats. Trendy people ride TriMet, too.

Blue notes

2008-09-20T12:46:00.001-07:00

By Jeremy

The kids always know what's going down in this magic metropolis, and with school back in session, my commute on the Blue Line MAX is again filled with kids spitting the truth.

For instance, just yesterday, I learned from a pack of three bros standing nearby that:

Devon said you can get headphones at The Dollar Tree, but you totally can't. It's total bullshit.

The Sex Pistols aren't bad; they're just old.

The Beaverton Transit Center is called the BTC. To assert your street cred, you have to say it over and over and over.

Thanks, kids!

Fashion in transit

2008-09-19T00:43:00.001-07:00

By Jake

Today was fashion day on my bus.

There was the old guy with heavily tattooed arms, including a monkey wrench on his triceps, who was wearing suspenders made to look like tape measures.

There was the elderly lady, with white hair and glasses, mobility and weight issues, wearing a Megadeth T-shirt.

But my favorite was the large man in grungy laborer clothes. He was sweaty and smelly and dirty and wearing a bright yellow, rolled-up headband that Olivia Newton-John would have been proud of.

Sometimes it seems to me that the people on my bus are a testament to life's consequences for questionable decisions about personal appearance.

The moth

2008-09-16T10:09:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The air inside the bus was warm and stifling, even though many of the windows were opened. The No. 12 lumbered along Barbur on its way from downtown on a late summer night. About 20 riders dozed, listened to headphones or texted.

And then it appeared. A moth, brown in color and about the size of a matchbook, fluttered its way from the back of the bus toward the front. The moth darted to the ceiling and then descended, dancing along the tops of the riders' heads. A few people noticed, but most sat unaware, listening to tunes or concentrating on cell screens.

When the moth reached the front of the bus, it turned and made its way back. And upon reaching the rear, it again turned and headed forward. It was doing meandering laps, like a stoned version of Michael Phelps with wings.

A few riders began to pay attention, especially when it would descend to eye level. The moth seemingly would toy with some people, flapping its wings and circling their heads, forcing them to shake it off.

One guy's dodging motions got the best of him and his head struck the head of the young man sitting next to him. "What the ... ," the surprised neighbor blurted out. Then they both laughed, as did several people sitting behind them.

For about five minutes, the wandering moth entertained about a dozen people in the back of the No. 12. The moth continued its laps before an audience that now and then yelled out encouragement and warnings.

"Look out, there," a woman said when the moth closed in on an oblivious rider in the front. "Go, baby, go," said another passenger as the moth picked up speed on its return trip to the rear.

Then, while midway along a lap toward the front of the bus, the moth suddenly darted toward an open window and flew out into the darkness.

And the riders returned to their headphones and cells.

Duel

2008-09-13T17:14:00.001-07:00

By Bob

Sometimes the journey home gets more interesting once a rider leaves the bus.

On a hot Friday night, the last No. 12 from downtown was mostly full. A pretty lively crowd of the mostly sober, the less sober and the mostly drunk headed toward the burbs. It was talkative bunch. The booze and the beer and whatever else had put even the headphone-wearers into a gabby mood. Good times.

One rider departed at 53rd Avenue, a desolate stop on Barbur notable only for the strip club there, the Big Bang. After the bus moved on, the traveler crossed Barbur and headed up the hill on 53rd. Walking steadily, he dodged a couple of cars along the sharp curve at Pomona and continued up 53rd toward Capitol, several blocks away. The unlit street is paved here, and at nearly 1 a.m., only a few houses had lights on.

The traveler heard a vehicle coming up behind him, a rarity that time of night on 53rd. He was walking on the left side of the street, and as the SUV passed him, it slowed somewhat, and he could hear voices and music and smell cigarette smoke from the open windows. The SUV proceeded to the intersection with Capitol, crossed under the sole streetlight and continued up 53rd, which at that point turns to gravel.

The traveler was following some distance behind. He saw the SUV's brake lights come on and watched it stop at the next block, Buddington. The traveler's usual route kept him on 53rd until Buddington, where he would take a left, but something about the halted SUV set off inner alarms. So he took a left on Capitol and headed up the hill to 51st, where he would take a right and head toward Coronado.

The stretch of 51st between Capitol and Coronado, several blocks long, is also unpaved and dark -- no streetlights. It was quiet and the traveler could hear the scratchy sound of rocks beneath his feet with every step. He walked in the middle of the narrow road. As he neared the intersection of 51st and Buddington, he looked down the hill to his right, expecting to see the SUV at the bottom, where he had last seen it a few minutes before. But suddenly he was blinded by headlights. The SUV had climbed Buddington, apparently with its lights off, and was almost at the intersection with 51st.

Startled, the traveler increased his pace and moved to the left edge of 51st. The SUV accelerated toward him, spraying gravel as it gained speed. The traveler started to jog and made his way to the nearest lawn as the rocks splattered behind him. He climbed a small incline until he was about six feet into the home's lawn. The SUV kept coming and swerved to avoid a boulder that marked the edge of the property.

The traveler, fully alarmed, started to run toward Coronado and the nearest streetlight. He stayed off the road and ran through the lawns of several houses. The SUV followed, directly to his right. Its spinning tires sprayed gravel toward him. The traveler's heart was pounding and he was almost out of breath. As he sprinted, he looked over at the SUV, whose headlights were bobbing as it bounced over potholes in the rutted road.

The SUV's engine was roaring and the gravel was flying. Then, it abruptly came to a halt. The traveler kept running, cut behind a small fir tree and, staying on the lawns, headed up Coronado. He could hear the SUV's engine being gunned. Glancing behind him, he saw that it was stuck, maybe high-centered on something at the road's edge.

The exhausted traveler slowed to a walk and climbed the hill on Coronado. He still had a long stretch to go on the trip home, but the pursuit had ended. He was looking forward to a beer.

Immunity

2008-09-10T11:01:00.001-07:00

By Jim

I am stuck hanging onto a strap in the middle of a conversation at the front of the standing-room-only No. 12. Cells are passed back and forth to show photos; parties are discussed; girlfriends shift liquidly onto and off of laps. The multimedia mash-up goes on for nearly 15 minutes as we roll south through the neon night of Barbur Boulevard.

As we near the Transit Center, the driver turns and says forcefully: "Will the young man in the white sweatshirt please quit using the F-word."

Strangely, I have not heard the F-word, and I am standing right next to the guy, who is sitting to my left. But he doesn't protest; he just slouches in the seat a little more. Apparently the profanity has not registered with me. What is the sound of one F-word clapping if it falls in the forest and nobody's "there" to notice?

Riddle of the roof

2008-09-05T10:34:00.001-07:00

By Jim

Waiting for the microwave to char my pitiful leftovers, I stroll to the second-floor window of our company cafeteria and gaze down on the street, hoping to spy that transcendent transit talisman, the Mighty 6. No sighting. But before the dinner dinger goes off, the No. 58 rolls by.

On its roof is an advertisement: "KXL 750 AM -- We're On It."

