A Series of Encounters on the Bus

A man sat next to me on the bus. It was evening, and I was reading The French Lieutenant’s Woman on the way home from work. The man’s large stature filled his seat, nudging against my side. I was at the window; he was at the aisle.

“That’s a fantastic book.” He pointed at The French Lieutenant’s Woman.

“It’s pretty good so far.”

“I read once that men cramp and crowd women on the bus. Ever since, I’ve tried to be more conscious of it. Are you okay? Do you have enough space?” I was a bit cramped but wanted to be polite, so I just said ‘you’re fine’ and kept reading. He continued to bring it up as we rode along, “Still doing ok?” Neither of us had moved a bit.

He asked so much that for a brief moment, I thought he might be coming on to me, but I think he was just being nice, and I appreciate that.

This morning, I got on the bus and sat next to a man. In Pennsylvania, I would have said this man was in his 60s, but somehow, everyone looks younger out here, so he was probably in his 70s. He was sitting at the window reading the newspaper. When I sat down next to him, he didn’t move or even look up. I peered over his shoulder at the paper—an image of a squatting drag queen showed under “theatre”. The man had both pages of the newspaper open and splayed before him; his legs were spread with his bag on the floor between them. I awkwardly leaned into the seat to stay sitting on it. He got off three stops later, beckoning me to stand so that he could leave.

On the way home, I was rushing. I don’t know why I’m always rushing, but as I neared the bottom of the escalator, I noticed that the man in front of me was blind, using a cane to feel for the step. I didn’t know what to do; what is the appropriate interaction?

As I stepped onto the escalator, we were nearly next to each other. He stepped to the right, and I began to walk up the escalator, as I usually do.

“Hello!” he said as I stood with my foot on the next step. I felt like I had been busted.

“Hi.” I replied.

“I am looking for the D bus line? At Pike.”

 “Of course, just come with me; I’m going exactly there!” We conversed for the entire 45 seconds escalator ride, though I mostly just said mmhmm because his thick accent was difficult to understand. We were going to the same place, and that was all that mattered.

At the top of the escalator, I walked a step ahead of him. He apologized every time he tapped my heel with his cane, but I just assured him, “That’s what I’m here for.” I was trying to clear the way, but he kept veering to the left or right. I thought it might be weird to guide him by his arm, but by the time we reached the corner, I did. We arrived just in time for the bus. As we stood in line, a polite young man grabbed the blind man by the arm and said, “You go ahead, sir,” and guided him up the step to the bus.

My pass wouldn’t work; as I tapped the box, it read “Error, try again” but three times it declined.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” said the bus driver, “Go ahead.” He was awfully chipper for 7am on a Tuesday.

At 2^nd and Broad, an older lady slowly made her way down the steps with her walker.

“Don’t miss me too much next week,” the bus driver said to her.
“Ok.”

“I’ll be in Barcelona on Friday.”

“Ok.”

As the next person got on the bus, he revealed their friendship: “She prays for me every day, so I like to treat her special.”

A few stops later, a man got on the bus and asked, “Are you on the regular schedule?”

“Sure; I don’t know what that means.”

“Heh, me either.”

home&hope

I’ve lost all sense of home. I’ve come to the realization that I find “home” in being able to control my life.

My family in Pennsylvania is entirely well and unwell at the same time, and there’s not a thing I can do from 3,000 miles away.

Not only can I not afford a plane ticket, but I apparently can’t afford to move to a new apartment. But I also cannot afford not to move, as our rent is about to skyrocket.

I’ve been diving through possibilities, and my hope has skyrocketed and plummeted about fifteen times just this week. Endless craigslist searching, phone calls, apartment visits. I cannot bring myself to pinch pennies for a 400 sq. ft. apartment. It’s just not worth it. Maybe I won’t be okay living alone, but I like to think that I would if I had just a little bit of space. I thought space was something people needed from each other—really, space is just something we need to feel comfort.

Growing up, Derek, Katlin, and I were obsessed with a computer game called the SIMS—a simulated life. We would build houses for these charaters that we created. We’d decorate with wallpaper and furniture, and then let them live out their lives in record time. They’d get jobs and sleep and talk in jibber-jabber. Building their homes was always my favorite part, but we could never make a complete home with the allotted beginning budget. We had to use a cheat to get more money to build what they needed (and then some). And when their houses were too small, they’d stand in the room with thought bubbles over their heads exclaiming “X#?!Y*%^” as they pulled at their heads and shook their fists in the air. A caption would appear saying “Your Sim is feeling cramped. She is unhappy because she doesn’t have enough space.”

I need space. I currently have to navigate around our couch to enter my matress on the floor from the top or bottom. There is no space. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. Our walls are coated with books—my nearest solace, yet my enemy because they take up even the illusion of space. And yet, I can’t bring myself to pick up a single one lately.

