Metro Holiday Schedule - Day 4 - A.M. - The Bear Claw

At last, the final day of Metro's Reduced Holiday Schedule!

I decided to ride the Sounder train this morning, although there was a 150 at Kent Station I could have taken that would have gotten me downtown at about the same time. It was the very unsavory 150 with the motley crew from the jail on it.

Not these guys:

That would be awesome!

I was referring to the motley crew of the freshly released ex-cons from the Kent RJC. I don't have a pic to post of them. Yet. But they don't look like the guys from Motley Crue.

So, I boarded the train and, as always, it was very quiet. We arrived downtown, and I entered the International District/Chinatown Station just in time to catch that same 150 to Convention Place. Most of the scary people had gotten off in SODO.

I sat in the sideways seat in front of the back door. A woman with a very young baby sat in the forward-facing seat next to me. Another woman got on at University Street Station and sat next to her; she wore a jacket that had a hood with the gray fake-animal-hair border. Everyone sitting to the side of me was clean.

As we made our way through the tunnel toward Westlake Station, I was looking our the door. Then, out of nowhere, something landed on my left upper leg.

I'm not quite sure what it was.

It was small, about the size of my pinky fingernail.

I'm going to play it safe and say it was an almond sliver from a bear claw pastry. It looked like one. Or a scab. But I'm going with bear claw almond sliver.

I'm not sure where it came from. The woman diagonally across from me was asleep and draped across the seat. She didn't look scabby, although she had a prison tat above her left breast. Her business casual, low-cut blouse opened up when she leaned forward during the nap. The guy sitting next to me looked clean enough. The baby was half asleep and eating from a bottle and about a month old, so he didn't throw something at me. It didn't come from me. I don't have scabs and I haven't eaten a bear claw in about six months.

I swept the "sliver" off my leg quickly, not unlike a Ninja, with my bare hand. I was left puzzled by it for the next two tunnel stations, knowing whatever it was was now on my jeans and the side of my left hand.

I couldn't get to work quickly enough to disinfect my hand. I wanted to boil it, but instead I just used a lot of soap.

Metro Holiday Schedule - Day 3 - Meth Mouth and Grill

I took the train to downtown this morning. From there, I walked to the International District/Chinatown Tunnel and hopped on the 106 - Convention Place. The 106 originates in Renton, but once it gets in the tunnel it stops at each station.

This is what the inside of the Sounder train looks like on the top level.

This reminds me of roller skating when the "All Skate" light would light up. Couple's skating was over and the lame couples would float lovingly to the edges of the rink so the rest of us could get back to skating and Billy Squier.

In any case, I got on the 106 and sat in the back corner. I was pleased to see there weren't many riders aboard the bus. We stopped at Pioneer Square Station next. Several people got on, including a very happy couple who sat next to me. Actually, they sat around me. The woman sat in the sideways seat in front of me, and her man sat next to me.

I casually hit the Pause button on my iPod. I knew this conversation was going to be good, and I decided to listen with my earbuds in.

The woman, God love her, had been around the block several times. She was old - probably early 50's, leathery, and had peroxide-dyed yellow/orange, scratchy hair. She had a deep, smoky voice and a slight speech impediment. Who wouldn't have a speech impediment...when they have three very yellow teeth?! Yes. Two on top, one on the bottom.

Let's call her Meth Mouth.

Truthfully, I didn't get a good look at her man. He was average looking and definitely from the other side of the tracks. He had a dental anomaly as well: A gold tooth that caught the fluorescent Metro lighting and nearly blinded me.

Let's call him Grill.

Meth Mouth and Grill were good people, I could tell. They were having a great time coming from 3rd and James (where they were no doubt up to no good) and going further downtown. The two were very much in love. Or at least in like.

In any case, the two take their seats as mentioned above and the bus proceeds down the tunnel. Grill took his lanyard with keys off his neck, leaned forward, and put it around her neck. Something came loose from the chain, and this is where a rather disturbing exchange between the two started.

Meth Mouth: "It came aparth. Hahahahhh" It came ALL OVER the plathe. Haha!"
Grill: "Haay! I'm taking a vow of silence. Heh heh."
Meth Mouth: "I plead thhe fifthh."
Grill: "Ha haaah! Remember that?"

And with that, I saw Grill look at me out of the corner of his eye to check if I was paying attention. He determined I wasn't, and then, as I looked straight ahead, he performed the traditional hand to mouth motion of a blowjob. It was quite realistic, as he added his tongue jabbing the inside of his cheek. Then he giggled.

Meth Mouth: "Oh yeah! Thhilence of the Lambthh!"
Grill: "Ha ha - Shhhh! Baby...."
Meth Mouth: "Oh, I do remember thhat. It wath everywhere!"

Okay. Remember - I am in very close proximity to these people, and I'm eavesdropping. I turned my head and looked out the window, watching the tunnel walls fly past, trying not to crack up laughing. The more I tried to hold back my laughter, the worse it got. I was thinking about disasters, sad kittens, bratty children, anything and everything that was un-funny. I managed to hold it back to a smile and a little giggle.

When the two were done laughing about that, Meth Mouth immediately turned her attention to the innocent young man directly in front of her.

