It’s right around 7pm, and as I write this, I’m on the trimet bus heading home. I won’t be there until very near 8pm, and that’s okay. I need that time to decompress and lose some of the poison that tends to seep in during a long day at work.
I’m glancing around and seeing the other riders. You can tell they’re all tired and they’ve all had a long day. A quiet camaraderie exists between each, and every once in a while someone will exchange a knowing glance with me. We’re the middle class warriors, the people who devote a large portion of their life to work, with very little to show for it.
There’s a man standing in front of me, and he’s just about the get off the bus. He has a an old Mamiya camera hung around his neck, and it looks to be from the late 60’s or early 70’s. I wonder what brought him to this particular bus on this particular night.
I can see the Portland skyline rescinding behind me, and the low thrumb of the bus engine can be felt in my seat, just audible through my headphones. Pedestrians and bikers walk on the Hawthorne bridge, oblivious to the fact that I’m observing their lives for just a second or two as the bus passes.
One younger lady jogs by at a fairly good pace, and I wonder who brought her out to this bridge. Did someone make a joke about her weight? Does she now torture herself each day in an effort to make it better? Or does she do it for the same reasons that I’m writing this as I ride the bus: to decompress.
The cars go by in a frenzy of scattered light and shadow, and I wonder where they’re all going or where they’ve been. Some are no doubt heading home to their families. Others are off to drink and unwind, maybe hit a strip club and stagger home, oblivious to the life that they are wasting away.
We’re crossing Powell boulevard now, and I can see all the little shops and bars scattered about in every direction. Friends gather together in semi-huddles around small tables in well lit cafes and dark fetid taverns. They’ll laugh and joke, and make light of the things that bothered them today. It’s an air we all put on around friends, and at parties; A mild facade to hide the scars and the pain of the day to day.
We just passed Gladstone, and the city lights are fading off in the distance. Downtown looks like an old arthritic dog passing under the moonlight, curled up and gnashing its teeth on the hills. Too bothered to be bothered. It’ll just lie there and let the fleas have free reign. Might even get up to eat once in a while.
And across from me, there’s an old man sitting uncomfortably in his seat. He’s seen better days from the looks of his clothes, and I wonder if he imagined his life would end up this way. I’m sure he knows he has fewer days ahead than behind, but what are they worth to a man with nothing?
I once wrote in a poem that days left are like coins in the pocket of a poor man. I do believe that each day is precious, and should be treated that way. But honestly, are the days themselves as precious to this old man, as a few coins might be? Maybe I should ask him.
We just stopped at a homeless shelter, and he got off the bus. I guess I won’t be talking to him afterall.
We’re on Foster now, famous (or infamous?) for its crime and prostitution. This is where I live, or at least, relatively near it. I live in a house on a quiet cul-de-sac, next to an elementary school. It’s nice, and it’s comfortable, but I still hear the police intermittantly racing by on that infamous road.
I can’t help but wonder if some day they’ll be racing to help me.
The bus dropped off some more passengers, and here am I, the last person on the bus. This is the leg of the journey that gets a bit lonely, because I know what is waiting for me at home: a dark house with nobody inside.
I should be thankful, though, and I am, that I have a house to come back to. A lot of people in this world don’t.
As is typical, I asked the bus driver to turn off the lights inside, so now I’m sitting in relative solitude and watching the world swirl by in darkness. Houses that were flooded by the rains just a few weeks ago, fly by as we head down Harold. The only remnants of the disaster are seen in the form of sandbags piled in front of garage doors and the occasional stack of debris pushed back in the darkness.
We’re almost to my stop now, and it’s almost 8pm. I should go now.