'We are not third-graders'

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.