Meth Mouth: "Hey! Whath book is thhat?"
Guy: [Whatever the title was. I don't remember.]
Meth Mouth: "Oh, it's a 'besthseller', but I've never heard of ith. I know alllll thhe besthsellers. What'th ith abouth?"
Guy: Mormons.
Meth Mouth: "Mormons? Are you a Mormon?"
Guy: No. [Laughs]
Meth Mouth: "You know who'th a fuckin' Mormon? Thhe guy who ownth Alberthson's."
Guy: [Nervous laugh.]
Meth Mouth: "That'th righth. Thhey sell coffee and sodas thhere. Thhe Mormonsth can'th drink thhem, buth thhey sell thhem."
Guy: [Silence]
Meth Mouth: "Buth, I mean, who thhe fuck shopth at Alberthson's anyway?!"
Grill: "Baby...language."

Just then, the bus stopped at Westlake Station. The passenger sitting in the opposite back corner left, freeing a double seat for the lovebirds. Grill scooted over and invited Meth Mouth to cozy up next to him.

"Come on over here, Baby. I won't bite."
"Uh hahaha! Neithher will I."

Her statement made me have to look out the window again. I thought about unhappy things again to keep a straight face. Tornadoes, car accidents, the time I unknowingly ate tripe in my pho, and waiting in line at the Post Office at 3rd and Union. Because, really, there's about an 87% chance Meth Mouth won't bite considering she's missing all but three teeth. The odds are in your favor, Grill.

I turned my iPod back on and got off at Convention Place. I am not easily offended, so their dialogue didn't put me off. I think it was a rude awakening for someone coming off the sanitary, tranquil Sounder train where they only talk about real bestsellers - not oral sex between street people. And not before my second cup of coffee.

I had Pop Tarts for breakfast. What did you have?

Metro Holiday Schedule - Day 2 - Bell's Palsy Zombie

The second day of Metro's week of Reduced Holiday Schedule was filled with post-holiday 150 bliss.

I boarded the 150 at Kent Station a little later than normal, which was bad for me getting to work on time but good for me as a 150 passenger. The earlier 150s are very entertaining, yet quite dangerous. People who need to get to work on time downtown know to take the Express buses. People going for their Methadone, or those getting released from a night at the Kent RJC (Regional Justice Center, i.e., JAIL), don't know about the Express buses. They take the 150. And they are a terrifying bunch.

My 150 this morning was calm and quiet. There was one man with crazy eyes rolling cigarettes in the back across from me. I wasn't phased by him. I would have crazy eyes, too if I had to roll my own smokes.

There was another guy who looked like an older Taylor Hicks who I think I've seen on the 164. Remember that old man on American Idol? He claimed to be like 24 or something, but his hair was fully gray and he only sang Doobie Brothers' songs? No 24 year old is going to sing a fucking Doobie Brothers song. I got cable after that season and never watched it again. So, in Taylor Hicks years, the guy riding the bus today was 28. He didn't do anything. He just reminded me of Taylor Hicks and the period in my life when the only television channel I got was Fox.

I almost fell asleep once we got on the highway. Everything was rolling quickly and quietly until we turned the corner into SODO.

Going into SODO is always turning a corner. For the readers unfamiliar with the Seattle area, SODO is the land that God forgot (at least the part the buses travel through). Many industrial companies are there as well as the sports stadiums. It's called SODO because it was SOuth of the KingDOme. Since the Kingdome has been demolished and replaced, it's now SOuth of DOwntown. SODO is littered with graffiti, beer bottles, and abandoned cars. The homeless in that area are aggressive, and it's the perfect place to shoot up between vacant warehouses.

Actually, it would be the perfect place to dispose of a dead body if you didn't want to be cliche and dump it in the Green River.

Anyway, the bus takes the right turn into SODO where we will pick up scary, shaky junkies. It happens every time. And at our first stop, several got on. They looked like zombies. They were grayish pale, sweaty skin, big eyes with blank stares. One of the zombies was different. Something about his face was off.

This man either had a stroke or a bout of Bell's Palsy. One side of his face was okay, but the other looked smeared down. His eye tilted down, as did that side of his lips. He sat in the articulation. The crazy-eyed guy from the back noticed him, and quickly went to sit with him. Bell's Palsy Zombie had shifty eyes and wore a long, dirty trench coat.

The bus starts moving again, and the next thing I know, Bell's Palsy Zombie has a stack of DVDs out of his trench coat trying to sell them. A few guys from the front came and talked with him about them, thumbed through the selection, and moved on. I don't think they were bootlegs. They were sealed in plastic. They were obviously stolen. I don't think Bell's Palsy Zombie has access to shrinkwrap equipment.

So, aside from the wheelin' and dealin' going on in the articulation, the 150 wasn't a bad place to be this morning.

A view from the steamy, humid back side window of the 150, looking into the Tunnel between Convention Place and Westlake. It was a rainy night.

I took the 150 back to Kent from Convention Place, and it was very subdued as well. The only noteworthy item was the young man who got on at Southcenter and rode to Kent Station, rapping aloud with his music. He has no hearing because his music was very loud in his earbuds, so he doesn't know the back half of the bus grew tired of his poor rapping skillz quickly. About two stops from Kent Station, he chose to spray a gallon of cologne on himself. It filled the back of the bus and it was very strong. I couldn't decide if I should be angry at him for being so rude or pleased the smell of ass was covered.

I chose to be happy with it. It wasn't a bad scent, but getting off that bus and into fresh air was a good thing. Thankfully no one barfed on this 150.