On the ROOF of the bus! Huh? I wonder how much that advertising costs. I wonder who sees it. I think about a bus on its side in a ditch, with diesel fuel pooling around it, a sparking engine, and flames illuminating that radio station ad, now in the lots-of-eyeballs, Our-Top-Story-Tonight position.

Why would you put an advertisement on top of a bus? I'll be thinking about that on my ride home tonight.

Blessed are the bus drivers

2008-09-04T10:39:00.001-07:00

By Amy

I was waiting for the bus at night in the South Park Blocks, in the glow of an old-fashioned streetlamp. The earliest traces of autumn rode in on the wind, seeping through my summer clothes and chilling me to the core—the warm, sunny afternoon had tricked me into leaving my sweater at home. Pacing back and forth with my arms crossed, I tried to stay warm.

My bus appeared, at least seven minutes late. At least I thought it was my bus, but its sign said CENTER GARAGE instead of the line number and the destination. As it came closer, I recognized the scowling brunette behind the wheel as the usual bus driver at this time on the route.

She saw me on the curb, and shook her head no while making a slicing gesture at her neck with her hand, like a mechanic signaling to another to cut the ignition, or a bartender telling a drunk no more, you are cut off. Then she blasted right past me.

Now, you have to understand, my previous experiences with this driver have not exactly been pleasant. But they haven't been so unpleasant that I'd go out of my way to report her to TriMet in hopes that she loses her job—it's not that serious. But I do have a few minor complaints.

For one, I don't like the way she drives. She brakes too hard and too late, as if red lights were annoying afterthought instead of a crucial means of controlling traffic. If I'm sitting, I brace myself to keep from shattering my kneecaps on the seat ahead, or if I'm standing, I have a death grip on the pole to stay upright.

And another thing: either TriMet has assigned her a bus with no shock absorbers, or she manages to roll over every single bump and pothole possible on the road. When I used to work on a Forest Service fire crew, we'd tell our co-workers with this driving habit to pay attention to where they're going and "stop hammering our kidneys."

She also annoys the hell out of me by speaking at a volume that only a woman who has mothered at least three children can achieve—the telltale shout used for herding kids. She sounds like Ethel Merman, had the legendary Broadway singer been a drill sergeant. For example:

To a driver who nearly T-boned us: "Can't you see the sign says yield YOU STUPID IDIOT."

To a bicyclist: "I told you FIVE TIMES to turn your bike the other way on the rack. WHY DIDN'T YOU LISTEN TO ME THE FIRST TIME?"

To a hippie girl boarding the bus: "Sweetheart, if you stand back in the darkness like that I CAN'T SEE YOU." (To which the girl replied: "I'm not your sweetheart.")

On the other hand, she deserves props for not holding a grudge. One night, after I had rung the bell, she drove past my stop, which I confess is nearly completely hidden by trees. "HEY, THAT'S MY STOP!" I shouted, completely overreacting, but maybe subconsciously mimicking her trademark yell. The following night, although her bus was noisy and crowded with teenagers, she went out of her way to shout "GOOD NIGHT, DEAR," to me as I exited the back door, no trace of sarcasm in her voice at all.

On a different night, a homeless man boarded. As he balanced a halfway-smoked, snuffed-out cigarette on his bottom lip, he proceeded to search his pockets one by one for his transfer. He checked his jacket pockets; his shirt pocket; the front, back and leg pockets of his cargo pants, and then he moved on to the half-dozen or so bags he was carrying. The driver set the emergency brake and waited with her arms crossed in back of her head, as though she were sunning herself in Cabo, while he dug through his belongings. I seethed in my seat. Why doesn't she kick him off? This fool is just pretending to have a transfer. He's trying to break her down so he can get a free ride. After no forward motion for five minutes, which in TriMet time is 20 minutes, the man shouted "Aha!" and had held up the tiny slip of paper for her to see.

So if she could be so nice to Sir Many Pockets, why did she leave me shivering and alone in the Park Blocks? What a stone-cold bitch.

I flipped open my cell phone and called the transit tracker. The mechanized white male voice on the other end told me the next bus would arrive in 26 minutes. I cursed the voice and hung up. During the wait time, I marched down to the Safeway and bought a half-gallon of milk and a six-pack of beer.

When I left the store, my bus was just pulling up. I boarded. A burly young man was driving. I told him my regular driver failed to stop for me earlier. "What gives?" I asked.

"She had a customer-caused accident," he said. "I'm a fill-in driver."

I thought about possible scenarios. After so many near-misses with merging cars, did she finally get in a wreck? Did a fight break out on the bus? Did it involve guns? Did the stress become too much for her and she just up and quit?

"You could say she was in a hurry to change her uniform," the driver said.

"You mean someone vomited on her?"

"Yep," he said. "That's one of the risks you take with this job. Especially tonight, with the holiday weekend just starting. Lots of crazies out there."

Vomited on by a stranger. She didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that. She was just trying to drive a bus, for Chrissakes. Make some money to pay her bills, like everybody else. I tried to imagine how I'd feel if someone on the bus barfed on me, or if someone leaned over my cubicle wall at work and let it fly.

I felt ashamed that I was so quick to make her the target of my anger. Who really was the impatient person here, the one quick to judge? In my heart of hearts, I knew the answer: I was the true bitch of the bus.

P.S. St. Christopher, the patron saint of bus drivers, please keep our TriMet operators safe.

HazMet

2008-08-31T19:05:00.000-07:00

By Jim

The first warning comes from two rows in back of me. "We've got to stop! It's a biohazard!"

Huh? It's my bus pal Jackie, whom I see occasionally on the southbound No. 12 late at night, leaving downtown. We've just passed the Capitol Highway Safeway. She sounds the alarm again: "We've got to get a new bus. It's a biohazard."

Other riders stare at Jackie, then begin to look around, the first wave of panic, like a herd of wildebeests beginning to sense that lions are nearby. Attention turns toward the front of the bus, to a silent, still fellow with black hair, his head hung low.

He has just finished vomiting.

The bus slows. Riders cover their faces with garments as if they are air filters certified by the Centers for Disease Control. But the smell spreads quickly, a potent, bad blend of . . . fermented muskrat and spoiled deviled eggs? . . . of a garage freezer that lost power three months ago and the greasepit in a Portland food cart? This odor is surely not of the living world.

The No. 12 pulls to the curb and stops. Riders begin to move away from the contaminated man, who, strangely, just sits there blankly, surrounded by his own filth. Even Rosa Parks would have given up her seat and moved to the back of the bus.

"Really, it's a biohazard," Jackie reminds everybody, authoritatively.

The driver opens both sets of doors. A few people leave. I join them, bailing out the back. I think of my co-worker Bob. At exactly 10:30 p.m. I said to him, "Let's go, man."

"Naw, you go ahead," he said. "I've got a few things to do. I'm catching the 11:05."

"OK." And I jetted out of the building. I do whatever it takes to catch the next bus, including running until I erupt in a coughing fit.

