“What’re you reading?” he asked, pointing at the magazine in the woman’s hands. The woman acknowledged him with a brief, polite smile, showing him the cover without saying a word.

“You like him?” he asked, pointing at the man on the cover of the magazine. I couldn’t see who it is, but I was amused at how his question was a calculated effort to spark conversation without having to commit to an opinion, lest he lose points if he’s wrong.

“He’s okay,” she replied. Her body language made it clear she knew where he was going, and that she didn’t want to go there, but he didn’t seem to notice or his simply didn’t care.  The ball was now in play, and he wasn’t going to be dissuaded from trying to score.

“But he can dance, huh?” She gives the polite smile again, with a little shrug of her shoulders.

“Do you like to dance?” Again, a little shrug. Clearly she was less impressed than I was with how quickly he was getting to his point. Most flirting on the bus falls under the “I’m just making conversation” variety, men trying to ingratiate themselves with wit or intelligence without seeming like a creep who hits on strangers on the bus; this guy was hurrying to seem that way.

“I like to go dancing at Bookie’s on Fridays. Hot place. You ever go to Bookie’s?”

She reached up and pulled the stop cord, making sure he saw the action before replying flatly, “I have a fiancé.” While that didn’t answer his question, it certainly anticipated his next one.

“He’s a lucky man,” he said, acknowledging the blow-off but still giving her the opportunity to break up with her future husband so she could go dancing with a stranger she met on the bus. She didn’t seize the opportunity.

The bus came to a stop. I got off first and held the door for the woman, smiling incredulously. She just rolled her eyes and shook her head as she said “thanks” and walked past. As the door closed, I looked back into the bus and saw the guy moving to a seat near the back – and as luck would have it, there was another woman just one seat away.

It was so good that I wasn’t satisfied with the audio version, mere bits of digital information suspended in the ether. I’ve seen too many computers crash, so I wanted something concrete. I went to Powell’s Books on my lunch break and found a paperback version of this out-of-print book for just $2.95. It felt like such a coup that I rushed it to the register before an employee recognized how undervalued it was. I can’t recall the last time I was so excited about a story, and I was brimming with excitement as I boarded the crowded lunch-hour streetcar.

I found a handhold on the stanchion and immediately noticed the couple to my right: She was in her 50s, disheveled but vivacious, doing her best to navigate unfortunate circumstances; her companion was about the same age, notably malodorous and less-tightly tethered to reality, and at a glance, it seemed likely he was one of her unfortunate circumstances.

As the train lurched and halted at the various tops, the woman addressed various people individually with a big smile and warm greeting, no apparent goal except to be friendly in tight quarters. These are the type of people a few of my friends imagine when they justify not riding public transit: rubbing elbows with “the great unwashed” (one friend’s quotation,) sudden conversations with people who put the strange in “stranger,” trapped in a box with someone eager to volunteer their opinions without prompting.

I understand that attitude, but I take the inverse view of these encounters: whatever the conversation, I know I’m only a few stops from a graceful exit, and I’ve often enjoyed these brief, unexpected discussions. Worst case scenario, I get off at a stop that isn’t mine and wait for the next train/bus.

I was listening to this woman’s brief interactions, simple small talk that was met with courtesy and cheer from each rider she engaged. She had no apparent agenda, and issued no financial requests. She was just chatting. Eventually, she got to me.

If anyone on that crowded train was thinking, “Let’s see how this button-downed-shirt guy deals with these homeless people,” they might have been surprised by the outcome. The woman opened the conversation with a simple question, perhaps the worst question she could have asked that day if she didn’t actually want to talk to me: “What are you reading?”

I told her. I was so elated by this book in my hand that I replied with a burst of enthusiasm, jabbering my adoration for the story like a preacher who suddenly saw an opportunity to convert a sinner with the power of the book in his hand. I told her about the main character and how he described his visitors, carefully setting them up as would-be villains only to shine a sudden light that made them flawed and human and worthy of both respect and sympathy. I was glad to share the story, but I suspect I may have come across like an evangelist because two minutes into my urgent description, she gave her partner an amused and awkward look that clearly meant, “Whoa, you never know what kind of nut jobs you’re going to encounter on the train, huh?”

She could have escaped the conversation there, but she dared me to say more by asking how I liked the rest of the book. I explained that I hadn’t heard much of it, how I had it on audio, kept it on “repeat”, how I was ecstatic to have found it at Powell’s, how I wanted to photocopy the story and send it to a friend, how it seemed somehow more permanent to have it in print, how I didn’t feel safe just having it in digital form, how . . . and she gave her partner that look again, and he smiled, and she gave the look to another passenger who seemed equally curious how – or even if – my sermon would end. I recognized the expressions, but I didn’t care, because it’s a great story, in a great collection, and I suddenly realized how those street preachers in Pioneer Square might feel when they talk about the bible: the book moved them, deeply, and they wanted to share it.

