Tag Archives: nathan vass

Nathan Vass on Who Rides Route 358 (Part 2)

This afternoon, the King County Council is hearing public testimony on more stable funding for Metro (Union Station, 4 p.m.). We covered Metro’s rationale for funding here. That makes it timely to hear from Metro bus operator Nathan Vass, in Part 2 of his tale of driving Metro’s bus route 358. Part 1 is here. At this point in his day, the commute is wrapping up, and another group of public transit customers replaces people hurrying to work. 

Vass is a writer, filmmaker, and photographer as well as a bus operator. Besides blogging (The View from Nathan’s Bus), he’s got a photography show coming up, opening June 13 at Blindfold Gallery (1718 East Olive Way). That his shot of the 358, below. See more of his photography here.

358orig

Special to The SunBreak by Nathan Vass

Ten minutes later I fire up the coach again to begin heading back north. It’s close to 10 a.m. Peak hour is long over, and it’s now my favorite time of day to drive buses—everyone’s already at work, and lunch hasn’t started yet. Stores are opening, and the commuters are gone; it’s mostly a miscellaneous cast of characters crawling out from the woodwork—the poor, the users, sleepers, dealers, the recovering, the elderly, truants, the tired, and the hungry.

This is why I work this job.

I turn the corner onto Jackson slowly, savoring every second. I’m mildly nervous, having never done the 358 at this time of day, but exhilarated at the chance to perform at my best. When people tell horror stories, it’s always about their last trip of the night, or their last day on the route. You can’t check out early. People can sniff that a mile away. You’ve gotta stay on, right there with everyone, until you pull back into base and turn the motor off.

I pull up to the Home Depot boys at Madison, the day labor folk, and I’m there for them. Eye contact and a smile. A sullen black man regards me with unfocused animosity as he trickles in change, but I win him over when I hand him his transfer, saying, “Lemme get you a little somethin’.”

The man behind him hears this and smiles, saying, “’Ey, gimme a little more, dogg!” Meaning a longer transfer. My transfers are huge, in part because of the long route—you calculate them from the end timepoint.

“Aw, my friend, that’s four hours!”

He laughs and gets along.

The lady at the front has been watching me. “You jus’ got a great attitude,” she says with motherly affirmation. “Even the way you handled that little thing right there, that could easily ha’ gone south if you made it that way.” I tell her she’s too kind, but she won’t have it—“I’m not bein’ kind, I’m jus’ callin’ it out like I see it. Bein’ truthful is all, that’s how I go through this world. I’m just observing. Like my Uncle John says—” We discuss the virtues of patience and perspective. Her Uncle John is a longtime operator at Metro. She then says, looking at me, “You’re what, lemme guess, half Korean, half white?”

This is such a complete about face from Will.i.am and Slur, earlier, that I practically stop the bus as I respond: “How did you know that?” I’m English no longer, dark hair be damned.

“Pretty cool penguin hat,” I say to a senior with such a device perched on his head. “Take your time today,” I remind him as he hobbles around. “We got no rush.” Behind him, getting on the bus, is an Eastern European girl with blazing blue eyes. She’s on her way to class at UW, and like Tuberculosis Man above, we find ourselves getting in depth after talking about bus routes and commute schedules. She’s majoring in Business (“Ah, serious!”) and headed to Communications this morning. You get into their world, their moment, for a few minutes.

I stayed with her in the conversation, asking about class, as we talked about retaining customers in a business environment when they believe they’ve been slighted on your account.

For example, a hypothetical old lady purchases bonds that turn out badly, and believes you, the broker, instructed them to buy said bonds. “The question,” she told me, with her blazing blue eyes, “is how would you resolve a conflict with her without losing her business.” Perhaps there are tapes of the conversation, to relay to the lady that you never told her to buy those bonds, but still you need to find a delicate balance—proving her wrong will merely drive her away.

“You have to be showing that the lady was incorrectly remembering the conversation, and then make that seem unimportant. You stress the positive elements of retaining her with a second paragraph that buoys her up again….”