Now, standing outside on the sidewalk next to our stranded toxin wagon, I look south down Barbur. At least in this section, there is a sidewalk. I move to the open front door of the bus and say to the driver, "Are we staying here?"

"Yes. We're going to have to get another bus."

Excellent news. Wonderful. I figure I am about three or four miles from home; I could walk it in an hour. So I start trudging, giving a mental, obscenity-laced shout-out to Bio Boy and fate.

I've walked for about 15 minutes when I hear the unmistakable TriMet diesel engine that is hard-wired into my bus-catching DNA. It's the No. 12, up and running again. In the blackness, it hurls by me. Why doesn't the driver stop? Doesn't he know it's me, with my huge backpack and beat-down, Friday-night-after-work demeanor? He saw me walk away. Did I insult him by giving up on TriMet?

I walk for another 10 minutes and reach the Barbur Transit Center--and there is the No. 12. There are all the passengers, milling about. There is Bio Boy, sitting on the ground against a wall, head down, unmoving.

But there are no men in hazmat suits, no ambulances, no fire trucks. Just the quiet, blacked-out, empty hulk of our bus. I find my friend Jackie, the Paul Revere of puke, and get the details. Another bus is coming to meet us at the transit center. This happened to her once before, which is why she knows the drill, knows that TriMet considers vomit a biohazard.

In just a few minutes, the substitute bus arrives, coming all the way from the Rose Quarter to rescue us. We all board, except for Bio Boy, and continue off into the night. If fate is kind, we have not been exposed to plague germs.

Applied physics

2008-08-30T12:23:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The No. 54 was making its way toward downtown on a weekday afternoon. The bus, one of TriMet's newer models, was about half full.

As the bus left the Swan Mart stop on Barbur Boulevard, a thirtysomething guy sitting in the back pulled the cord. The next stop was the last one on Barbur before the bus would turn onto Naito Parkway. The man rose to make his way to the rear door. He was carrying a large sack. He reached the landing at the rear door and waited.

The bus approached his stop, but didn't slow and instead roared past. He yelled to the driver, "Hey, hey, what about my stop?" The driver acknowledged him with a wave and pulled the bus over with a lurch at the auto lot just before Naito. The driver hit the brakes and the thirtysomething man, apparently caught unaware and holding only his sack and not a pole, fell hard into the landing's wall, bounced back into the rear wall and hit the deck. His sack went with him.

"What the ...," he cried. No answer from the driver. His fellow passengers just stared. The upended man slowly got to his feet, cursed again, then grabbed his sack and pushed open the rear door. Shaken, he unsteadily made his way down the sidewalk.

Often on the No. 54, a departing rider will say "Thanks" as he or she leaves the bus. Kind of a Portland thing. There was no "Thanks" this time.

Gotta go

2008-08-28T12:09:00.001-07:00

By Bob

Late on a Friday night around the Portland State campus, the bar-goers and party people were making their way home. Three such happy folks, smelling of beer and smokes, wandered from the Cheerful Tortoise to the bus stop at Jackson and Broadway.

As they waited for the bus, one guy said to his two college-age companions, "I gotta take a leak." One of his friends said, "I do, too." The third guy just nodded his head as, a few blocks away, the No. 12 came into sight, stopped at a traffic light. "We'd better hurry," one of the three said.

This particular block on Broadway has a row of bushes and hedges along the sidewalk, next to fencing that walls off a PSU parking lot and tennis court. Not stupid, just drunk, the three guys took advantage of their surroundings. They separated themselves a bit, and each one squeezed into various openings in the hedge to do their
business.

Conducting their tasks with dispatch, they emerged about a minute later -- just as the No. 12 was pulling over at the Jackson Street stop. As they climbed aboard the bus, the last one on said, with obvious relief: "Man, I'm glad those bushes were there. I don't think I could have held it to Terwilliger. I probably would've peed my jeans."

A fortunate fellow. As were his friends and, unknowingly, his fellow passengers.

Mr. Bobblehead

2008-08-27T11:35:00.001-07:00

By Bob

On a hot Saturday night, the midnight run of the No. 12 was crowded -- standing room only and the aisle was filled. The rear of the bus was loud with talk, as usual, while the riders near the front were mostly into their cells and iPods. But the real show took place in the middle rows.

Sitting next to the window in the last row before the back door was a fortysomething guy who obviously had been into his cups all night long. As the bus moved, he moved. He was prisoner to the forces of acceleration and deceleration. When the bus would pull away from a stop, the drunken fellow would fall all the way back in his seat, with his head tossed back as far as it could go. And when the bus would brake for a stop, he would mimic its slowing, his body gradually edging forward until his head made contact with the back of the seat in front of him.

Depending of the severity of the driver's braking, the drunk's head would gently tap the seat's back, or hit with a loud thud -- amusing and alarming the passengers around him. And on this night, the bus came to a halt at a nearly every stop. Back and forth, Mr. Bobblehead would rock, his eyes closed, his breathing loud and labored. The fumes emanating from his direction smelled like Mad Dog or Two-Buck Chuck. But he was blissful in his stupor, with a kind of grin on his sozzled face.

After this entertainment had gone on for a dozen stops, the bus started to empty. The woman sitting next to him, unable to stifle her laughter, moved to a vacated spot. As did the smirking guy who had been standing behind Mr. Bobblehead. As the guy found a seat, though, he also found compassion. The guy said to the woman: "Maybe we should try to wake him before he hurts himself."

She took matters into her own hands, ignoring the maxim of letting sleeping drunks lie. She returned to her old seat and nudged Mr. Bobblehead. No response. She then clasped his nearest shoulder and shook him. He slowly opened his eyes into a squint. He mumbled something. She asked, "Sir, are you OK?" He mumbled something more, equally unintelligible, and then leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. She backed off and moved away again.

The No. 12 continued on its way, and soon Mr. Bobblehead resumed his routine. And no matter how hard he hit his head on the seat's back, he never opened his eyes again or said anything.

Both the woman and the guy who had taken an interest in Mr. Bobblehead's safety left the bus at various stops. But Mr. Bobblehead maintained his antics. The bus would pull away from a stop and his head would fall back; the bus would slow for a stop and his head would lurch forward and strike the back of the forward seat.

Finally, the bus headed down the long hill on Barbur that leads to Tigard. The force of gravity overcame Mr. Bobblehead. His head fell forward and hit the seat back. He remained in that position, his forehead resting on the back of the seat, even as the bus pulled away from a stop. He was in repose. He started to snore loudly.

The No. 12's journey continued, but Mr. Bobblehead had reached his destination.

Results may vary

2008-08-24T15:00:00.001-07:00

By Amy

Another day, another spin in the vortex of humanity known as the Mighty 6. Yesterday's ride in was so bleak that for a moment, after I got off the bus downtown, I began to doubt why I write about this topic in the first place.

