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I think we can all relate to this!
Video and song by Stephen Cohen
Because a lot of people who are homeless, mentally ill, in the throes of addiction or otherwise marginalized don’t drive, they ride the bus. In the impersonal and crammed aisles and one-size-fits-all seats, they’re commonplace. And though climate change is killing us, very few average middle-class people have abandoned their cars for the wiser alternative.
The underclass, I’m saying, is well represented on public transportation. They’re not the condiment, they’re the main course. And because a bus ride is often the only shelter available, there’s always a good chance some visibly unfortunate rider is dealing openly with the pain, sickness, demons or grief a middle-class person would handle at home.
Today, James Junior (not his real name), riding my 75 bus, was dealing.
As I boarded, James was sitting on the right front bench, preaching his personal gospel to a teen sitting on the left front bench straight across the aisle from him. The topic was “Respect.” James was on fire about respect.
He was declaiming, “You don’t let nobody disrespect a woman. Ever. EVER!” He repeated this assertion more than once, and glanced around the bus to show that, though he was talking to one person, we were all included in the situation.
James’ emotional state contained notes of anger, grandiosity, vulnerability, and a hint of possession. He leaned forward in his seat and spoke to the kid in the tone of an overbearing, disappointed father.
“They are queens. Every woman is a queen.”
He said this again, and then again. And then, to stress the point, James Junior greeted women around him.
“Hello, Queen! You are a beautiful creature and I love you!”
He seemed sincere and passionate. One woman smiled. Another one tried to ignore him.
James declared, “I can have any woman I want.” He meant it, and repeated the statement, but I doubted him. No woman there stepped up to get a piece of James.
James’ fiery speech was meant, as I say, for all of us. And though he filled the bus with self-esteem, he got nothing back from us. No surprise. From what I’ve seen, a fiery speech given on public transportation does not fall on deaf ears. Instead, it falls like a small bomb into the midst of captive strangers who are trying to block out their ride. Half of bus riders wear earbuds. Most riders are going to take even divine inspiration, if it interrupts a podcast, as a really annoying distraction, if not a sign of mental illness or even a threat.
James carried on.
“I’m James Junior and THERE IS NO HELL. NO ONE goes to HELL. I’ve died and come back and I guarantee there’s no Hell to be afraid of. And anyway, you can’t be afraid to die. If you’re afraid to die, you can’t live.”
He was seized with feeling – tears, broken voice – he was fighting against an invisible enemy for something he believed in.
He repeated and repeated and repeated that no one goes to Hell. I had to get off the bus before he was done, but I think I got the gist.
I take James’ point. I’m a little afraid to die, not because of Hell, which I don’t believe in, either. What I fear is reincarnating into a life worse than the one I know and suffering in ways I can’t even imagine.
Now, that might be Hell.
© Nick O’Connor: If you had been commuting an hour each way every weekday between Northeast Portland and the Sunset Transit Center at the border of Portland and Beaverton for two years and occasionally woke up, dislodged an earbud, or spoke to a fellow rider, you would have a few stories to tell, too. Nick blogs at Sardines Are Only Packed Once (where this story originally appeared).
The twenty-something woman made a rookie mistake, standing within earshot of the old man in the flannel. She probably didn’t know, or maybe she enjoys gambling, but as soon as she planted her feet at the front of the #35, the clock was ticking. There weren’t many clicks before he spoke up.
“What’s that in your glass?” he asks, pointing at her mason jar.
She looked down as if to confirm her answer. “Chia milk.”
Story contributed by Robert Wagner – @gangsterswedish on Twitter
Unlike many Portland-area public transit stalwarts, my foray into commuting via light-rail didn’t begin until the completion of the Orange Line to Milwaukie. As a resident of beautiful southeast Portland, I had been relegated to riding buses into downtown whenever my access to the family automobile was limited. Granted, my commute is short, a mere 3.5 miles, but suffice to say that riding the bus at 5:35am on any given weekday morning is a tad less comfortable than driving myself in the reclined comfort of the gas-guzzling family SUV. The Orange Line changed all of that. Now, after a brisk morning walk, I can get downtown in a few minutes without having to sit so close to Bus People; I could catch up on some reading or listen to some podcasts! I was, in a word, elated.
I consulted a fellow MAX-riding friend about the proper procedure for actually paying for my commute. Did I really have to buy a pass for each trip like I would on a bus? The scant few times I’d ever rode the MAX prior to the Orange Line I had never bought a pass – hedging my bet that the particular run I was on wouldn’t be patrolled by anyone that was going to check it anyway. Why waste the $2.50? My friend eventually convinced me that yes, I should pay for my rides, and eventually it would turn out to be good advice. Or so I would have thought.