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.

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.

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.

Applied physics

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

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

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.

Wall and barrier

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.

Friends in high places

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."

Sustenance

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

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.

A flip but no flop

By Bob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chivalry lives.

His luck turned

By Bob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lights out

By Bob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wondered: What was that all about?

TriMet Buddha

By Bob 

Graffiti on the back of a seat: 

"May you never go mental,

may you always stay gentle"

Where to?

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."