Sure, like any halfway decent bullshitter (I majored in English in college), I can rationalize my habits: Since I am a captive audience on the bus twice a day, five days a week, anyway, why not share my quirky experiences and get some writing practice in to boot? Or, my favorite: The bus ride is a microcosm and metaphor of the overall human experience, so work with it. Explore it. Feel it. Analyze it. Well fuck it, I say. The best reason is that it gets me to write, which is something I couldn't claim three months ago, and writing is something I care about.

But I still can't answer the question: Why the bus? And on bad days: Is there something wrong with me for focusing on this depressing shit?

And yesterday was especially heinous. One of my all-time favorite quotes, from Snoop Dogg, seemed to apply: "If it ain't one thing it's a motherfuckin' other."

First, there was the driver, a silent, poker-faced man in a cop mustache who neglected to turn on the air-conditioning, even though it was hot and humid and the bus was stuffed full of people. Also, you can learn a lot about a driver's capacity for compassion by how willing they are to engage with the people in the front passenger seat opposite them, what in the bus operators' parlance is known as the "creep seat," "drone throne" or the "fool stool" (This precious insider knowledge is brought to you thanks to the public transportation 'zine The Constant Rider). This driver was having nothing to do with the talkative, eager and most likely mentally ill woman sitting there, though she had adjusted seats for two people in wheelchairs, fastened them in after they boarded, and alerted the driver when the bus reached their stops.

No seats were open, so I stood. I tried to avoid clobbering the sitting passengers in the head with my purse. To my right sat two young women who looked just out of their teens. One, in a short, flimsy brown dress, was talking loudly on her cell phone, saying "Where you at? I'll meet you on 82nd. I'll call you when I get there." After she hung up, she said to her seatmate, "With that motherfucking punk ass, I'm not Tanika. I have to remember that. My name is Ashley. My name is Ashley, Ashley, Ashley, Ashley." Both women busted out laughing.

Ashley and her friend got off at the MAX stop and a new pack of passengers replaced them. A clean-looking white couple scootched past me, and I, along with some other standing passengers, recoiled when I saw the brown-red bloodstains on both upper sleeves of the man's button-down shirt—two matching spots right over his biceps. The couple got off at the next stop—having ridden only about three blocks.

Toward the front, the lady in the fool stool had made a new friend, and the two women were having a lively discussion. Another passenger boarded: this time a big black man, probably in his late 50s, who looked like he could put some serious whup-ass on someone if he weren't so loaded. He teetered down the aisle, wearing a sports shirt that had the word "RESULTS" on the front in big letters. If he were the results, I thought, then I would not wish to undertake the endeavor that brought him about. He looked weary: The lower lids of his eyes sagged in red crescents like a basset hound's. "Spare some change," he chanted in a monotone over and over as he made his way to the back of the bus.

Seats were beginning to empty up front, so I grabbed one near the window, adjacent to the women in the fool stool. I wasn't there for very long when Results sat next to me, hemming me in.

"Spare some change," he said to the women.

"WHAT?" one of them yelled, and she looked at him as though he were covered in raw sewage.

In just those few seconds, I knew an invisible trigger had been cocked. There would be a fight. I would be pinned in.

"Excuse me," I said to the man, and he popped up to let me out. I scooted over to what had been his seat and was about to stand up, but hesitated because it seemed like he was going to remain standing while he argued with the women.

No luck. He glared down at me. "If you say 'excuse me' then get the hell off the bus," he said. I got the hell out of his seat. Quickly. He continued to shoot me dirty looks for the remainder of his ride, after I had found a new seat toward the back.

I no longer question my instincts. Although I chose not to fight that battle, I walked away in rage, which eventually deteriorated to depression stemming from a feeling of powerlessness. Then I had to go to work and stare at a computer screen, all pumped up with adrenaline.

A while back I watched a similar situation go down on the bus. A young man, maybe a PSU student, had the window seat, albeit there was a wall where the window would be. A hardened-looking woman in the seat next to his was arguing on her cell phone and gesticulating wildly. The two obviously weren't together. The man ignored her, though her hands at times flailed awfully close to his face. I got the feeling that something bad was going to happen. It did. The woman, screaming at someone on the phone, jumped to her feet and slammed her fist into the wall, inches above the man's head. He didn't do anything but sit there, motionless, and stare ahead.

Was he frozen with fear? Was he high on tranquilizers, or in a deep state of meditation? Or was he just dumber than me? Or braver?

Do your stuff

2008-08-17T16:24:00.000-07:00

By Amy

I was waiting for the No. 6 bus at the stop on MLK and Fargo on a terribly hot afternoon, one of those glaring days when the sun lit up every crevice of the boulevard, exposing dried up grass and weeds and cigarette butts in the patches of dirt that escaped being covered with concrete. Things were hopping: Cars whooshed past me, adding to the gritty, heavy aroma of exhaust hanging in the air, and workmen were pulling their trucks into the parking lot for a lunch break at the Popeyes chicken across the street.

About a block away from my stop sits Reggie's barbershop. Reggie's building displays one of my favorite neighborhood works of art on its northern wall: a painting of a bespectacled barber and his young client, both smiling a little too broadly. In the left lower corner of the mural, there's a blue ghostlike figure that never fails to fascinate me. What's it doing there? Are the men wearing happy faces to conceal their fear of the blue specter? What were the intentions of the mysterious artist "Lissette"?

In front of Reggie's some children had set up a table and chairs—a lemonade or Kool-Aid stand, I assumed. I could tell from afar that they were young kids by the way they couldn't sit still—popping up and down out of their chairs and bopping to and fro around the table like ants near a hole to their colony. The kids reminded me of my 5-year-old nephew, Tavish, who on Thanksgiving, wearing pajama bottoms and a towel fastened around his neck like a superhero cape, ran about 60 laps around the first floor of my house—through the dining room, living room, front entryway, kitchen, dining room, over and over—while Beck's CD "Guero" played. Sometimes when he passed us, he would tilt his skinny white shoulders in a sly little dance move in time to the beat. My brother and I, creaky and weary from L-tryptophan, aging and the necessity of having to work long hours for those things that were freely and happily provided to us when we were small, wished aloud that we could harness about one-fourth of his energy for ourselves.

The bus wasn't coming anytime soon, so I started to walk the block toward the stand. I don't have children, and for me, happening upon one of these beverage rackets, designated by their construction-paper signs written in shaky childish block letters, can be as rare as seeing a bear in the woods. But following this summer's trend among the preschool set, even Tavish had put on a lemonade and cookie stand at his home near Seattle. Over the phone, I asked him about his sales pitch. "I told them you can have some strawberry lemonade and cookies," Tavish explained, "but first you have to give me the money." He ended up raking in the bucks. Sometimes being direct pays off.

As I approached, I saw that three little boys manned the stand on the sidewalk in front of Reggie's. Except these kids weren't selling mere lemonade—no—they had a snow cone machine, a clear plastic box filled with ice of the rare consistency and texture to hold its shape when served in paper cones, which these tiny entrepreneurs also had in supply, along with paper cups.