Sure, I shouldn’t complain. I’m twenty-two and have a load of opportunity unfolding. I have a mattress at least, even if it is on the floor. This is how twenty-two-year-olds are supposed to live. But I’ve never lived up to my age. I don’t know. I still make friends with thirty-somethings yet am continually the youngest—at work, at church, in my family.

I like to see it as progress—I’m doing something. I’m out here testing the waters. If life would have happened like it was supposed to, I’d really be in my last semester of college. Instead, I’m just a confused person searching for years that I cannot have.

I don’t want to be older. I don’t want to wish my life away. I just want to not have to hide my age. I want to not have to live like how people expect twenty-two-year-olds to live. I want a bed. I want space.

I think it’s the country coming out of me. I dream of water views just to feel like I’m not surrounded by steel. I dream of open lofts with natural light (a rarity here anyways, especially this time of year). When Pickle & I go for walks, we pass people in groves, always paired off. We watch groups party in their apartments or stumble across sidewalks with bottles in their hands and cigarettes between their fingers, laughing and talking about the next football game.

I don’t want to be them. I just don’t want to be this. I wantwantwant. Gross.

No one ever said anything would be easy. Ever. That’s so vague & cliché, but I’m learning it’s more true than I thought. Can I really be a city girl? I think I’m only pretending. I miss my car. I miss the road. I miss not caring if I had a bed or a couch. I’ve taken it all for granted.

I want to be grateful, but it’s hard when I realize that at 567 words (and counting) this blog post already has more words than I’ll ever see in square footage for the next few years.

I don’t want to settle, but I want to settle in. I don’t want to move every year, but the housing market here can’t keep up with itself, causing costs to rise and space to decrease, and there are so many people living on the streets, yet I can’t bring myself to settle for less. This is what I was afraid of when I moved to this city—I am becoming one of them, but something within me is fighting it. I’m glad for the fight, even though it hurts—I don’t want to be disappointed in my good fortune.

So how do I trust that this will all work out? That I won’t be one of those homeless street-sleepers in 30 days time? How do I care for a dog and myself and offer more than prayers for my blood back East? How do I care for the street-sleepers and do something more than just whine about my fortunate yet unsatisfying life?

I think about that a lot with Christianity. We are called to so much: to let go of things of this world and care for people. To love our brothers and give to them. But we are selfish; I am selfish. I want a nice home, a place to feel at home. I want to take care of myself first. Christianity just seems so extreme, and I think we are all failing because if we did it right, the way Jesus says to, we’d all be living on the street helping others along instead of freaking out about square footage and being simultaneaously in and out of the city.

So there is an internal battle going on. I’m not sure who’s winning. Frankly, I can’t bring myself to route for either side.

Tomorrow begins yet another day of endless searching. The apartment of my dreams, which I was set to view at 1:00 was rented out tonight at 8. I’m running out of options. I’m running out of steam, but I’ve never been one to settle. If I were, I wouldn’t be in Seattle; I wouldn’t be a college graduate; I wouldn’t be a seeking Christian; I wouldn’t be twenty-two, living on my own, and praying for the next road to be “right”.

I can’t decide if this experience is humbling, frustrating, or simply revealing my true selfishness. Probably the latter two. The thought of packing up my worldly possessoins again for my third move across town in a year and a half makes my stomach churn. The thought of home creates an unsettling tension between tall trees and tall buildings.

I need people. I’m a people-person, I admit. Yet I cannot bring myself to do this roommate thing again. I’ve been spoiled my whole life by fields, my own room, and a spacious home that my father built. People don’t live like that here—things are provided, not worked for. People seem entitled, not earning to deserve. Finding the old ways feels impossible, but it’s all I long for. Don’t give me your fancy brand-new buildings with a high price tag. Accept me as a transplant who knows what it’s like to hammer a nail into wood and feel accomplished, who is willing to put in the hours to gain the reward of creation, not a paycheck, who cares to the point of insanity, even if there is no resolve, who will not choose to become the typical Seattlelite. I’m a Seattlelite now for sure—I’ve got all the signs of it: a dog, urban life, working for a Redmond-born company—but I’m still a small “town” girl with a heart longing to earn what I get and aspiring to deserve it before I expect it. I realize that at twenty-two, with little life accomplishment, I currently deserve very little.

Maybe this all sounds pretentious. I’m not sure. All I know is that I believe in hard work, manual labor, and the fruits of living off the land, even if those aren’t entirely my way of life at present. Isn’t that how the American Dream got started to begin with? Freedom, independence, hope.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. –Hebrews 11:1

Don’t squash my hope again, Seattle. Hope is strong and keeps coming back. I’ve got a lot of hope—in God, for my family, for the future, for happiness.