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 directly across 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 still 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 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!”