Sentimental Journeys Home

In those days, my Mother was still alive and I and Sherrie had only one car, so coupla times a year, I rode public bus north from the Oregon Coast to Seattle to visit her. I always transferred to the long, north-bound I-5 leg of the trip over in the valley at Corvallis.

At Corvallis, he was already on the bus – sitting toward the rear, on the curb side – rather ominously, I thought at a glance, hulking up two seats. A glance was all I was comfortable with because of his high CPT - Caution Points Total: face lurking out of sight in the dark shadows of his sweatshirt’s grey hood, because of his very magnitude, because he was deliberate about the both-seats thing, because he was demanding respectful distance, because my hands are white and I noticed his, well - weren’t.

But in another life, I had been an inner-city Bus Operator in Portland. After so long away from The Street now though, I needed re-confirmation. I knew all I wanted was to see his key – his face, his eyes -  so I took the window seat directly across the aisle from him.

Coupla hours further north, at Portland, people got on, some got off. Everybody adjusted around him.

At Tacoma, nearly in Seattle, a considerable shuffling of persons took place. A couple of people hesitated as they approached his area. A woman spotted him, stopped short, turned back forward, got the Operator – who found someone else who would adjust their seating. Nobody challenged the huge incognito man in the grey hoodie.

Bussing long, uninterrupted stretches of I-5 makes you forget what you forgot. I sorta got used to his brooding presence.

Downtown Seattle was the end of the line, the end of an endless trip. I was just so damn glad to get off that bus! I stood up. I didn’t even think to glance his way. Outside the bus, from underneath, I claimed my luggage quickly. I was gone.

Out in the sunshine, dragging my little wheeled suitcase along the sidewalk, and back in the city where I grew up, I was a kid again! I was free! I was headed for Fourth Avenue.  I would catch the exact same Line 24 bus I rode home from high school. I was on a sentimental journey home.

But out front of the Station, I realized that walking right on my left was the huge, towering, ominous man from I-5, his grey sweatshirt hood back now from his face. He was so tall, I stood in a hole. He looked down on me as if from on high. And he couldn’t have been older than eighteen!

I was nearly forty. I should have known better, but I had to. I did it. Recklessly, I eye-beamed up at him and I blurted, “I’m going to see my mom!”

My heart took this happy little leap. From the folds of his sweatshirt, he revealed to me the face of a peeking, brown puppy. Smiling proudly, he told me

“Me, too!”