Metro Holiday Schedule - Day 1 - P.M. - Captain Morgan

The evening commute during Metro's Reduced Holiday Schedule week is much less fun than the morning commute. I get off work too late to catch a Sounder train home, and both of my Express bus choices are cancelled. I have no choice but to take the 150.

Aren't I the lucky one?

This evening I decided to outsmart my fellow riders and board the bus a few stations before where I normally do. I usually get on the 150 in the University Street Tunnel, and by that time the bus is packed. Tonight I walked to the Convention Place Station. (It isn't actually a tunnel, but the tunnel system seems to start there.) I remember catching a bus there a long time ago, but I haven't been there in years.

I wasn't the only smart rider. The Not-So-Phantom-Menace from the Express bus was also there. He and I were the only ones waiting in the Bay for the 150. As the bus came around the corner to pick us up, we exchanged pleasantries.

Me: Yay! The 150! Happy Holidays.

N.S.P.M.: God I hate this bus.

Me: I know, it's like punishment.

N.S.P.M.: I tried to change my schedule to avoid taking this bastard bus.

I now have a higher appreciation of The Not-So-Phantom-Menace. I wish he'd get on some Paxil to rid himself of his tics. Or better yet, use some Rid to clear up that itchy-scratchy business.

In any case, he and I were the only ones on the bus. We went through the tunnels, although the bus never filled up and was uncharacteristically boring. Except for one man.

The guy sitting next to me.

I purposely chose the back corner seat of the 150 for entertainment/danger/blog material. The incredibly drunk guy had no idea where he was and happened to sit next to me. It must have been fate.

Let's call this guy Captain Morgan. He sure had a little of the Captain in him.

Captain Morgan was young. He did not look old enough to drink, but he sure had been. A lot. It was hard liquor. He reeked of it, and he couldn't keep his eyes open. He flopped down on the seat next to me, fumes coming from him and his really nice oatmeal colored sweater. He wasn't dirty, just filthy drunk. Captain Morgan had a short afro that had retained rainwater and slowly dripped the entire trip to Kent. At every turn of the bus, he'd dramatically -- and unintentionally -- sway back and forth on the seat.

The first time his head landed on my shoulder, he almost woke up.

"Dude. No." I said as I sort of nudged him back into his center of gravity. His hair left a little wet patch on my shirt; this grossed me out.

For the most part, Captain Morgan sat with his head down. He clumsily tried to prop it up with his hand, elbow on his thigh, but he kept swaying. This meant he kept hitting his head on the pole, and he stayed under a foot away from the lap of the girl sitting in front of us. She didn't seem to mind. I did.

This young, amazingly drunk man was going to puke. It was inevitable. I looked at the seating arrangement, and I figured he'd actually miss me. The girls in front of us would get it. The big guy further out might get it, and he'd get pissed because he had nice boots and jeans on. If Captain Morgan lost it, the girls would, too. One of them was very stoned. Her eyes were really glassy and red; she would have giggled, then ralfed. This had potential to be a disgusting 150 ride after all.

When we got off the highway and headed through the asscrack of Kent, Captain Morgan decided he was chilly and put on one furry glove. Just the right one.

Sway, sway, sway through Industrial Land. Sway, sway, <snort>, sway past Southcenter. His head landed on my shoulder again. I shoved him back to center again, this time shooting him a dirty look. He smiled, eyes closed, and told me, "Ahgkjsyuroiwpern." In drunk, this translates to, "Pardon me, sir. My inebriated head has rested upon your shoulder. Forever I shall be sorry, yet I will remember nothing of this incident."

I could not believe we made it all the way to Kent Station without a shower of vomit. I was impressed with Captain Morgan and told him to be careful.

I was the last one off the bus, and I saw another familiar face from the Express bus: The Security Guard. He is cool. We were in line waiting to pay and run for our connecting buses. The Security Guard and I were talking about the Sounder Train.

And then it hit.

We heard several voices from the front of the bus call out in shock and amazement. I knew Captain Morgan had not made it out without leaving his mark. Thank God he held it in until he was away from me. While waiting in line to pay, Captain Morgan barfed all over the front sideways seats and half of the floor. We had to step over splatters to get out.

The bus driver was gagging, calling the station.

"Station [gag]! This is route 150, bus number 7394 [wretch]. I need someone to come [guhhh] clean my coach [gaggg]. Oh God. I can't [cough] drive this back to the [blecch] terminal!"

I was quite happy to be off that bus, standing in the heavy rain for 15 minutes, waiting for the 164 to carry me home. The rain seemed to wash away any particles. I am a lucky guy to come out of that 150 unscathed.

This sign has nothing to do with this post. It's a sign from the tunnel. I like the No Feeding Birds part. That's because sometimes pigeons get in the tunnel, and since everyone gets McDonalds before boarding the 150 at University Street Tunnel, it's a given those birds will eventually get a hold of some hamburger, get the taste of blood, and then start going after people.

Metro Holiday Schedule - Day 1 - A.M.

As many of you know, the last week in December is very special for those who rely on Metro. Many Metro bus routes operate on "Reduced Holiday Schedule," which means my Express buses are iffy in the morning and non-existent at night. Apparently no one works during this week. I did not get that memo.

Mornings are a relatively easy commute. I could take an earlier Express bus, the 150, or the Sounder train. Today I opted for the Sounder train.