“The whole book is about that little man?” her partner asked. I told him it was an anthology of Southern stories, so every story was different. “So it’s like those Lifesaver packs, with all the different flavors?” Frankly, it’s a spot-on analogy for a regional anthology – all similar in some ways, but all different, and inevitably, we have our favorites. With Lifesavers, I hoard the oranges and give away the greens, and Ada Long had written an orange.

That’s probably an apt metaphor for the streetcar, too, except there are a whole lot more flavors on the train than you’ll find in a Lifesavers pack. Some of them might look similar in many ways, but you never know for sure until you actually experience them.

Especially with those button-down-shirt types.

Foreword: I’ve already spread this story around in a blog or two but I really want to spread the word about this experience. It’s an amazing-yet-simplistic one that shines a light on the impact a driver has on a system. They can save the day for someone even when everything else is wrong, sometimes by doing nothing but being. In times as negative as these, I think the positives deserve some emphasis (especially considering my personal reputation as the fire and brimstone guy, I could use a chill pill too!) I hope you would give me the privilege of posting it here as well.

I wrote this to TriMet Saturday evening in response to a bus ride that turned around from a bad experience to a good one. It’s only the second incident of my doing this in my many instances of riding. Greg Larson was the one who responded, and he was quite receptive of my words; for that I am glad. Here’s the letter in its entirety.

Dear TriMet,

As a transit-dependent bus rider, I can guarantee there is one way to ruin a rider’s day- a late bus. Not necessarily a minute or two late- I’m a big boy. I can brush that off. I mean twenty minutes late on a once-every-forty-minutes bus that is so late you are certain to miss your transfer to the other once-every-forty-minutes bus. By one minute. Suddenly you’re an hour behind.

Needless to say, stepping on the 78 today after being poured on, I was a very unhappy camper.

For about five seconds. Through my headphones I could hear the driver saying something. I should note that ever since I discovered the magnificence of headphones+Explosions in the Sky=I’m riding a bus in the middle of nowhere it’s like I’m on a life journey or something, my conversations with bus drivers have ceased to exist like the good old days where I was young, had no boundaries and bus drivers were the coolest people in the world.

So when she started talking, I switched off the Sigur Ros and listened.

My first thought was, how the hell is this driver so cheery for being twenty minutes behind? Immediately, my frozen, cynic heart melted and I started talking to her.

She was apologetic initially, even through the smile, but surprising myself, I insisted it was okay, claiming that the adventure was worth it. Being friendly with many bus drivers as well as being a notorious activist for low income riders/bus drivers, I decided to ask how she got this way.

Apparently this driver had just suffered the single worst trip I’ve ever heard a driver take. I was almost scared to stay on the bus at that rate because I feared that the hand of God would smack us off Kerr Parkway. But I empathized with her, remembering that riders aren’t the only one who get rained on in the grand scheme of the system.

Her run got to her late when she relieved the operator before her and transfering took an extra seven minutes, leaving her just a minute or two before the following 76. In addition, she picked up two wheelchairs, both of whom got stuck in the equipment, and then when she arrived at Washington Square, the 76 finally passed her, and blocked the corridor for another three minutes. After that, an argument started escalating on the bus that she had to diffuse, and other riders insulted her and announced that they intended to send in complaints for her driving, when she just happened to get the worst possible run in the city.

This isn’t going to happen, but take the complaints you got about her and burn them immediately like they’re insulting every minority out there.

Lita Martin is not a bad bus driver.

The whole time we were on the bus, we talked. By god, she has the tenacity for positivity that I cannot obtain. She was polite, cheerful, enthusiastic, and didn’t let her bad run get her in a bad mood despite the fact that she would have to forego two breaks to get on time again. We talked about the power of positivity despite the struggle of the job (which if I may interject, management and the board seem to forget), my photography, our friends and my day so far.

When I disembarked from the 78 twenty minutes late, I was a very happy camper.

So much so that despite the fact that the 35 pulled up right on time for me to catch, I walked past it straight to Lake Oswego Library and sent this letter to you.

Your drivers are the difference between a bad day and a good one, and most of them deliver.

Lita Martin certainly did.

Sincerely,

Cameron.