She’s going to spend much of her day thinking about dilemmas like that, and that fascinates me. It’s a world so far from my own.

Soon she is gone, replaced by a woman who is older. She’s just moved into a new apartment east of Green Lake that she likes, and we talk about different ways of getting rid of mold, and what percentage of bleach and water to use. At 85th is a wheelchair who signals me like those men on the docks of aircraft carriers, marking where the planes should stop; he motions toward an imaginary line in the pavement. I almost make his stop bar, but am off by a few inches. He ribs me good-naturedly.

The fog is now completely worn off, and sunlight streams into the morning with a benevolent force that warms everyone’s mood. The wide spaces of Aurora recede into a baby blue sky, and here and there an airplane’s contrails carve out a path of travel, a roomful of lives up there, traveling a world away.

“We must be getting old,” the wheelchair says to the lady up front. “Oh, don’t say that!” I say. I know they’re talking about me. We all laugh, and they continue their conversation, with me intermittently joining in. The two of them know each other. The mood is that of a relaxing Saturday morning, in a living room with no worries: pure, quiet joy on a half-full bus. A benevolent sleeper nods into himself behind me, emitting a pungent odor that keeps us awake. Nine hours later I would see him again at the stop where he’s about to get off, still wandering around in a pleasant daze.

Into the microphone: “All right, let’s make a stop at 165th here. This is our first stop for THS. Guys have a good one, be safe today.”

“I’ve never heard a driver call out THS before,” the wheelchair says.

“Hey, it’s where we’re goin’,” I say. There’s good people everywhere, methadone or no methadone.

At 185th it’s the man with big glasses and turquoise shorts again. I ask him if that 301 worked out. It did. He needs the lift, and starts to say “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize! That’s why it’s here, man. I like using the lift!”

There’s no reason this guy should be apologizing for wanting the lift. It only takes a minute. I hope other drivers haven’t been giving him a hard time, but all I can do is offer him a comfortable space, here, now. We do what we can in the series of moments called life.

My last inbound trip of the day, at 5 p.m., is like what all the other trips of the day have been like—busy, loud, involving, and invigorating. It’s my last day at North Base, and I feel blessed to have been assigned double shifts on the 358. Why would I want to do anything else? Every trip has been a dream, and I work through the day in a mild state of wonder—how is everything so perfect? Moment after moment, snowballing on top of each other, an endless collection of slices of life, helping people, answering questions, rockin’ the lift, making my goodbyes to departing regulars.

On a route like this there is so much being asked of you, all at once, and when you can perform at that level and not only stay above water, but excel, even if just barely—here is the exhilaration of a six-minute mile.

Jim, a passenger, and myself, talking ferries, commuting, and Korea, where a friend of his lives; Willy, a daily commuter who wishes me well with a generosity that floors me; Kevin, going out of his way to come to the bus and say goodbye. He didn’t even need to ride that day. They and so many others walk into the disappearing twilight, fading into the humming morass of the human collective. The very last trip is one of those Twilight Zone runs with no passengers, and I spend it reflecting goodness I’ve been able to be a part of. The humanity of a person who takes that moment to smile, or nod, or speak as he comes up the steps; these actions may not make us a better person, but they bring out the good we already possess. It’s been a long, huge day stuffed with all the above and more, a collection of “small” interactions that makes me marvel at how I’m so lucky as to experience all of this. It is one of the best days, ever, and this post does it only a paltry justice.

At the end of the day I look down at my bundle of transfers. I usually save one and scribble notes on it if it’s been a particularly great day. Today, I have no words. I walk back to the base and try to live in the memory of all of it, savoring the joyous cacophony of the day in my head. The parking lot is quiet. Up above is another plane, its contrails perfectly straight against the rich, deep blue.