Kent Sounder Station

The Sounder train is so very peaceful. Everything about it is pleasant and friendly.

* There is a machine to buy your ticket that accepts debit cards and cash.
* The train has a bathroom that doesn't stink.
* There are electrical outlets for charging your devices.
* There's free WiFi.
* I've never seen anyone dirty or scary on it.
* There are cupholders for your morning coffee.
* Those trains run on normal schedules on holidays and during snow days.
* There are two levels to choose from; the upper level has great views.
* The best part of it all is the commute time is half that of the Express bus. The train gets from Kent Station to Jackson Street Sounder Station in 22 minutes, whereas the Express bus takes 48 minutes to get from Kent Station to 6th and University. The 150 takes about a hour and a half to get from Kent Station to Convention Center Tunnel.

The only bad thing about the train is you end up at the Jackson Street Station. From there, you have to either walk to Jackson Street and get a bus in the Free Ride Zone (scary neighborhood), or you have to go to the International District/Chinatown Tunnel and catch a bus further downtown.

This is the Sounder train I took boarding at Jackson Street Station.

There was no drama on the train today, although I sat across from a young girl and her father. The girl was probably about 8 years old. She was playing with McDonald's princess dolls from several Happy Meals. She frequently scratched her head, and at one point her father was scratching his head. I think they may have had lice. They were clean enough, but lice can affect all sorts of people. Damn daycare centers.

The best part of my Sounder train ride this morning was the photo I took of the emergency handle on the window.

Once I arrived at Jackson Street Station, I hustled over to the International District/Chinatown Tunnel to get a lift to University Street Tunnel. I ended up hopping aboard a Light Rail and getting to my destination in no time.

This is the International District/Chinatown Tunnel.

I wish every morning commute could be this uneventful.

Have Faith!

Today I had to take a very early 159 to work. It was an older articulated bus, and since the back corner seats were taken, I sat behind the back door.

You can imagine my delight when I noticed these stickers of faith decorating the area.

(That is a bus pole, not a Festivus pole.)

 

You know, it's no accident I sat among those stickers. It's nothing short of a miracle I actually caught an early bus.

The Brushing

"I rinsed it out. I don't know what happened!" Her scratchy, nasal voice echoed from behind the safety glass in front of the seat by the backdoor.

She looked really out of it. I'll call her Ginger. Her hair was a reddish color and super screwed up. Her skin was a greenish-pale. She talked slowly so as to not appear high as a kite, or maybe she was so high she had the time delay thing going on.

Ginger was cozied up next to a woman who I'll call Becky. Becky was a bus regular with her man (let's call him Eddie). Becky and Eddie have dabbled with some ugly business and take the morning Express bus downtown to get their Methadone doses. I suspect they were showing Ginger and her man how to get there.

Ginger's man, who I'm not creating a fictitious name for because he has no real part in the story, was sitting with Eddie. So, in the last forward-facing seats, you've got Ginger's man and Eddie on the left, then Becky and Ginger on the right in front of the back door.

Everyone in the group is in their mid-twenties.

Ginger had done something bad to her hair the night before. She was upset that it had knotted up, and rightfully so. It was very long - down to at least to her mid-back - and practically dreadlocked. But only in certain spots. It didn't look freshly dyed or intentionally curly, so I'm not sure what she did to it. That's okay. I don't think she knew, either.

The only saving grace is that it did look clean. None of these people appeared dirty, and I know Becky and Eddie aren't homeless. They don't smell that great, but they make the effort.

Becky maternally raked her fingers through the knotty patches, cooing to her.

"You just didn't rinse it out good enough. It'll be okay! Let's brush it out."

Oh no...no...please!

"It'll be okay!"

God, no! No, it won't be okay. Ever.

There's something really gross to me about a stranger's hair. I can imagine the dander and skin cells microscopically flying off, not to mention the stray hairs randomly becoming airborne like the plastic bag in American Beauty. Without any poetic beauty.

I actually gagged when Becky pulled a hard bristled hairbrush from her bag and started in on Ginger's mess.

They chatted and hairbrushed for the next 15 minutes like two young girls at a slumber party. Those knots were really bad. Lots of excess hair was accumulating in the brush, but Becky kept up with it. Every few seconds she'd pull out the hair and flick it on the floor. I would have to step over that hairpile to exit the bus.

I looked over a couple of times to see Ginger leaning all the way forward, face against the divider. Becky was consistent  and firm in her brushing. Ginger took it like a champ, even when the brush was pulling out sections of her hair by the root. Roots that would end up on the passengers behind them, or on the bottoms of my shoes as I walked off the bus.

When the beauty session was over, Ginger and Becky split earbuds on the portable CD player the foursome had brought. Ginger rested her head on Becky's shoulder, perhaps taking a post-grooming nap. I, on the other hand, was unable to nap on that bus ride.

The 358 to Aurora

I've had several people ask me to write a blog post about the 358 to Aurora. The truth is I have been on it a few times in the Ride Free Zone downtown to get from James Street down to Pike and one other time. Sadly, I don't have a good excuse to ride it. I would have amazing material every day.

The 358 is a bus filled with drunks, druggies, and really scary people. It goes down Aurora in Seattle. Some parts of Aurora aren't too bad, but overall it's better not to be there at night. Or dusk. Unless you want to brave it at Burgermaster, which is understandable.

