The Mundane: Waiting in the Bus Tunnel

When I finish work each day - and when we haven't traveled to my place of employment by automobile - I travel south down fourth avenue past Ralph's; Dahlia's; Bed, Bath, and Beyond; and Macy's until I come to the fluorescent tiled opening that descends to the bus tunnel.

I personally opt for the dirt covered faux marble steps over the clackety escalators. Exercise, I convince myself, does my limbs some good, though I could not discern which muscles benefit from such a decline. In any case, I dance along the stairs, my light steps reminiscent of Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy.

At that first plateau, I witness a small, seated Asian man pulling a bow across the strings of an instrument I can compare to a giraffe's femur. Long and stocky, he held it as one would a cello or viola. Its sound reminds me of a not yet dead feline in an experimental lab, and the benefit of that plateau is that sound cavorts cacophonously, its melodies bouncing effortlessly from tile wall to bare tile wall. Suffice it to say, I plummet quickly down the second set of stairs attempting to outrun those waves of what one could loosely call music.

I approach the third set of stairs and peregrinate leisurely, knowing full well that my particular bus is not due for another quarter of an hour. And thus, I lean myself against a wall and watch as passersby pass me by.

Some at trots. Old Asian men and women with elevated chins would not sacrifice their dignity to break into a run and catch the bus. Friends and couples traipse across the tile. Some speak in whispers. Others gladly proclaim their most intimate secrets to us a captively dull audience. A woman strides by me in her high heels and too tight, too short denim blouse looking as if she is unhappy with her latest round of plastic surgery. Another woman stands on a spot directly adjacent to a spot where the bus does not stop, and she cannot understand why it doesn't as she waves frantically at the unhalting bus driver.

On the other side of the concourse, I notice a young father rocking his young daughter as cold blasts rolls into the space like giant snowballs. I witness a woman of no more than 40 break into a determined run garbed in the highest of heels. I think her brave and stupid simultaneously. And then I thank all that is good that I shall never have to worry about such attire.

When the 106 to Rainier Beach finally pulls up to the platform, I vie for an opening into the doorway. The competition for seats is truly fierce, but I secure one close to a heating vent that I might read and write in some jostling comfort.


When next you have the opportunity to survey the wanderings of humanity in their daily attempts to feel some worth, I suggest you look at a person's gait. Having done so many a time, I can say it is most telling. And indeed amusing.

What might they say about me who follows them with humored countenance? I wonder...