Nathan Vass on What It’s Like to Drive Route 358 (Part 1)

Three years ago, we met up with then-21-year-old Metro bus operator Nathan Vass, who was already a minor Seattle celebrity for making it fun to ride his bus. You could tell from that profile — “Here We Go!” Riding with Metro Operator Nathan Vass — that he thought about driving a bus deeply, in ways most of us don’t, but we didn’t know then that he was a writer, filmmaker, and photographer as well.

Besides blogging (The View from Nathan’s Bus), he’s got a photography show coming up, opening June 13 at Blindfold Gallery (1718 East Olive Way). See more of his photography here. 

Below, we’re reprinting his envoi to the 358 bus route, which has an outsized reputation as one of Metro’s rowdiest — if not outright violent — lines. We thought it might be instructive to see it through Nathan’s eyes and ears.

(Photo: Nathan Vass)

Special to The SunBreak by Nathan Vass

I always pull up early when starting an inbound trip at Aurora Village. There’s something nice about sitting there with the doors open, in prep mode, while people get on and situate themselves. I can recall a time on the 5 bus at Shoreline Community College when it was magical—or at least I thought it was magical—as I hung around at the front while students intermittently wandered on and relaxed after taxing their brains in biochemistry class. It conjured up the sensation of a long trip, not unlike boarding a plane and getting settled in with your book or coffee.

Since then I do it whenever it’s appropriate, typically on a route that starts at a transit center. Spring is on its way, not quite here yet, and the days are lighter. I’m scribbling on a scrap of paper on my knee, making thoughts concrete. It’s around 8 a.m., gray with light fog, and here’s a young black man, dressed like he just applied for Exeter, running breathlessly up to my bus. Behind fashionably thick-frame black glasses, he asks how long before I leave.

“Seven minutes,” I respond. He asks if it’s okay if he leaves his backpack onboard while he smokes a cigarette. Certainly.

Then, unprompted, he talks about how running in the wind “hurts my eyes, dogg, gets all in my eyes,” with an expression of severe pain. I say, “Yeah, me too. It’s like being on a bicycle, where after a while, your ears become sensitive from all that wind blasting in.”

He looks at me with incredible surprise—”YEAH!”—as though we’d uncovered one of life’s great secrets.

“What are you writing?” he asks me.

Now, in truth, what I’m writing is a blog post. I don’t say that, though. “Oh, I’m just workin’ out some stuff in my head, you know, figuring out my thoughts.”

He explodes with a “Yes, I do that too!” We riff on the benefits of clearing the mind.

“I write about my feelin’s,” he says loudly and boldly, without embarrassment. Something about his sincerity makes me forget to laugh.

The fascination amongst youth culture with being “cool”—that is, with being aloof, askance, steeped in irony, experience and cynicism—bores me immensely. Coolness is defined by jazz historian Ted Gioia as “putting up a guard.” Honest, open communication takes a backseat to a posturing and a preoccupation with trends and surfaces. It’s the opposite of letting down your guard, which is a prerequisite to any sort of meaningful relationship.

This kid is not being cool. He’s being genuine. He wears his words on his sleeve, not in the least worried if he sounds silly as he says, “If I’m feelin’ angry, I write about it. If I’m feelin’ sad, I sit down and write about it. I get the pencil out and jus’ get it all down on the paper.”

“’Cause then your thoughts are concrete.”
“Exactly, man. Inside your head it’s all swirling around, and it’s hard to think. But you get the pen out, and it makes everything better. ‘Cause sometimes you can be confused, but when you write about it, you look at it real, and it all makes sense, you’ve taken like this big jumble and unraveled into one long thing, and you can look at it and understand it. You wanna know what you’re feeling, can’t have all that runnin’ around inside your head. You go crazy sometimes. I don’t like that. Tha’s why I write. Doesn’t matter what I’m feelin,’ what’s goin’ on, I write about it. I write about everything. I could be writing about that guy crossin’ the street. I got so many journals stacked up—”

He’s standing awkwardly at the front, not sitting in the chat seat, which is available. I’m held so rapt by his monologue that I don’t suggest that he sit in the chat seat, for fear of losing his conversation. We’re driving by now, passing 185th. A man with big glasses and turquoise shorts asks about downtown, and I suggest the 301.