I always write about the 7 and the 150 being scary. The 7 is, and the 150 has potential to be. The 358 really is. The people on there are hardcore.

One weekend day years ago I was waiting at 3rd and James for the 41 to go to Northgate Mall. (It is a wonder I survived the bus stop.) I waited and waited. Finally, two or three buses came and the 41 was in the lineup. I boarded. There was hardly anyone on it.

We start cruising down 3rd, and by this time it's dark. People are getting on and they're looking a little sketchy for the Northgate bus, but whatever. The next thing I know, we're turning the corner by Westlake. The 41 never goes this way.
I walk up the aisle, stepping over the legs of drunken passengers to look at the route number over the driver's head.

358 - Aurora

OhmyGod! [DING] I pulled that cord as quick as I could.

In my haste to get away from the homeless molester zombies on 3rd, I had gotten in the back of the 358 - not the 41.

Luckily the next stop was by the Westin, so I didn't actually end up on Aurora! I walked back over to 3rd and took the 27 (also quite a ride at night) back home.
I went to Target the next morning, and I've been uptight about checking the bus numbers when boarding ever since.

Pee Pee Herman

"I was on the 150 one time and...."

You know it's going to be a good story if it starts out like that.

During the blessed week between Christmas and the New Year, there are no Express buses. We have no choice but to take the 150. Last year I was packed into the 150 with a million other stranded suburbanites and sketchy Sodo dwellers. I was standing by the back door and I was viciously attacked by a man's poofy jacket.

I'd gotten on in the tunnel at the Convention Center tunnel, along with a man who had just gotten off work. He was a little off. He was a portly guy, older than me, with crazy thin red hair. He wore dirty jeans and a poofy satiny jacket. He'd been talking to me about how he was enjoying his new job, even though it was cold out and he'd been waiting to start work when it got warmer. I didn't know him from Adam, but he sure did want to talk. They all do.

So, the 150 comes and the guy and I pile into the back of the 150 with all of the others who had been waiting. I scored a great stand-up spot by the back door, and the guy stood on the other side of me in the aisle.

I like to stand in that area if I can't get a seat. There is more room there, and there are several choices of things to grab onto so you don't fall. I feel uncomfortable holding onto a seat railing or the overhead ones. Some people choose to sit on the floor in the back door area, but I'd never even consider that.

We begin to move along the tunnel, toward Pioneer Square Tunnel, and it hits me like an uppercut - POW! The stench of urine. Ugh! It hadn't been stinky (any more so than any 150) when I got on, but there it was. Perfect. I'll be spending the next 70 minutes inhaling the vapors.

We got through the tunnel and out into Sodo. As we traveled along the bumpy road, the smell seemed to come and go. I surmised someone standing near me reeked of pee. Not unusual for this bus, I thought.

In Sodo, someone new got on and stood in the back door area behind me, causing me to have to move closer to the guy who had been talking to me with the poofy satiny jacket. He would raise and lower his arm to grab the handrail above my face when the street got bumpy.

And you know what?

I believe he peed on the sleeve of that poofy satiny jacket. He must have. Or someone else did. Maybe 15 people did. Perhaps he got a backspray at the urinal this morning and kept the jacket stored in an airtight container for use later as a biological weapon. Whatever the case, I started referring to the guy as Pee Pee Herman. He got off at the Tukwila Park & Ride, which is the first stop off I-5, and not soon enough for me.

I certainly hope Pee Pee Herman spent his first paycheck on some Tide and Dial. I saw him again that week, as I was stuck riding that horrid bus home for the next week, but I made sure to steer clear of him and his pee pee jacket.

Thank God for Purell. I put some on my face when I got home.

The Bible Girl

On the morning Express bus, you typically see the same people. We sit in the same spots unless a new rider gets on and steals it. Unlike other buses, the people on our bus know each others' names. We chit chat and know about each others' families.

I used to sit in the front, which was a very talkative area (go figure). There was a particular young woman who was a regular rider; she got on at MAIL HANDLER's stop. Her name was The Bible Girl.

The Bible Girl was decent looking. She looked kinda like a younger, more plump Marisa Tomei with glasses. She never spoke, but she was pleasant and always carried her Bible. When she wasn't reading the Bible, she was reading something religious. This was intriguing to me. Nothing about her screamed "Religious." Her clothes were business casual - although rather low cut - and she often did her eye make-up before cracking the Good Book. She always sat across from me in the forward-facing front seats.

The real Marisa Tomei. Photo courtesy of Askmen.com.

The Bible Girl had a lot more cleavage than this.

The Bible Girl smiled at me often. When she wasn't smiling, she was staring at me. I know this because I caught her several times and I could see her reflection in the windows given the right morning light. She would sit there, peeking up over her Bible and glasses, and stare. When I'd catch her, she'd go back to the Scriptures. "Oooh, Bible Girl, you're a naughty one," I'd think to myself.

It's one thing to check somebody out, but to do it so obviously on a daily basis when you're calling Jesus into the bus by reading His book and showing 2 feet of cleavage...wow. That's a whole new level of naughty. I was fascinated. How could someone so into Jesus be so blatant?

It's a 48+ minute commute. I have nothing else to think about.

The Bible Girl rode that Express bus for over a year, and she always got off at my stop. One winter day when snow was in the forecast, I struck up a conversation when we exited the bus and got to the crosswalk.