"You want a slushie?" a flirty little boy in French braids asked me. "How much?" I asked. "50 cents . . . I mean a dollar," he said, grinning. "You mean a dollar for two slushies," I said, citing the price advertised on their sign.

"What flavor do you want?" all the boys asked me, talking over one another. "We have cotton candy, cherry and blueberry." And indeed, they had professional quality bottles of syrup, the kind found at ballpark concession stands—not anything so lowly as fruit juice or Kool-Aid or things their parents could buy at a regular grocery store.

I chose cherry flavor and the boys set to business. As I watched them scramble around the table, it slowly dawned on me that each boy had a designated chore: The charmer in braids was the salesman, the boy at the machine filled the cups with ice and provided the straws, and the third kid, who had waves and curlicues shaved into his close-clipped hair at the temples—probably the son or grandson of Reggie—was in charge of flavor.

I chose a paper cup, figuring it would be easier to smuggle on the bus than a cone, and after a loud and long discussion and negotiation, I went with a straw with a spoon built into the end instead of their other model, a spoonless straw that bent near the top.

After Mr. Ice packed my cup to maximum capacity, he handed it off to the boy with the designer haircut.

"All right Syrup Man, do your stuff!" the salesman shouted as he performed a crazy bendy-legged, stretchy dance. Syrup Man drowned the ice in red cherry syrup, pouring it on so heavily that he elicited a loud "Whoa!" from his partners. I gave the salesman two quarters, and they all thanked me for my business.

That cherry syrup was mighty powerful stuff—my tongue remained red and the back of my mouth tasted like Robitussin for the rest of the day—not even Extra Polar Ice mint gum or strong coffee could cloak it. Maybe I should have chosen cotton candy instead. Funny how tastes change over time. When I was those boys' age, while walking home from Beaumont kindergarten, I'd buy bubblegum ice cream from Rose's on Fremont, not caring if it stained my mouth a bright blue. Now I'd prefer an organic green tea gelato drizzled with raspberry coulis, please.

Spate of late

2008-08-14T08:59:00.001-07:00

By Jim

TriMet is a complex, dynamic nonlinear system. That's why a woman who got pregnant three years ago put my job at risk.

It's "the butterfly effect." That's the theory that something small, the swimming of a sperm in Portland or the flapping of a butterfly's wings in China, could cause something large, the loss of my job or a tornado in Kansas.

So the No. 44 pulls into the stop across the street from the Jewish community center. There's Mom with her gigantic baby stroller, waiting. Great, I think, with the mindset of an oft-burned, burned-out commuter, this is going to take an extra five minutes to lower the lift, get her stroller on it, raise the lift, get the stroller on the bus, and lower the lift again, to hoist Mom herself onto our bewheeled slave ship. And Mom probably won't have her fare ready to put in the box.

Wrong! Not five minutes. Much longer.

The driver presses the button to lower the lift. It stops halfway down, sticking out over the sidewalk, pointing at Mom like a cosmic middle finger. The driver presses the button again. The lift is stuck. The driver presses the button at least 20 more times. Then -- newsflash -- he says to Mom: "The lift isn't working."

Instead of walking away, Mom stands there, expectantly, looking at the lift. The bus driver begins pressing the button again, maybe 15 more times. Nothing, not even a mechanical grunt. "It's still not working," he says. She stands there. Then the driver tries to get the lift to come back up. It won't move. He presses the button repeatedly. "It won't come up, either," he says.

The driver reminds me of computer tech support guys: "Have you tried rebooting?" "Yes," I tell them, "three times." Then they always say, "I'd try it again."

Now just two days before this great sperm/butterfly fiasco, every single person in our little work group had been late. Our boss sternly reminded everyone that if we want to get paid for a full shift, maybe we ought to work a full shift. Hard to argue with that logic.

Mom had already doomed me, though. I would be late, at the worst possible time. The question was only: How late would I be?

"Is there another bus coming?" somebody asks the driver.

"Probably," the driver says. He's a regular Vegas oddsmaker.

In about 10 minutes, the No. 1 shows up. Twenty riders on the beached 44 jump off and, like escaping rats, board the 1 -- which takes an agonizingly slow, circuitous route behind Wilson High School. It will eventually get downtown, but it ages you.

Obviously, I was late for work. But it wasn't my fault. Thanks again, TriMet.

Listen, if you think you're going to get pregnant, let me know, and I'll give you a condom. Twenty years from now, when the kid you didn't have is not a drug-addicted high school dropout still living at home, you'll thank me. You might even call it "the butterfly effect."

The LOST girls

2008-08-11T23:10:00.001-07:00

By Ellen

In my neighborhood, you can't wait for the bus without seeing lots of missing cat posters. Sometimes there's a small dog in the mix, but most every lamppost is 100% feline.

In these parts (SW Portland), the coyote sightings have gone up every year since the new Sylvan exit got built into the 26. There is even a warning sign on Fairmount that says coyotes can be aggressive and to watch out in case you are walking your dog. So the signs for the cats say LOST, when they probably should say LUNCH.

Also along my bus line are thongs. The little panties are usually curled up in the gutter or nestled among the grass on parking strips, but there is a polka-dotted green one now hanging from a tree branch. I am old enough to think of them as underwear for not-so-nice girls. At first I thought it was a girl gang sign the way sneakers on wires are for boys, but then I thought of the coyotes and how they must be getting big on cats. And they just have to eat more to maintain their weight.

I know in real life these girls haven't been eaten by coyotes; their underwear has just fallen out of their boyfriends' cars. But here's what I'm hoping: Maybe, just maybe, they're throwing their slutty underwear around in a modern kind of bra burning. They're going back to comfortable, nice-girl, full-rear underwear in 100% cotton. And they are celebrating their newfound liberation by thong throwing.

Wall and barrier

2008-08-11T23:09:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The bus stop across from the PCC Sylvania campus is drab, even by the meager standards of the category. There is a shelter, true, but no bench. And no listing of the bus schedule. Pretty bare bones. And the traffic on Southwest 49th can get awfully loud, especially in the afternoon when classes let out.

But there is a short concrete retaining wall. A few feet tall and a half-foot wide, it can be a makeshift stool for the weary traveler waiting for a bus.

On Wednesday afternoon, on the ground next to the retaining wall lies an unopened condom wrapper. On Thursday afternoon, the condom package is still there -- but someone has placed it on the top of the retaining wall. On Friday afternoon, the condom package is gone.

Safe sex for someone, we hope.

Mighty 6 catchphrase

2008-08-10T12:34:00.000-07:00

Ride on. Write on. Right on!

Friends in high places

2008-08-10T12:10:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The No. 12 pulled away from the Burlingame Freddies on its way downtown. The occupants of the half-full bus seemed carefree on a summery Saturday afternoon. Lots of talk and laughter.

At the next stop, a twentysomething man climbed aboard. He was wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts, with a plastic mug attached to his belt. He didn't bother taking a seat, though many were available. He grabbed a pole and stood near the front.

"Which stop do I take to get to the beer festival?" he asked the driver while tapping his mug. "I was there last night, but I got so hammered I can't remember which way I was headed when I left."

