It began when my brother asked for help.

I had gotten one of his occasional letters from in town, filled with the amusing and sometimes frightening details of the restaurant world, when I saw the request penned into the end:

"I've got a mural job that I'll need help with. Would you be interested in splitting it with me? You'd have to ride TriMet down. Anyway, think about it."?

After giving a brief glance at my eleven dollar bank account, I wasted no time in pulling a sheet of paper from my desk and replying in the affirmative.

Two weeks later, I was catching the bus to Portland.

***

It started out poorly. Grabbing my gear and tossing down my breakfast, I left with only eight minute to get to the transit center. I realized, checking my watch, that the time was nearing for the bus to arrive, and I still had plenty distance to go. I quickened my pace and began to feel my shins tighten. I did not look forward to a day of walking around downtown. With my heart beating fast and my legs beginning to cramp, I turned the corner, crested the hill, and came within site of the number 12 to Portland.

The number 12, beginning to pull out.

I ran, I waved my arms. If anyone in the bus thought this was strange, they seems to give no indication of it. The driver -- kind man! -- stopped the bus and opened the door. Four dollars later I was sitting up front, pretending to read my book and holding a day pass.

I say pretending to read, because my real attention was on my surroundings. Having always been able to bum rides, I wasn't sure what to expect. I hid my wallet, and clutched my camera bag tightly, skeptically eyeing my fellow riders behind green tinted glasses.

Who were these people? What lives did they have? They seemed much less threatening in person than they had been in abstract, and many even appeared relatively normal sorts. I decided to lurk and study them, playing Jane Goodall amongst the carless.

***

By the third day of what had become the endless mural project, I had detected a distinct division between the bus riders. There were those, who, like me, said nothing and minded their own business, reading a newspaper or a book. And then there were those who thought the bus an excellent forum for debate, a mobile salon for the NeoBohemian

Is the Bush tax cut voodoo economics? Is college tuition too high? Does God exist? Ride a bus and find out. For some reason these debates tend to take place toward the back of the vehicle... perhaps these self-appointed wonks interpret it's higher floor as a form of stage. Whatever the underlying reason for the choice, the entire bus can hear even the mutest of these exchanges, often to their collective chagrin.

A typical conversation of this sort goes a little like this:

"Look, Christ died for your sins...."?

"But then why can't I just do anything I want?"

"Don't you believe in God?"

"I just think the Bible is all made up."

Third passenger: "Look, just shut up! We've heard it for sixteen blocks, we're tired of it."

Five minutes of silence ensues, and then it starts again, this time on global warming.

***

Sometimes, the distractions are too much, even for the driver.

An example: One night Number 12 was climbing Barbur in the dark. The heels of my feet were throbbing in my boots as I held onto the stainless pole, and tried not to look like a fool for wearing sunglasses at night. In my lap sat my journal, which I toyed with not very seriously in the pink florescents.

"Do you think they'll trade Wallace?"

I looked up, though I was aware this was not meant for me.

The speaker was standing square in the opening behind the driver of the bus, yakking away with him about the Blazers. They seemed to know each other. Perhaps he was a regular. His conversation seemed to be nonstop, to the point that it was more a lecture on the team than a debate. It had begun around Salmon, and had only lessened once, when we'd had to stop to pick up people at PSU, and he'd had to stand out of the way for five minutes. I wondered, silently, why it was so many sports fans thought themselves experts, whose opinion was the one true way.

But that was blocks ago -- miles even -- and he was still at it. Worse, he'd been joined by a short, middle aged, but pleasant woman, who seemed to be a part of this regular grouping. So now there were two people who had to move out of the way whenever we stopped.

I turned my attention to the passenger opposite of me. An elderly Asian man, he was unlike the motormouths to my left, in that he sat perfectly still and silent. His dress was conservative, although his shoes were well polished, and he wore two large gold rings on one hand. I forget which now. On his head, he wore a short brimmed fedora. Whether this was a statement of his out-of-date sense of fashion, or a concession to a practical nature forgotten by most Oregonians, I didn't know. I wondered what his voice sounded like.

He shifted in his seat. Had he noticed me watching? Were my glasses dark enough that my eyes were not visible? Then a hand reached up to the cord, and pulled. Above the doorway the stop requested light went on in all it's tacky pink glory.

Meanwhile, motormouth and his new assistant still held court with the driver, still debating the Blazers I assumed. I'd long since tuned them out, they were no longer perceptible to me, or at least, no more so than the throb of the bus's diesel under our feet. Outside the window, all I could see was a blur of foliage, sickly brown from the ugly phosphorent streetlights. That, and blackness.

Then a blue bus sign appeared, and streaked past.

The man in the fedora jumped up.

"Stop! Stop! Stop the bus!" He yelled.

I held on as the driver lurched over to the side of the road, realizing his mistake. Once we had stopped, Mister Fedora pushed open the side door, and dejectedly began to walk backwards to the stop that he had wanted, clearly angry, but still as silent as ever. He merged into the darkness, off to see his family, perhaps.

We pulled away from the curb, and the motormouths began again.

***

Despite such potential for distractions, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that these transit philosophers were mostly a harmless lot. It seems there is always a portion of society going through that stage of life when they are always right, and can't afford a car.

I imagine that, nearly a hundred years ago, some very similar people were riding in an interurban car and spouting similar rants about TR, the Great White Fleet, and the oversized influence of JP Morgan. Only then their clothing was used instead of 'vintage'?, and they worked as soda jerks instead of baristas.

Every bus seemed to have a few of these, our 'NeoBohemians'.

I smiled, and wondered to myself if anyone would be interested in debating with me about the talents of Micheal Graves.  

Back to Top | Back to Contents