Me: "It sure is cold out here."
The Bible Girl: "Yes it is."
Me: "It's supposed to snow. Is it going to?"
The Bible Girl, smiling: "I sure hope so."
[Both smile and cross street in opposite directions.]

It did snow. That was the year it snowed for days. We were all subjected to riding the 150 and the Sounder trains on snow routes. When regular service resumed, I was surprised to see The Bible Girl on the afternoon Express bus. Naturally, she sat across from me and began her smiling and staring, minus the Bible.

The next conversation we had wasn't as pleasant as the first one. In fact, some would say it was downright bad.

Me: "Last time I saw you I asked you if it was going to snow. You said you hoped it would, so I suppose you're responsible for the recent blizzard."
The Bible Girl: "What? [Sneer] I had nothing to do with it."
Me: [Pause.] "So, the morning Express bus riders all know each others' names but we don't know yours. What's yours?"
The Bible Girl: [Silence.]
Me: "Mine's Devon."
The Bible Girl: "What do you think mine is?"
Me: [How the Hell should I know? Abort the mission!] "Uhm, you look like a Jessica. I used to know a Jessica that...."
The Bible Girl: [Interrupts.] "It's Nicole. RAN-DOM!" [Rolls eyes.]

Whoa! Jesus would certainly be unhappy with how nasty The Bible Girl had gotten. I sure was caught off guard. I understand that most women don't want to share their names with strangers, and rightfully so. But she obviously didn't think I was a leper or a criminal.

Now every time The Bible Girl gets on the bus she gives me a blistering glare. No more smiling, no more staring. I never said another word to her; the words I did say will live on in her heart forever. The last time I saw her I had the only open seat next to me and she unhappily sat there. I cranked up Metallica on my iPod just to piss her off.

She wears a wedding ring now, but I bet it's a fake one so creepy guys on the bus don't try to talk to her.

Wanna Buy Some Fruit?

I love Sheryl.

She gets on at Kent Station sometimes, and she's a nutty one. Usually the crazies irritate me, but Sheryl is cool. She's probably mid-40s, very slight, and always has something totally crazy about her. She'll wear a crazy shirt, a silly hat, or fuzzy slippers. But she never fails to do her make-up just right: Like a glittery purple, gold, and blue cat. Mardi Gras-style.

She's not homeless, although at first glance you would think she was. She is super out there, that's for sure. Sheryl had a really good time back in the day. I really think Sheryl might have the biggest smile I've ever seen.

Sheryl subsidizes her food stamps and Section 8 with her business. She sells fruit, chips, and candy from a granny cart. I have no idea where she gets the items. It wouldn't surprise me if the Fred Meyer employees give them to her or cut her a deal. The expiration dates are good. She's just out there peddling her snacks, chatting it up with everybody about everything. Sheryl is a great listener as well as talker.

I hadn't seen Sheryl since the summer when I was taking the 164 up the hill, and I haven't seen her daughter since last spring. It was refreshing to see her tonight on the Express bus.

She used to bring her daughter with her, and the daughter -- who was at the super awkward age of about 13 years old -- would try and sell the snacks with her mom. The first night I saw them, about three years ago, the daughter was offering everyone in the front of the bus great deals on bananas. No one was buying them. She looked sad. It was around Christmas time, and I felt bad. I gave her a $10, declined the offer for fruit, and got off at my stop.

The next time Sheryl saw me she introduced herself and asked me my name, if I had kids, you know. The general small talk you'd expect from a salesperson at a snack shop. She's not creepy about it, she just wants to get to know her customers. Her bustomers. She still asks about my kids every time I see her. She messes up their ages and genders, but that's fine with me. She does her best to try.

Because I gave her family $10 once, Sheryl tries to give me snacks for free.

"Hey David, want some chips? Take some chips home to your babies!"

The next time...

"Hey Doug! I got tangerines! You love tangerines!"

And the next time...

"Danny! How you been, Danny? I got you some Junior Mints!"

She gets insulted when I don't take the things she offers, but really, I'm okay and would rather she sell them to someone and make some cash. I've told her so. But tonight I did take a tangerine.

She's a good person with a good heart who has excellent taste in eye makeup.

The Not-so-Phantom Menace

Most of you have seen my Facebook updates about the guy I'm about to describe. So here's a Facebook teaser explained in more detailed.

There is a guy who started riding an Express bus last fall; he's a regular rider. He's a sci-fi nerd. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but...well...he has a peculiar tic that is a bad thing.

Just about every day, he gets on the bus and sits down. He's a big guy. I mean tall and big. Everything about him screams parent's-basement-dwelling computer geek, but he looks to be about 45 years old. His clothes are slightly wrinkled and dirty. He has huge, thick glasses that are from the 1990's. He reads either a Star Trek or Star Wars paperback every day. He's very pale. He smells funky. He probably is a programmer who makes $275K a year.

I don't think he's homeless, and he's obviously on a regular schedule. I believe he's working downtown somewhere. Somewhere without a window.

He seems nice enough, just super nerdy.

I had the misfortune of getting on the bus late and having to sit in the articulation across from him. In the dark, constantly moving articulation, there is nothing to look at. If I try to read in there I will get sick. So I'm staring out the window in front of me and to the right, when I see it happen out of the corner of my eye.

That man's arm just went down, then back up to his face.