I ask my standing friend, “What kinda stuff you been writing about? What do you wanna do?”

“I wanna go to Edmonds. But that’s jus’ part of the plan. I’m gonna be a film producer. I’m gonna make my own movies. I know a businessman in Chicago, he gave me his card. I know two businessmen. They’re gonna teach me about notes. That’s like stocks, keepin’ track of the money. I wanna be a film producer with my own company, where I act in the movie, I direct the movie, I produce the movie, I do music for the movie, it’s gonna be a one-man show but I gotta be trained. First I gotta learn about stocks and mutual funds, then I have enough to open my own restaurant, use that money to do that, then after the restaurant, I have enough money to make a small film, then after that movie blow up, I bankroll another film on top of that film using the profits—”

“Reinvesting.”

“Hell yeah,” he agrees. “Step by step. Can’t get right into film production now, I gotta, it’s gotta be a process.”

I want to rein this in a little. “Tell me about the restaurant. What kind you gonna open?”
He’s still standing right behind me, behind the yellow line, filled with enthusiasm.

“Fried chicken,” he blurts out, after consideration. Then he relents and reconsiders. “No, man. Ribs. I’m gonna open a ribs barbecue! You know, a real barbecue joint. Everybody gonna come.” Then a blight on his smiling face as he realizes: “They a lot of vegetarians nowadays though.” The guy looks almost depressed. I try to encourage him. “Tons of people like ribs. Always gonna be people eating ribs,” I say in a consoling voice. “Everybody likes barbecue.”

But he’s not discouraged anyway: “Maybe I can get them to give up vegetarian though. Like, they’ll come in—exactly, everybody like barbecue. They gon’ come in, it gonna be so good, my barbecue gonna be so good, they’ll try it and maybe start eating ribs again. Maybe give up veg. I’m gonna go sit down. What’s your name? It’s a pleasure talking.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if this was his ordinary way of talking—flitting from topic to topic with unbridled honesty and bursting naïveté; was his an attitude that will hold, or will he look different in twenty years? I like when what little cynicism I have is proven wrong.

At 155th, we have an older Caucasian man with a cane moving with dexterity across the street. Jaywalking on Aurora is a life-or-death proposition that I’ve seen end badly. “Don’t hurt yourself out here, man. Be careful. That kinda stuff scares me.”

“Thanks,” he says, noticing and registering my appearance. “Howyoudoingtoday?”

Sometimes you can feel someone making a conscious decision to engage.

“I’m great, how ’bout yourself?”

“Huimdoowinpittyguh (I’m doing pretty good),” he says, in a tone of complete surprise, as though he hadn’t realized this until I’d asked him. “Ahainnevaseenyoubeefa,” he slurs out. He’s intelligible, but only just barely. I’m able to discern that he’s speaking English, and from someone else’s perspective, we must look quite the pair—one man making a series of garbled transmissions, and the other responding excitedly in normal English. We chat about my take on the route, and his childhood in Cherry Heights (Cherry Hill). It’s like speaking a secret language. You can hardly understand him, but—you can. I resist the urge to speak in his voice.

“Mahcaseworker’sfemale.”

“Is that so?”

“Yuh.”

“She lookin’ out for ya?”

“Oh, yeah. Shetellmeputthemsocksonmyfeet.”

“Sounds like she knows what’s up!”

The fog is beginnning to burn off, and sunlight wafts onto his face. There is light everywhere. I want to faint at how beautiful it is. Warm, incandescent tones make new shapes on people’s faces, and shadows grow where there were none before. At 135th I look down the open expanse, between the tawdry landscape of K-Mart and Krispy Kreme, and the beauty of the light floors me.

“Look at that light,” I can’t help but say. The fog gives depth to the space, a stillness filled with possibility. Albertson’s never looked so good. I’m never sure if non-artists are into this kind of thing, but this oldster is.

“Yeauissbeeayophu.”