"I'm not sure," the driver replied. "I'd imagine Taylor would get you pretty close to the waterfront."

Another passenger, one from a group of four twentysomething women, chimed in: "No. It's better to get off at Oak. The walk is shorter."

"Great," the beer man said. "A buddy of mine works at the place where they package the tokens. He jacked a box. So we're drinking for free today."

The young woman who had offered directions now said: "You can just follow us. We're going to the festival, too."

One of her companions had the final word: "No. We'll follow you. You've got the hookup on the tokens."

File under 'WTF?'

2008-08-10T11:57:00.001-07:00

By Amy

Sometimes actions speak volumes, but this kid had a lot of volume, taking up more than his share of space on the bus with his two giant pieces of luggage that blocked the back-door exit. Even this kid's hair was voluminous: His dark curls had been combed out into a tidy eight-inch Afro that radiated from his scalp.

The trouble was, the bus was crowded, and it took passengers, some with small children, a long time to weave their way through the aisle of bodies to the back door and then squeeze through the sliver of space between the young man's luggage and the barrier to get out.

The bus driver noticed the slowdown by the time the people who needed to had stepped off the bus. "Clear the back door," he yelled. "I need you to keep the exits clear."

A woman, in her mid-50s and a wearing a pink T-shirt, who up until then had been sitting quietly next to me, shouted back at the driver: "The doors are clear and they're already out, SHITHEAD!"

All-Zone defense

2008-08-07T08:08:00.001-07:00

by Mary

I hate people. For many reasons, on many levels. When I ride TriMet, I do not want to engage with my fellow passengers. I don't care where you're going, what you're doing, how hot you think it is that the bus driver's a transsexual. Just Leave. Me. Alone.

So when I travel I either read or knit, and I use this as an excuse not to make eye contact. It works, mostly. But lately I think it's time to tweak my strategy. I'm thinking of crafting an all-purpose book cover to slip over whatever I'm reading at the moment. The title of this spiffy faux book jacket? "Controlling Your Violent Impulses." If any chatty soul asks what I'm reading, I can show 'em that, then add menacingly, "My parole officer recommended it."

Sustenance

2008-08-06T10:13:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The No. 12 bus pulled to the stop beside the Burlingame Freddies late at night and a young woman got on board. She was wearing a tank top and jeans, with a peasant skirt completing her outfit. She had quite an assortment of tattoos on one arm, while the other arm was blank.

She carried a plastic sack in each hand. It was obvious that one sack was considerably heavier than the other. The disparity in weight made her progress down the aisle look like something out of a pinball machine. She was overloaded and went sideways almost as much as forward. The sacks banged off the poles on either side as she made
her way.

Finally, she reached the back seat. She set the larger, heavier sack on the floor. PBR. A full case. Twenty-four cans of liquid heaven.

The smaller sack rested in her lap. It held a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. She opened the box and grabbed a handful and started chowing.

Five minutes later, still munching, she rang the bell. Her stop was Luradel Street, home to many apartment buildings. She gathered up her beer and Cheerios and struggled to the back door of the bus. Off she went into the night, lugging the precious Pabst and coveted cereal.

A winning combination, for sure.

No worries

2008-08-05T00:33:00.001-07:00

By Bob

The No. 44 rolled down Capitol Highway toward downtown on a lazy, sunny Sunday afternoon. As we reached the on-ramp that would deliver the bus onto Barbur Boulevard, the riders' eyes were diverted to the left.

On the far side of the road, a fire truck was stopped behind a smoking car. The hood of the large 1980s-vintage car was open and blackened. The engine apparently had caught fire and the front half of the vehicle was a sooty mess. Several firefighters were surveying the damage, and several more were directing traffic on the multi-lane road around the orange cones they had deployed at the scene.

As the bus moved away from the half-charred car, our eyes landed on the rear of the vehicle. The trunk was open. A lawn chair had been set up in the shade on the road's shoulder. An older, white-haired gentlemen, presumably the burned vehicle's driver, was seated in the chair. He looked relaxed, considering the circumstances. He had a can of Coke in one hand and a magazine in the other.

No real worries on a summer day.

Along the route: Popeyes

2008-08-04T10:13:00.000-07:00

By Amy

A little over a week ago, the Oregonian ran an article about a Mr. Tremayne Durham of New York, who was accused of killing a Gresham man in an ice cream truck deal gone wrong. Tremayne had special-ordered the truck, probably the kind that plays cloying tunes like "Music Box Dancer," from an Oregon company for $18,000, but later changed his mind and was unable to get his money back. So, as any reasonable person would do, he crossed the United States by bus, police believe, to Oregon, looking to exact revenge on the company's owner. Tremayne ended up tracking down a former employee of the ice cream truck company, Adam Calbreath, and shot him to death instead.

Two years later, Tremayne appeared before a Multnomah County judge, facing the death penalty on aggravated murder charges. He cut a deal: He would plead guilty to the accusations in exchange for a fast-food chicken dinner from Popeyes. The judge agreed to the offer. That afternoon, the newly minted murderer feasted on Popeyes chicken (with some KFC chicken thrown in, too), mashed potatoes, coleslaw, carrot cake and ice cream.

Although I don't understand Tremayne's reasoning regarding his plea, I can empathize with his addiction. I face Popeyes twice a day at the No. 6 bus stop near my house. The sight of the mustard-brown-and-red restaurant triggers my craving for a deep-fried, golden-battered, artery-obstructing temptation that comes with a spork: a two-piece Popeyes chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy and a buttermilk biscuit.

When an east wind blows, the aroma of Popeyes chicken wafts into my backyard—it's as if the restaurant had stored the pure essence of fried-chicken scent in a pressurized tank and pumped it out of a rooftop vent to tempt everyone living within a half-mile radius. Sometimes, I'll be outside mowing the lawn or gardening and the smell of it will hit me and I'll drop what I'm doing to get some. I'll drive the half-block and use the drive-through (I have never sat down inside—for no reason except that I prefer to order and eat Popeyes in private). And if it's well into the evening, such as when the bus drops me off after work and the restaurant doors are locked, my behavior is even more shameful: I will walk through the Popeyes drive-through, aware that people are staring as I belly up to the window to collect my bag of food. But I'm not the only one—on a weekend night not long ago I saw two teenage girls in short skirts standing amid a line of cars and Cadillac Escalades, their skinny legs appearing vulnerable in the headlights as they waited for their order.

In 2005, when I was buying my current house in the Eliot neighborhood, the previous owners—a white, professional couple in the advertising industry, stapled their own word-processed addendum about their impressions of the neighborhood to the official seller's disclosure form. Under "Things We Love," they mentioned Wild Oats organic market (now Whole Foods), the easy bicycle access to the eastside esplanade, and Acadia (an "awesome Creole restaurant"). Under another heading, "Things We're Most Disappointed With" (not "Things We Hate," mind you, but are disappointed with, as when parents are most disappointed when their 5-year-old smacks another kid at playgroup), they mentioned the people who go door-to-door and beg for money and the junkman who used to live across the street and pick engine carcasses apart in his front yard. As for Popeyes, in their Love list they called it "the best fried chicken in town," but they were Disappointed with this disturbing trend:

"Some inconsiderate people throw their trash from Popeye's chicken right on the sidewalk. About once every three weeks, there's usually a piece of it somewhere on the front parking strip or the retaining wall."

