On a Friday, at 5pm, it’s relatively rare to be able to sit down while on the bus. In fact, it’s exceedingly rare to have a seat to yourself. But on this particular Friday, for reasons unknown, I’m able to sit by myself and without interruption. And thus, I write.
I needed a place to sit tonight. It’s been a long week, for reasons I have no intention of explaining. My friends have been struggling, and because of this, I struggle along with them. Not out of obligation, but because they need me. And I need them.
I’m excited to get home, and get ready. My band has a show tonight down at Ash Street Saloon, and I’m excited to play. I always enjoy playing, to be honest, even if it’s just by myself in the confines of my office. But there’s something electric about playing in front of a crowd. To feel the heavy thump of the bass, the blaring sounds of the guitar, and the drums kicking me in my chest; it’s like nothing I can compare it to.
The bus is traveling through Ladd circle now, and we’re passing the rows of victorian style houses on both sides of the road. There was a time, perhaps only six months ago, that I would have loved to have one of these houses. Now, I can’t really see any real significance in them. They’re old, and beautiful, sure, but I don’t see how they’re much better than my own house.
As George Carlin would say, your home is just a place to keep your stuff while you’re out doing other things. And honestly, that’s all a house should be for. I don’t want a house that’s so statuesque that I feel the need to stay there all the time. What would be the point in that?
The telephone poles on just about every corner of these streets are covered in posters. Detailing everything from concerts, lost pets, town meetings, new shops, to propaganda and new laws being put into effect.
To really feel the pulse of this city, you only need to go as far as a telephone pole.
Glancing up, and we’re in front of the Clinton Street Pub. Above are apartments, and in one of the windows is a baby doll in a bunny suit. I honestly don’t know what to say, but found it peculiar. I suppose I shouldn’t, since there are still Christmas lights strung around it, and the curtains have a certain beatnik appeal.
Sometimes I wonder if Portland has an entire culture all its own, separate from the rest of the world, and distinct. And to a point, I guess it would have to. We just passed by a house with a palm tree in their front yard. Yes, you read that right. A California palm tree, and it currently stands about six or seven feet tall.
I’ve been watching it steadily and slowly grow the last two years as I make my way home each. It’s amazing to me that a palm tree can survive the weather here, but I suppose it helps that they wrap the entire thing in plastic when it gets cold. Yes, I’m serious.
The Pub at the End of the Universe just went by, and I know we’re on 28th ave, just about to cross Holgate. I’ve never actually gone in there, but I’m intrigued each and every time I go by. It has no windows, and as far as I can tell, it has nothing to offer me beyond a shot of vodka and stale conversation from the bartender.
But that’s the beauty of not knowing. Your imagination takes you wherever you want, and that bar, in my mind, is the most amazing one I’ve never been to. I don’t ever want to go inside, because then I’ll know how disappointing it is compared to my illusions of it.
We’re about to turn on to Steele now, and we’re passing one of my favorite stop signs. I know, that sounds weird, but on the sign there’s a sticker that says, “Now is all the time you have”. I obsessively read it each and every time I go by, pondering the significance of my life flying by before me.
I joked the other day with one of my coworkers. I said that when I die, and my life passes before my eyes, I’m going to see nothing but dark bars, conference calls, meetings, and bus rides. In retrospect, I really shouldn’t be joking about something that’s true. I spend a good portion of my life in meetings with people, and worse yet, most of the time I’m not even aware of the purpose or the benefit of my being there.
Next week I have an eight hour meeting,and I can’t say that I’m very pleased. I do try to approach each meeting as an opportunity to learn, even if that includes learning that I absolutely hate meetings and the people in them.
We’re on Harold street now, between 60th and 61st avenue, and we’re passing a house that has a high fence all around it with thousands of lawn ornaments. Literally, thousands of them, scattered about and ranging in size from very small to full sized figurines.
Every time I pass by that house, I wonder what kind of people live there and what possessed them to collect every lawn ornament (as far as I can tell) known to man. Perhaps they run a business, but if that were the case, I’m sure it would make more sense to keep them inside. But what do I know.
I have a bad habit of trying to peer in to the windows of houses as we drive by. It’s not because I’m a pervert, but I often wonder what lives go on behind closed doors. Sometimes I see a family laughing and joking around a dinner table, playing a board game or maybe watching television. Other times there’s just an old man sitting by himself with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.
We’re just now turning off of 82nd and on to Harold again. It’s an overly complicated route, and I’m not going to try and explain it. Ironically, the bus is still almost full to capacity, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people at this leg of the trip. I just glanced around and see a lot of the “regulars” on here.
That’s the interesting thing about riding the bus. If you keep the schedule long enough (and most people do), you’ll start to notice familiar faces. I know the names of about a dozen different people on here. Most of them don’t talk to me unless they have to, but that’s okay. They know they can if they need to, and likewise.
The sun is still setting, and I’m glad to be heading home before it gets completely dark. It’s the first time this week that I’ll be home before 7pm and I’m grateful for that. It’s about a half mile walk from my stop to home, and in the dark, it can get a little crazy. I have to walk across 136th, and the traffic never stops.
Some day, I’m sure I’ll get hit.
There’s an older gentleman about three seats in front of me. He’s a good old guy, a regular, and I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s probably in his early seventies, and still works downtown, every day, sun up and sun down. He has arthritis so bad in his knees that he can barely walk, but he carries on like it’s nothing.
And to him, maybe it is nothing. I don’t know, but I’ve seen the way he walks and the way he grimaces with each step. I can’t see how he does it. I’ve offered to escort him across Foster road a couple of times, but he will hear nothing of it. I’m sure he views it as weakness, but really, it’s just a damn dangerous place to try and cross. Especially when you can’t walk very well.
We’re at 122nd now, and I’m almost home. Just another 14 blocks or so, and then I’ll be getting ready for the show tonight. I’ve got to shower and shave, spiff up, put on some eyeliner, and paint my nails. I sometimes feel like I’m a little too feminine before a show, but it’s okay.
I like to look good, and I like to stand out. In that respect, I’ll continue on until I have no reason to do so.
We’re on Foster Road now, and we’re going to be turning toward my stop in a few minutes. I suppose I should go. Wish me luck tonight!