“Aenissgehhenwauhmatoo,” he adds through bleary eyes. “Nawssoko enimo.”

“You said it. I’ll take every degree I can get!”

“That’s a good-lookin’ crockpot,” I say to lady carrying a good-looking crockpot at 130th.

Somewhere further down the road, perhaps at 100th, Will.i.am, the rapper, or at least his doppelganger, gets on. “Uh oh, whaaattt? Not the lil’ kid again,” he laughs.

“They can’t get rid a me!”

“Hot diggity dog. You guys best be checkin’ for this boy’s ID,” he announces to the rest of the bus.

The trick is not to assert yourself over non-issues. Flow with the people, not against them, a driver once told me when I was new. Thus:

“Oh, you know I got my learners permit!”

“Learner’s permit,” he laughs.

“Yeah, you know they’re desperate to hire people. Recruiting straight outta junior high school.”

“Straight outta junior high school!” Repeating it for effect.

“I should be at home doin’ chores! Gettin’ my homework done!”

He’s cracking up at the seams, laughing. We amiably continue. I see faces in the mirror, quiet but smiling. Somehow it comes out that I’m from L.A. Sometimes people can tell by the way I find myself speaking sometimes. It happens without my realizing it. Shades of an earlier life, creeping out.

“You from L.A?” he asks.

“I am!”

“What part?”

“South Gate,” I reply.

“That’s the ’hood, man.”

“It is.”

“Yeah, that’s the hood. South Gate. SG.”

We laugh. Nobody calls it SG. It’s a parody of sorts of “CP,” the designation for the neighboring area, Compton.

“Yeah, there’s a driver friend a mine, Jerome, he also from down there.”

“You know Jerome!” I say, becoming animated. I love Jerome. He has the character and patience to pick the 358 five days a week, and still be happy. I relieve him three days a week, and he’s one of the best.

“Yeah! Jerome’s awesome.”

“Man, South Gate. That’s where Cypress Hill from, aren’t they?

“I believe so.”

“They closed down that Maplewood Police Department!”

“So where you from?

“L.A. too! ’Course I am, how you think I know about the Maplewood Police?”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“I was there, and I was up in San Gabriel for a while. The other SG.”

“‘The other SG’! Oh, that’s great. I ain’ never it called that before!” We’re both rolling around in the aisles—metaphorically, of course.

“What hospital you born in?” he asks.

“I forget the name, it was in downtown L.A. It was a Korean name, Korean hospital, probably why I forget the name. My mom’s Korean.”

“Really?” Surprised. “You Korean?”

Slurring guy says, “YoulookEnglish!”

“What?” I say, turning around. “I look English?” I haven’t heard that one. I’ve heard Hawaiian, Mexican, Middle Eastern, but—English?!

“Yeahthedarkhairyeah,” he explains. This explanation is news to me. How had I not known that the English are identifiable by their hair color?

“You don’t look Korean,” Will.i.am says.

“Shoot! I gotta work on that!”

“In downtown L.A., man. ‘Cause I useta live off a Vermont Ave.”

“Yeah, I used to take the old 204 up and down Vermont—”

And that’s in Koreatown, ’a course, and I was wonderin’ if maybe it was over there.”

“Yeah, I used to hang around over there. I’d go over to the art museum at Wilshire and Fairfax….” You find solidarity talking about mundane things with someone from a common origin. There’s no other reason to get excited about talking bus service on Vermont Avenue, but we sure are.

“Yeah, by the tar pits.”

“Yeah, the tar pits. And the mammoth statues. ‘Miracle Mile.'”

“Yeah, Miracle Mile.”

“Though I ain’t never seen no miracles happen there!”

“Hey, don’t give up the faith! One day one a them woolly mammoths is gonna come alive—”
“And that sabertooth tiger!”

“Yeah, so I speak Korean but I’m not fluent.”

“Koombaya heenghow,” he says in an Asian voice.

“Oh, I see you speak it fluent, too!”

Faces laughing.