I haven't found many chicken bones in my yard since moving in, but I am pleased to have discovered that the time it takes to walk from Popeyes to my house is exactly the time it would take to consume a piece of chicken smaller than a breast. [Also, if the couple who sold me the house is reading this, I'd like to say I'm most disappointed that you failed to disclose the fact that the refrigerator and dishwasher leaked, that the basement had a tendency to flood during a heavy rain, and that during our final real estate negotiations you tried to sell me your houseplants for $450 because you couldn't ship them to San Francisco. But, on the other hand, you did have someone redo the wood floors and paint all the rooms pretty colors, so thanks for that.]

Jonesing for a bus story?

2008-08-03T18:37:00.000-07:00

Here's one that'll take the edge off, by Wacky Mommy.

Transit violation

2008-08-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

By Jim

The TriMet schedule is part of my DNA. I twitch when the 44 is late. Standing at my stop, I look up the street four blocks, hoping my myopic eyes will conjure up a fuzzy image of my ride leaving PCC. Take me, bus baby! I'm wearing my come-pick-me-up pumps!

No dice today. I'm standing out there, jilted, wondering what went wrong. It's supposed to be there at 2:10. But 2:15 comes. Then 2:20. I'M GONNA BE LATE FOR WORK, TRIMET, WHERE IN THE HOLY HAMMERED HELL ARE YOU?

People just want their bus to be there. They don't care if it's a nice bus, a clean bus, an air-conditioned bus, a bus that talks to you and tells you what stop you're rolling into. JUST BE THERE! WE'RE POOR AND WE HAVE JOBS TO GET TO! TILL WE GET LAID OFF, AND THEN WE'RE REALLY GONNA BE POOR!

It's like computers. We don't care if the box has some sparkly little piece of software that does something we'll never use. Some wonky wireless widget. We just want it to work. EVERY FREAKING TIME WE TURN IT ON! Are you listening, Microsoft? Are you listening, Apple? I didn't think so.

So 2:25 comes. Sometimes it's hard to know when to leave. But I know this one is over. I feel violated, but I move on. I run over to Barbur Boulevard, on the rebound, to try to catch a "frequent service" 12. I wait 15 more minutes. It finally arrives.

When we pull into the Fourth and Jefferson stop downtown, I'm already 35 minutes late for work. I get off in a hurry. Another bus pulls up behind the 12. It's the 44. Too late. We're through. Goodbye. Don't bother me anymore.

Bus cartoon by Mozart Marley (click on the picture)

2008-07-29T23:31:00.000-07:00

Overheard

2008-07-29T11:33:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-27T15:51:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-26T16:24:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-26T16:22:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-26T16:19:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-23T10:41:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-21T23:42:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-20T21:13:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-20T21:12:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-20T20:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-19T18:14:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-17T00:15:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-17T00:08:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-16T00:24:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-16T00:12:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-16T00:03:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-13T17:21:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-12T22:55:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-12T22:20:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-11T16:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-07T22:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-05T15:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-01T20:35:00.000-07:00

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?

Holy driver

2008-06-29T18:26:00.000-07:00

By Amy

From a male bus passenger who sat in the seat closest to the driver:

"Holy driver, you've been down too long in the midnight sea

Oh what's becoming of me.

Ride the tiger

You can see his stripes but you know he's clean

Oh don't you see what I mean

Gotta get away

Holy driiiiii----va---ahhhhhh!"

(An aside: Behind me live some twentysomethings in a punk/metal band. One weekend they had a blowout party, and I heard Dio emanating from their house into mine, like a rainbow in the dahhhhhk!)

Food fright

2008-06-23T00:31:00.000-07:00

By Jim

"No eating on the bus," the big driver bellows. An oblivious young woman sitting toward the back of the No. 44 keeps chomping on french fries. The bus sails on, plying the asphalt sea with its human cargo. Again: "No eating on the bus!" She keeps eating. The driver checks her out in the rear-view mirror. What's with her? At the next stop: "No eating on the bus!"

Is she adrift in music, earbuds hidden beneath her long black hair? Is she deaf? Does she question authority? Hard to know.

A couple of miles later, she pulls the cord. The bus stops. She goes to the back door to get off. The door doesn't open. She pushes on it. Nothing; it's locked. She calls out, "Back door."

The driver answers, "FRONT DOOR."

She walks to the front door, and the front door closes. There is no escape.

"Do you speak English?" the driver says.

She turns to face her interrogator. "Yes."

"I told you three times not to eat on the bus."

She looks scared. "I didn't hear you."

"Everyone else on the bus heard me." (The driver is correct about that.)

She doesn't answer.

Then the front doors open. Fry Girl is free.

No longer the observer

2008-06-21T18:00:00.000-07:00

By Amy

Last month, while working out with my personal trainer (I love saying that), I broke a bone in my right foot, the fifth metatarsal--the bone between my ankle and little toe. Since then, I have been wearing this big, black orthopedic boot that hits me right below the knee and is square-shaped and oversized around the foot. I wish I had a matching boot for my left foot, then I would wear miniskirts and stomp around like a bad-ass Bride of Frankenstein.

But instead, being off-balance, I walk with a limp, and if I remain standing long enough, my foot begins to ache. The doctor gave me Vicodin for the pain, but that seems excessive, like blasting at flies with a shotgun.

Last week I was standing at my usual bus stop on MLK on my way to work. The bus didn't seem to be coming anytime soon, and my foot was starting to ache, so I walked the few blocks south to the covered bus shelter, which has a bench with two seats. On the way to the shelter I passed the Friends of Trees house with its unwelcoming, overgrown yard; the office of the mysterious accountant G.A. Sosanya; and the bright yellow Battery-X-Change, where, at least according to their sign, they will swap your dead car battery for a new one ad infinitum.

An overweight white guy in a baseball cap and T-shirt, I'd say in his late 50s, was standing near the shelter. As he watched me lumber toward him in my oversize boot, he set his cup of coffe on one the bench seats, so I was forced to take the other one, despite having the sensation that this man was standing too close, invading my personal space. But I get that feeling every time I share the shelter with another stranger--it's a tight fit.

As soon as I sat down, I pulled a book out of my purse and began reading, which in mass-transit commuter language means Do Not Fuck With Me.

The big man looked down at me. "Tell me," he said, "do you know if Lake Grove is near Lake Oswego?"

"I don't know," I said. I really didn't know. I went back to my book. Get a clue, buddy, I thought.

The man paced back and forth in front of me for about three minutes, humming a happy and ridiculous tune over and over, as if to fill the silence between us. I looked down the street for the telltale white rectangle of the bus with its black sign and comforting orange letters. It wasn't coming.

