"The Man on the Clapham Omnibus"

     I rode the bus today. Not something I'm wont to do usually, but necessity is the mother of adventure. Or stepmother, whatever. If asked, I'd probably say I'd rather take out my own liver with a dull grapefruit spoon, than ride public transit with the unwashed masses; but, for better or worse, I started my three month journey with all the good humor I could muster, I thermos full of coffee, my book, an Ipod, and a willing spirit.

     The stop by my house is two blocks away and at the end of the line. When I got on, there was only one other person beside me and the driver. I fiddled with the idea of reading or listening to the radio, but decided instead to bear witness to the cross-section of society that would be accompanying me to downtown. 

     This is Seattle, not L.A. so the quality of riders is noticeably better here. Skinny hipster dudes with scraggy beards and Chrome bags, cute little northwestern girl commuters with their knee-high boots, awkward student types and the like. And then, there were the interesting people, the stand outs. 

     In Crown Hill the bus stopped at 70th and opened it's doors. After what seemed like a long pause, I see a handled cooking pot crest the handrail, followed by the neck of an old guitar. The Che sticker on the back of the guitar was only slightly less worn than the guitar's owner. Clad in a red beanie, three hoodies, a jacket, and a beard that looked as if it used to just be a moustache, but had lingered long enough to grow into its own entity; was a street performer of considerable age and questionable ability.
   "Can you get me home?" He said, in an almost unintelligible raspy voice, and sat down without even an attempt at payment. The bus driver closed the door and pulled away from the curb. It had taken quite a bit of effort to climb the three steps up into the bus, and so he rested for a moment before painfully fumbling through an assortment of scrap paper, finally selecting a particular shred to show to the driver. The driver waved him off, and let him ride, probably more out of pity than whatever had been on the waded piece of garbage he had to show him. 

     The unmistakable sound of no more than two or three dimes, rattled around inside of his pot as he settled in. He sat in the first seat by the door, pulled his hoodie over his eyes, and napped, mouth agape. 'Home' turned out to be another bus stop in Queen Anne, and I watched briefly as he set up for his afternoon show.

     A few stops later, as the bus was getting ready to pull away from the curb after letting some people off, there came some frantic calls from behind.
   "Wait bus!"
   "Wait bus!"
   "Wait bus!" The last few calls coming only inches from the door, although just as loud as the first. Scrambling up the steps clambered an obese but jovial man with a racquetball in hand. After paying and sitting in the same seat previously occupied by crusty guitar player, he stared out the window, smiling and using his racquetball as a sort of 'viewfinder' focusing in on this and that. His smile faded as his gaze turned towards me, and slowly lowered his racquetball, as if I was displeased with his actions. Of course, I wasn't, and was also a little hurt that the mere sight of me was enough to sully the mood of this otherwise gregarious soul. I attempted a smile back, but it was a little too little, a little too late.

     I exited the bus at Pike Street, amid faux gangsters, office types, and homeless wanderers. I made my way to work, wondering what characters the evening trip might bring.