Story contributed by Cameron Johnson. Check out his blog at That One Portland Transit Activist Kid, and follow him on Twitter @CamOfPortland

Inspired by Muni Diaries Live and Back Fence PDX, Humanity on Wheels was created with the gracious and indefatigable help of Doug Kenck-Crispin, of Kick Ass Oregon History fame.

And he writes press releases:

In March, we held “Humanity On Wheels; An Evening of Mass Transit Tales,” which was dubbed, without much exaggeration, as “TriMet’s riders’ Woodstock.” The event provided an opportunity for Portland’s disparate mass transit enthusiasts to get together, in a bar, and share their experiences (good and bad) about commuting around town. The program featured about 7 featured presenters, who each gave a 5-10 minute prepared talk (a story, a poem, maybe a song). An intermission was held, and then an open mic session followed, and literally dozens of riders, and even a few drivers, shared their tales. We posted a recording from last March’s event as a podcast, and the link is here. Some photos of the event are on this Facebook page.

As you may know, the event was extremely well attended, and we have to thank both the traditional and bloggy media outlets for that. Humanity on Wheels (the first) received some GREAT press. It was featured as a Portland Mercury’s “My What A Busy Week,” selection, as well as one of “The Hot List” choices over at The Big O. Joseph Rose of The Oregonian lamented not attending. The seminal bicycle program The Sprocket Podcast, and Michael Andersen’s Portland Afoot gave us some great “ink” too!

Our Hostess with the Mostess for the spectacular shall be The Resident Historian of Kick Ass Oregon History, Doug Kenck-Crispin. A few of the favorites from the last event will present again. Bill Reagan and Jeff Guardalabene, or Dr. Jeff were crowd pleasers in March and will enliven our evening again.

But new Featured Speakers will share our non-slip stage as well! Ancient Portland will be joining us for the evening – which is a rare occurrence, to be sure! A few other iconic, Special Guests are anticipated (following the Transit Tracker right now) and an Open Mic session shall round out the evening – where you too can share your Mass Transit Stories. orhistory.com’s Intern Melissa Lang will once again provide pure awesomeness with her TriMet, “it’s like a diorama come to life!” magic. It will be an interactive piece for the Open Mic-ers- and let’s just say that the drunker you get, the harder it will become…

We certainly hope you will join us. As always, the event is conveniently located in the center of the previously “fareless square.”

Missing Persons by Stephen White.  The reader was a middle aged man wearing an Obama badge.

Quantum Leaps In The Wrong Direction: Where Real Science Ends…and Pseudoscience Begins.  It took me so long to write down the title that the guy reading it left before I could make a note about him.

The Great Divorce by C. S. Lewis.  This looked like a 50-year old paperback. The reader was a young woman sporting a baby-doll look including: ruby red lipstick with matching shoes and white knee socks.

If Looks Could Kill.  Amazon lists at least six different novels by this title.  As I didn’t catch the author’s name, I can’t tell you which one it was. The reader:  a middle-aged woman.

High Noon by Nora Roberts  (“This is just a dirty little village in the middle of nowhere. Nothing that happens here is really important.”  Oh, sorry, it’s not that High Noon.)  The reader:  a middle-aged woman.

A Japanese paperback.  The reader:  a young woman with Asian features.

Victims by Jonathan Kellerman.  I did not make a note about the reader.  Assume I was distracted by another title.

Organizing Knowledge.  The reader was, I’m pretty sure, judging by the PSU jacket, a student.

My Monumental Suffering.  Actually, this is the title of a book I intend to write.

Another Nora Roberts book.  I could see Nora’s huge name on the spine and cover, but not the book’s title.  The reader:  a middle-aged woman, a professional secretary type — graying, well-fed and well-dressed.

An Agatha Christie book.  Again, the author’s name was plain to see and much larger than the title.  The reader:  a 60ish man.

A Nick Hornby book.  The reader was a slender, sad-faced woman in black jacket, black jeans and long, black hair.

Interviewing in Action In a Multicultural World.  The reader was a young woman in matching blue-green argyle swirl vinyl rain jacket and vinyl cowboy rain boots.

A J. K Rowling book.  Must have been the new one that’s got nothing to do with Harry Potter, as it was only about 250 pages long.

Can’t Find My Way Home.  To judge by the worn backpack, boots, beard and long hair, the reader was a hiker (Of course).  He was reading avidly and about halfway through the book.

Prime Witness.  Steve Martin. The Steve Martin?  The reader was an extremely middle-class, middle-aged white guy, wearing crappy PayLess shoes that looked like they were chopped out of old tires with an ax.

This seems a likely random stopping place.

© 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).