Another man stepped into the shelter.

"It's not easy being green!" he yelled.

He was chunky, black and around 50 years old, wearing a baseball cap, polo shirt and pristine white sneakers that glowed like they just came out of the box.

"Hey, isn't that from Kermit the Frog?" Humming Man asked.

"I am an American Negro," the black man yelled, and then began singing another loud song. He was so close enough to me that I could smell the beer on his breath.

I put my book face-down on the bench. "Hey, guys," I said. "I have a broken foot and it hurts, and I just want to sit here and be left in peace without both of you in my face."

The black man continued to sing, loudly. I got angrier.

"Look," I said to him. "I'll give you a dollar if you just be quiet until the bus comes." I dug my wallet out from my purse and opened it. Two fives and a ten.

"It's your lucky day," I said. "The smallest I have is a five." I gave him the bill.

The man wouldn't stop talking, confirming my suspicion that he was not of the ilk that could be persuaded with mere money.

"I am an American Negro," he shouted. "What are you?" he asked me.

"I'm white."

"Yes, but what are you?" he asked.

"German, I guess," I said.

"Hey, I'm German too," the white guy said.

Right then the bus pulled up, and the black man was mumbling to himself about how he was "going to buy a hamburger and beer with my $5." He never did board the bus.

Schadenfreude

2008-06-17T12:23:00.000-07:00

By Amy

You could say the bus driver was in a bad mood. Earlier on the route, he had to kick off a thirtyish-looking man with a baby face for trying to start a fight with some teenagers.

"I let you ride for free, and this is how you pay me back," the driver said to Baby Face.

Baby Face got off without a fight, but flashed some gang signs at the teens as the bus drove away.

A while later, we braked at the on the east end of the Hawthorne bridge, the last stop before it crosses downtown into Fareless Square. Passengers board, including a guy in business attire.

"I don't have any change," the businessman says, showing the driver his empty hands.

"Then you going to have to walk across," the driver says.

The businessman steps off. The driver slams the door after him and moves on.

TriMet Buddha

2008-06-13T11:42:00.000-07:00

By Bob

Graffiti on the back of a seat:

"May you never go mental,

may you always stay gentle"

Where to?

2008-06-12T22:09:00.000-07:00

By Bob

It was a Sunday night on the 11:30 No. 12 Barbur. About a dozen TriMet riders were snoozing, texting or listening to their iPods.

The ride from downtown to the 'burbs was going uneventfully until a little bit after the stop at S.W. Hamilton. At that point, the drivers usually pick up speed because not many people get on or off until we hit the Burlingame Freddies.

However, on this night the bus didn't pick up speed. In fact it slowed. Suddenly, the driver yells back to the passengers: "Does anyone know where this route goes?"

People perk up and look at each other in bewilderment. One gripes, "Jaysus, we're never going get home tonight."

The driver then adds: "Please, tell me where to go. But don't direct me to your house. People are always trying that."

Finally, one enterprising soul offers the driver some sage advice: "Just follow Barbur until you hit Sherwood."

We were saved.

Although when we arrived at the Barbur Transit Center, the driver mistakenly tried to enter at the first stoplight, which is the exit marked with a Do Not Enter sign. But someone told her to go to the next light and turn left. She did and most of the relieved crowd exited.

Your humble correspondent left the bus a little later at the 53rd Avenue stop, leaving the driver with an encouraging: "Thanks and good luck."

Pen and ink

2008-06-12T21:40:00.000-07:00

By Jim

On the late-night No. 12 to King City from downtown, one tatted-up fellow with a shaved-head -- except for a longish pony tail -- says to a fellow traveler, "Can I see your ink?" They examine a parlor-applied forearm tattoo for a while. Pony-tail man then rolls up his sleeve to show off his bicep handiwork. It isn't much to look at, pale-blue blotches. Indeed, it is his work -- "I did this myself," he says. "I used a staple I sharpened on the concrete. It took about 12 hours of stabbing. When I was done, my arm had swollen up to twice its size." Penitentiary "artwork," apparently.

No apologies

2008-06-12T20:55:00.001-07:00

By Lisa

It was lilac, plush and very large. But the Hispanic man in his late 40s didn't seem to mind that he was holding a stuffed elephant the size of a small woman on his lap. In fact, he looked straight ahead, his eyes inches from the back of its fuzzy noggin, and ignored it. The late-night No. 12 is a reasonably well-behaved crowd. We ignored it too.

Come to Willard

2008-06-12T15:52:00.000-07:00

By Jim

At the 4900 block of SW Barbur, there's a bus shelter. As the #12 bus stopped there about 10:45 p.m., a woman passenger, around 20 years old, says, "I like to feed the rats at this stop." The stop is nestled next to a bushy, overgrown hillside below the OHSU complex. "Sometimes they'll come right up to you," she says.

Little red lie

2008-06-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

By Amy

Snippet of a cell phone conversation overheard one night last week: "I can't come over, sweetie. I'm covered in fake blood."

Swing shifter

2008-06-07T17:54:00.000-07:00

By Amy

I catch the No. 6 bus to work in the afternoon on weekdays and ride it south on MLK, over the Hawthorne Bridge and into downtown Portland, where I get off on Southwest Third Avenue. After work, at night, I wait at a poorly lit stop in the Park Blocks on Columbia until the bus picks me up and deposits me near a Popeyes chicken restaurant in Eliot, the Northeast Portland neighborhood where I live. The commute is about three miles each way.

I ride the bus for the wrong reasons.

I don't ride the bus to save the environment, although by using mass transit I help reduce pollution and the use of fossil fuels and gasoline (now above $4 a gallon). Plus, the city buses run on biodiesel, a fuel made out of what used to be the cooking medium for some poor soul's Chicken McNuggets.

I don't ride the bus to save time. When I drove, it took me five minutes each way to my work (which shall remain unnamed) --a straight shot over the Fremont Bridge and onto I-405 through downtown. No problem. But on the bus, my ride is usually 30 minutes each way, provided nothing goes down to slow it up. And on this line, shit can go down at any given moment.

No, I ride the bus because about a year ago, sadly, the hotel lot where I secretly, shamelessly, flagrantly parked for free for two years came under new ownership, and the new owners caught on to my game pretty quick. And parking downtown is pretty expensive, at a minimum for me at that time about $5 a day. So over the course of two years I saved--well, a lot of money. The point is, I got one over on the Man--the hotel space was empty, so why not use it?

I didn't want to pay to park downtown--parking prices kept going up. Plus it sucked trying to find parking amid the constant construction that is still going on right now. Then my work offered employees a new program that lets us buy bus passes before the tax is taken out of our checks. So I bit. A lot of us bit.

So I'm busing it. I share space in a box every day with strangers, other sentient beings, who, as the Buddhists say, have the potential to repel me, attract me or completely escape my radar.

My coworkers, friends and I who've gone public transit enjoy swapping bus stories. I'd like to share my stories, and let them share their stories, with you.