First, there’s a pair of crows stalking their long strides across the lawn. They are followed by a flock of starlings and for a few minutes, the lawn is covered in birds, there must be forty or fifty of them. A few minutes later, it’s like a timer has gone off and the starlings have had their turn; it’s time for the sparrows. They skip the lawn and opt for the hedge, which is full of dark purple berries that these little birds can’t get enough of. They don’t stay long though, because the last act, a solo Stellar’s Jay, is here, poking his head in and out of the juniper at the corner of the house, dressed as always in his dark blue coat and executioner’s hood.
From my desk, I can see my laundry line, swaying lightly in the breeze. I notice it all at once – how can I not have seen this before? All of my clothing has turned to the colors of the Pacific Northwest. It is shades of brown, a variety of grays from almost white to almost black, quiet greens that run from pale sage to olive, black, and the rare instance of pale sky blue.
***
Just south of downtown, near the methadone clinic, two black women and a pudgy white guy convince the driver to let them on without paying. One of the women is stunningly beautiful until she opens her mouth – she’s missing far too many of her teeth for such a young woman. The other woman is waving around a cane with little regard for where it’s going – the older white lady across the aisle leans back just in time to save her nose.
An overweight white man, maybe in his 40s, clearly struggling with his nerves, makes his way to a seat towards the front of the bus. The clinic trio are replaced by a muttering, stinking drunk, a white guy carrying a bundle of his belongings. He sits next to me on the bench seat in the middle of the bus but I can’t take the smell for very long and I move further up to the front. I imagine the family across the way from him – a young woman clearly showing her parents around town – are desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with the drunk.
A little further up the route, the bus stops and a 60ish gentleman, well turned out, steps on. He stops to ask the driver about getting a wheelchair on the bus and she assures him it’s fine. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before,” he says, and the driver is nothing but patience and grace. She shuffles some humans around but when she comes to the pudgy guy with the nerves, he doesn’t want to move because, he says, he won’t be able to see where to get off. “Don’t worry, dear,” says the driver, “I’ll tell you.” But the man is still not moving. He needs a little extra explanation and patience, but now, the drunk at the back starts shouting, loudly. “You asshole!” he’s screaming, “Get out of the way for the fucking wheelchair!” This goes on while the driver calmly gets the disoriented man to shift his place and settles the clearly pained and rather elegant woman in the wheelchair into the appropriate spot.
The guy next to me, let’s call him organic farming guy because he has that ruddy look and is wearing Birkenstocks and flannel, says, “You know, during commuter hours, everything is very calm, even though it’s crowded. It’s when that’s over that all the crazy people start to appear.”
The bus takes off and there’s a collective sigh of relief, but then, followed by a very tall black man and his companion, a white woman barely four feet tall but almost that wide, and another drunk boards the bus and makes his way to the back. I can hear the growing altercation between the first drunk and the second drunk. The first one has somehow touched the second guy – mind you, this is a crowded downtown bus – and the second guy has blown a gasket.
“Do you have your lower teeth left? Coz if you do, I’m going to knock the rest of them out if you touch me again!” All this aggression goes on for what seems like a Very Long Time. The first drunk apologizes and says he’s been drinking, the second guy says “I’ve been drinking too, but you don’t see me touching people. I’m going to knock the rest of your teeth out of your fucking mouth if you touch me again. And watch your goddamn language, there are children on this fucking bus.”
When we finally get to my stop, I ask the driver how often she calls the cops. She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, it doesn’t do any good, ” she says. “It takes them so long to respond that I could be shot in the back before they show up. Metro has security if we really need them, but it takes them time to get out to us too. You have a nice day now, and be safe.”
Congratulations for taking the bus. Walking the environmental walk. And saving on parking and congestion aggravation. And reading a book. And peoplewatching.