“Man, everyone wants to go to work today,” I say, noticing the bus filling up.

“Yeah, its Friday, can’t nobody call in sick. You gotta go to work.”

“Thats right. You gotta have some nerve to do that. These are the good people, they didn’t play hooky at all, even though it’s nice out!”

“Alright man, I wanna see a driver’s license nex’ week,” he says as he leaves. We’re at 45th now.

“I’m a do my best!”

At this point a Caucasian man in nondescript west-coast office wear comes up from the back to join me in the chat seat. He says nothing.

“How’s your morning goin’?”

“Quite well.”

“Off to a good start.”

“Talk about a beautiful day.”

“Yeah, usually I bike in, but I had a flat tire.”

“Minor detail!”

I ask how far of a ride his commute normally is.

“I come in from around 145th.”

“You bike in from 145th?? Where are you going?”

“I work in South Lake Union.”

“Wow. Wow. That’s a ride. Especially going home. Those hills!”

We talk about hills, and then I ask, “What kind of work do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Research.”

“Excellent. Staying productive. In what field?”

“Tuberculosis.”

“A worthy cause. Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” he answers half-heartedly. “Sometimes you run into issues with funding. We’re government funded—”

“Ooohh.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you ever run into issues where the source of funding is determinate on the types of results you’re being asked to produce?”

“That’s exactly it, it’s coming from a source that wants something specific, and we have to tailor to their needs.”

“They might have an agenda.”

“Precisely.”

“And the nature and trajectory of the research gets influenced by that?”

This is a major issue in multiple fields of scientific research, and we discuss it further. What’s invigorating about this is the complete and instantaneous switch in gears from animatedly engaging with Will.i.am on subjects like undead woolly mammoths and riffing on being underage, to animatedly engaging with this learned gentleman about dilemmas in academia. I’m equally fascinated by the undercurrents of both, and it’s a thrill to move so quickly from one to the other.

I have much respect for educated people who meet others on an equal plane, and feel no need to foist their learnedness on them; implicit in this approach is the acknowledgement that no matter how smart one is, one can always discover more, from anyone, as long as one is receptive. As Da Vinci said, “Every man is my teacher, in that I may learn from him.”

I aspire for this mental framework. It’s why I get so much out of not just Researching Tuberculosis Man, but also Slur and Will.i.am, and even I Write About My Feelin’s Guy. It doesn’t matter if he’s naive or younger. He’s had life experiences I have not had. I can get something out of the interaction.

I wish Researching Tuberculosis Man a pleasant day at work, and then Real Change Willy comes over for a high-five at Denny Way. It feels good to straddle both worlds. I can feel the commuters thinking, Who the heck is this guy driving this bus?

A homeless woman with a walker and warm pink hat gets off from her trip to THS. I ask her if she finished her Harlan Coben book—that’s what she had last time.

“Yeah, finally. Took me forever,” she sighs. “I didn’t like it at all.” She has a new novel under her arm now, one of those sci-fi apocalyptic types. I didn’t used to know homeless people read Harlan Coben. Now I do.

At Wall a group of excited high-school age girls get on, headed for the Amtrak. They have their luggage ready for a long trip. It’s clear buses are not their usual mode of transport; the dynamic changes a little when bus newbies are onboard. You and your bus, for them, are representing all of Metro. I enjoy ushering them into a friendly 358 atmosphere.

The crockpot lady from 130th, who is Caucasian, gets out at Columbia, and says thanks in Korean: “Khamsahamnida!”

I get excited—”Chumuneyo!”

“Neh!”

“Ahnyunghekahseyo!”

“Ahnyunghekehseyo!”

Mid-morning light streams into the bus, making everything new. I ask the girls where they’re going. They’re headed for Los Angeles, and it’s going to take 35 hours! I don’t know why I’m so excited, but I am. They’re from Canada. We talk about the ticket prices, and whether they’ve been before. The noises are animated, our voices popping with a verve that comes from who knows where. At the end of the line I sigh with pleasure. It’s been a good trip.