I looked over just in time to see him sniff his fingers. My head darted back to the window. That just did not happen. No!

Yes. It did happen. Now, I'm tolerant of the occasional adjustment or scratch. That's nature. But as I'm sitting in the Camel Toe, still questioning the guy's finger sniffing, [scratch, scratch] he does it again! And, without shifting his Star Wars paperback, he sniffs his scratching hand. Straight from crotch to nose. He repeats the process no less than once every 5 minutes.

Jesus!

Lots of people do odd things when they read. Some people subconsiously twitch their lips. My stepbrother David twirled the edges of his super bitchin' 80's moustache. But crotch scratching and sniffing isn't acceptable. Especially on the otherwise sane Express bus.

Since I first noticed the Not-So-Phantom Menace's disgusting habit, I have made every effort not to sit by him. I did get stuck in the side-facing seat in front of the back door by him once, and I was horribly scared I'd get crabs or something from him. Those little heatseeking beasts can probably jump pretty far. He was scratching and sniffing a lot that evening.

Luckily I made it home minus any crabs, but the little reel of him playing scratch and sniff is burned into my head. And it repeats on me every weekday after work.

"Do You Smoke Green?"

It seems as though marijuana is a common theme on the buses I've been on lately.

I was on the good Express 1 bus on Friday night returning home from a long day at work. I had scored the best seat on the bus - the very back right corner. I had Oingo Boingo playing on my iPod, and I had just fallen asleep when a group of three loud, boisterous young men got on when we first got in to Kent.

They woke me up because, for whatever reason, they figured they needed to take up the entire back of the bus. There were a few other riders back there, and the bus was very quiet otherwise. These were the kids who wear their pants below their ass, talk WAY TOO LOUD, and listen to rap. The older I get, the less tolerant I am of teenagers.

I try to ignore them, although one of them is wearing a very puffy jacket that is brushing against my arm as he is waving his arms around when he talks. Schick schick schick.

The next thing I know, Puffy Jacket Guy is lighting a lighter. He's moving the flame under a brown stick. I don't really pay attention, mainly because I know he's doing it to get attention. (Not only am I an old man, I'm a parent. I have a good general idea of how kids operate.) The passenger in front of us tells him to stop it with the lighter. I realize the brown stick is a tool, if you will, for smoking pot.

Puffy Jacket Guy says something to me.

"What?" I ask, as I pull out my earbud.

"Hey man, you smoke green?"

"No, I don't smoke green. I used to a long, long time ago." I reply.

"But you used to. That's cool. So you know what it's like." Puffy Jacket Guy and his friends now think I'm cool. Great.

"It was a long, LONG time ago."

"Hey," Puffy Jacket Guy says to the other passenger. "See? We've all been here before! Just take it easy"

I last smoked "green" 23 years ago, to be exact. I'm pretty sure the THC is out of my system by now. I replaced my earbud and at the next stop I moved to the front of the bus with the other old people. I had to practically climb over Puffy Jacket Guy's lap to get out because he didn't want to move to let me escape. Because I'm cool and I know what it's like.

The Case of the Missing Express Bus (continued)

(Continued from previous post)
I walked into the Convention Center Metro Tunnel under Benaroya Hall totally against my will. Seriously, if there had been another way to get home, I would have taken it. The Sounder trains stop running at 5:55, and it was now nearly 6:50.

I made it to Bay C and waited for the God awful 150. I moved my wallet from my back pocket to my inner jacket pocket, because I'm sure there are pickpockets on this bus. There were tons of people around, which is not uncommon because the 101 and 106 to Renton also stop at this stop. We all stood and waited. And waited. And waited some more. The 150 was scheduled to arrive at 6:54. That didn't happen. It was scheduled to arrive at about 7:15. That didn't happen, either.

An announcement looped over the intercom. "The Link Light Rail is not operating to SeaTac. Please board the 101, 106, or 150 to Stadium Station."

This is the Link Light Rail from Seattle to SeaTac Airport coming through the Tunnel.

Buses to Bellevue were coming every 10 minutes. We had a 106 that came, and that articulated bus was packed to the gills.

We continued waiting. 41s, 47s, and more Bellevue buses came (255s and 550s galore), but still no 150. The Link Light Rail started operating again, which eased up people cramming themselves on the buses, but did me no good.

I stood motionless, staring at the tunnel entrance where my bus would be coming from. "Where are all the buses going to my destination?" I wondered. "What happened to the Light Rail? Has The Rapture come?"

"Maybe I could just go to the Bellevue Transit Center and catch a 560 to my destination. No, that 560 only comes once an hour after 6:00. Or I could take the Light Rail to SeaTac Airport and catch a...never mind. There's not that many buses coming from there." I'm kind of like a bus savant. That's not a bad thing when you're stuck in the Tunnel questioning reality without cell phone reception to check bus routes.

Finally, at 7:29, the 150 came. It was standing room only. I ended up having to stand on the swirly Camel Toe articulation floor. At first I was irritated beyond words at how long I'd been waiting to go home; but really, that spinning, jolting floor was kind of fun.

During the ride through the Stadium District (which, incidentally, was free of any traffic) and down I-5, I really tried to soak in the ambience of riding the 150. Here are some of my observations in bullet point:

* The bus driver threatened us. "Those of you standing, you're going to have to move back. Otherwise I'm not picking anyone else up!" As we were already to capacity, some guy in the back shouts, "Who the fuck cares if you pick anyone else up? We're already on!" The crowd laughed.

