November, 2007
Bus stop at 3rd & Pine
Downtown Seattle, Washington

A man approaches me: late 30s, greasy dark hair, red scabbed nose, twitchy. He holds a clipboard full of tattered papers.

“Hey, we’re just taking a survey. How many people do you live with?”
“Just me,” I answer.
He nods, still twitching, “Oh, okay, okay. Do you make at least $3000 a month?”
I chuckle. “No, I wish I did.”
He doesn’t smile. “Okay, um, do you believe marriage should only be between a man and a woman?”
“No…” Where is this going?
He nods hurriedly, “Okay, good, you’re like us.”
Not very like, I hope.
He continues, sounding nervous, “We’re trying to do some fundraising, just a nickel or dime would help if you have it.” He hands me a slip of paper with printed writing, and I read the first line: IN CHINA AND KOREA, THEY EAT DOGS AND CATS!

“What are you raising money for, exactly?”
He’s earnest as he says, “We’re trying to save dogs and cats! Because in China and Korea they eat dogs and cats, and we’re trying to stop it.”
I notice there’s a URL on the slip, and tell him I’ll check out the website.
“Okay,” he says uncertainly. “We’re just trying to save dogs and cats, y’know?”
My bus pulls up. “That’s very admirable.”
As I step onto the bus, he calls after me.

“Also we’re trying to make alcohol illegal, because it’s really bad for you.”

February 17, 2007
Bus stop at 15th & Campus Parkway
University District, Seattle, Washington

Thin, scrappy-looking black man, rumpled clothes. He rants about all the things that are wrong in the world: the city, the police, the buses, the ex-wife.
“I make up for it, though…I go to the beach and watch the sun set on the ocean.”

Late July, 2009
The bus stop at Queen Anne & Mercer
Seattle, Washington

Sitting on a bench waiting for the bus, canvas tote bag in her lap, knees and feet together, she is a petite, feminine sort of woman. Tidy sandals, knee-length denim pencil skirt, crocheted, cream-colored sweater, she buttons it with dainty fingers, her movements bird-like quick. Hair in a casual bob, glasses fashionable but understated, delicate ivory skin; and there, in the center of her face, quite the largest nose I have ever seen on a woman.

Update: Saw the dreadlocked fellow who was so convinced I was a writer. This time it was, still bright-eyed and eager, “Hey! Are you a barista?”

9:30 am, September 14, 2009
Bus stop at 3rd & Pine
Downtown Seattle

“You look like you could write screenplays!” he says, his long, uneven dreads swaying in the breeze. He smiles broadly, white teeth gleaming against dark skin, and stands just a little too close.
“You write screenplays?”
I grin. “Nope.”
“Could you write a screenplay?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never tried.”
“Then what do you write? Musicals?”
I’m delighted to have been pegged a writer, so I tell him. “Short stories.”
“What’s your theme?”
I think, then settle on a common one. “Music.”
He grins, delighted, and pronounces, “Musicals!”
I shake my head, “No, just stories about music.”
His brow furrows and he gestures. “But no actors and actresses singing?”
“Not scripts, just stories in a book,” I explain, holding my hands together in the international sign for book.
“How many pages, then?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t printed them yet.”
He laughs at this, then continues the interview.
“What instruments do your characters play? Piano? Flute? Guitar? Banjo?”
I tell him one of my stories has a mandolin player and a fiddle player. He lights up at this and asks, “Are you Irish or Scottish?”
I tell him the majority. “I’m Norwegian.”
He looks incredulous. “Then where’d you get that red hair?”
“From a box.”
He reels and laughs at this. “A box! Well you know, maybe some Irish could have slipped up into Norway and left some red hair and some freckles.”
I nod thoughtfully. “Maybe, but mine is still from a box.”

May 16, 2008
Downtown Bellevue transit center
Bellevue, Washington

Two teenage skaters are goofing off near me as I wait for the last bus out of the Eastside. They can’t be much more than fourteen, and are quite clearly drunk.
One of them saunters over to me and asks me for a cigarette.
“You’re too young to smoke cigarettes.” I like the irony of pointing this out while he’s drunk, even though, to my way of thinking, it’s completely true.
He wavers, unbalanced. Looks more closely. “You a cop?”
Deadpan, I answer, “No.”
He nods judiciously.
“Then we’re okay.”

July 2, 2008
Bus stop at 15th & Market
Ballard, Seattle, Washington

A young woman, perhaps in her early 30s, in a pink t-shirt and stretch pants. She approaches me at the bus stop.
“Do you want to buy a $1.50 bus ticket for a dollar?”
My pass just ran out and I’ve yet to buy another, so I say yes.

As I pull out my wallet, she squints at me.

“Are you rich?”
I laugh a little. “God, no.”
She frowns. “Do you get SSI?”
I can’t remember what SSI stands for, but I’m pretty sure it involves the government giving you money. “Nope.”
“Then how do you survive?” she asks with some concern.
“I have a job?”
“Oh…”

She doesn’t sound convinced.

February 7, 2009
The bus stop at 15th & Leary
Ballard, Seattle, Washington

Working at 7am on Saturday is no one’s idea of fun. Walking to the bus just before 6, I see two men waiting there in the dark. One, tall, in a red windbreaker, perhaps 50s, early 60s, says, “Oh, I see how it is!”
I hear breaks, turn, and see the 15 coming down the street, right on time.
“We’ve been freezing here for an hour, but you walk up like it’s nothing and the bus rolls right in.”
I shrug and smile.
He continues, “I bet you got a watch. I should get me one of those.”
“They are handy,” I answer.
He turns to the short, round-faced, brown-skinned man next to him and says something in Spanish. The other man smiles as he responds.
Watchless continues to rant, though good-naturedly.
“One hour we been out here, and you just walk right up. Man. Not that I blame you,” he assures me. “I’m just a little jealous.”
The 15 pulls up, but it’s just a shuttle. We’ll have to wait.
He chuckles. “Good! Now you have to wait here with us!”
I smile. “Waiting for the bus builds character.”
He laughs. “I don’t need any more character.”
He’s close enough now that I can smell the beer that’s probably contributing to his joviality. Already drunk or still drunk at 6am.
We stand in silence for a moment.
“Yeah, I gotta get me a watch. It’s ‘the Nineties’!”
I’m not sure if he’s kidding, considering it’s not the Nineties and wristwatches became popular in the 1920s.
He continues. “Gotta keep up with the times.” Again, with exaggeration, “It’s the Nineties!”
He pauses. “Wait…no it isn’t.”
Now I laugh. “Hasn’t been the Nineties for ten years, dude.”
“But what do we call it now?” he challenges me.
I shrug. “No one seems to agree. It’s just ‘the new millennium.’ Not so terribly new anymore, I guess.”
He nods. “Yeah, I’m ready for the next one.” Now he guffaws loudly.

“In the next millennium, maybe I’ll get a watch!”