* A gentleman sitting in the Camel Toe yelled out, "I SMELL MOTA! You got MOTA? You betta share!" ("Mota" is Spanish for marijuana.)

* It actually did smell like marijuana. Like someone just lit a joint, which really wouldn't shock me on that bus route. While I don't partake, I would have found it entertaining, especially considering how crowded it was.

* The lady I was standing next to turns to her friend and says, "Hells yeah! Somebody gots some a that, I want some. 'MO-tahh' means pot in Spanish. I know that!"

* The guy standing in front of me was sweaty. Really sweaty. Like sweat pouring down his face and neck. He was business casual, so I don't understand it. The heater wasn't blasting on the bus.

* There was a young guy in a rust colored hoodie who had a super thin, greasy combover (he kept turning around to talk to his very dirty friends). This guy had a large pink skull ring on his hand; it had red jewels for eyes. His hands were dirty and pink, so I think he was on methadone.

* Actually, everyone has dirty hands on the 150. I started looking at other people's hands as they clung to the overhead bars, and they all had dirty longer fingernails. Yuck!

* There was one bitchy older lady who declared herself the leader. She directed us standing to move back when the option was available, to move aside and let others by, and to hold on. If you ignored her, she would just make louder demands. Obviously, she was a project manager.

* When I finally could move forward to stand in front of the Camel Toe, I quickly retreated back to my churning center spot. While the middle and back of the bus smelled like weed, the front smelled like swamp ass from this filthy young guy who got on at the Tukwila Park and Ride. He kept falling asleep standing up with his hands through the rubber loops.

* We got to Southcenter Mall and half the bus got off. I got a seat. An incredibly worn looking man with an old prison tattoo on the top of his hand sat next to me. He was rocking back and forth and he kept putting his hand to his mouth, belching. I was sure he was going to barf, but thankfully he never did.

* Some redheaded little boy, probably about 9 years old, came flying forward down the aisle and smacked into the nauseous man next to me. He scared the shit out of us, as well as himself. He'd gotten up to get a schedule, unaware we were about to take a sharp turn. Imagine his surprise when he landed in the lap of a man on parole! The guy was cool about it and waved the kid on his way.

I arrived safely at Kent Station around 8:25. Thankfully I was greeted there by my family for a ride home, otherwise I would have had to wait another 20 minutes for a connector bus to my apartment.

Usually when writers tell a story about a mystery, it is solved at the end of the story. I have no solution for the vanishing Express bus. I am open to ideas.



Today's episode of busworthy was brought to you by the letter S, the numbers 1, 11, 3, 5, and 4, and the color pink.

The Case of the Missing Express Bus

[Cue spooky music and fog machine] And now, the case of the missing Express Bus.

Sometimes a bus doesn't arrive on schedule. Sometimes it doesn't ever show up. Why doesn't it come? Where is it? Did it ever leave the station, or did it break down? In the case of the downtown buses, it's not unusual to hear the driver of the next bus to apologize for the delay due to "police activity." That was the case on the 41 almost every time I tried to catch it to Northgate.

I've come to the conclusion sometimes the buses just vanish into thin air. It's like a Bermuda Triangle over by Stewart Street. Imagine being on the bus, cruising down the highway and then <POOF> -- gone. That's what happened to my Express bus tonight.

Before I launch into my story, let me briefly explain my choice of Express buses going home. There are two; I'll refer to them as Express 1 and Express 2. Express 1 is my best option. Both buses go to the destination I need, but Express 1 continues and stops much closer to my apartment. Express 1 arrives at about 6:10, and Express 2 arrives at about 6:30. Both buses are usually very mellow with clean people, with the exception of a few stragglers.

If traffic is really bad, sometimes the Express 2 will beat the Express 1 to the stop where I get on to go home. I learned from a slacker seasonal driver we had one summer, if you pass up getting on Express 2, odds are good Express 1 will eventually come. I'd give it 8 out of 10 you'll catch an inexplicably late Express 1. It's a risky gamble, because if you lose, you have to go in the tunnel and take the scary 150. Not only will you be riding with sketchy people, it takes forever to get home. Like an hour and a half compared to 45 minutes.

Tonight, Seattle was blessed with a 5:00 pm Seahawks game. Most buses going south of the city were experiencing traffic around the stadium area. I noted that all gazillion buses going to Federal Way made it through the traffic, seemingly on time. Other buses were arriving a little late, but still with success. When Express 2 came to my stop first and I saw people jammed in it, standing, I chose to gamble. And it was a bad move on a very chilly night.

I gave Express 1 ample time to arrive. "Okay," I said to myself. "I'll let one more bus come, and if it's not Express 1, I'm heading for the tunnel."

I repeated the above several times to be sure.

I checked the OneBusAway app on my phone, which is excellent for checking bus arrival times in the morning, yet complete bullshit at night. At first it showed it had an hour delay, then it was 7 minutes away, then nothing. That was the moment Express 1 vanished into thin air.

"Dammit!" I said out loud as I turned away from my bus stop. It was now 6:45 and Express 1 had never been that late. I headed toward the Convention Center Metro Tunnel, and I winced thinking of the skanks on the 150. I really just wanted to be home. Look what I'd gotten myself into.

(To be continued)