Seattle Press on Line - The Bus Rule

Writers' Corner

The Bus Rule

Feb 14, 2002 -- It was midnight, but the number fifteen bus serving downtown Seattle was packed. The only sounds were the muttering engine, a tinny snare drum from someone's headphones, and the clicks and rustles of the mute crowd. My girlfriend Marty and I were returning to my apartment after an evening drinking beer at the Pike Place Brewery. She sat across from me, wrapped in a black leathery raincoat cinched at the waist, her shoulder length brown hair tucked behind the headphones of the new CD player I was showing her. I didn't know it, but she was about to show me that sometimes the rudest thing you can do is sit tight and be quiet. Occasionally, the laws of love require you to grab the bus intercom and, with a prayer to the transit gods that your seatmate doesn't knife you, holler a duet with your sweetheart.

For the time being, Marty swayed to the music, and I practiced a luggage-like stillness, a technique I learned commuting to middle school on San Francisco's public transportation. The lesson those bus rides taught was simple: Whether you're the bad-ass chilling in the back corner with a switchblade in his pocket, or the skinny kid in a red, white, and gray uniform, if you want to be left alone, don't make noise, don't smile. Look busy or bored. And for christsake, don't sing the Eagles, which was exactly what Marty started doing.

"YOU CAN'T GET LOOSE IF THERE'S TOO MUCH LIGHT..." she crooned. "YOU NEVER CRY LIKE A LOVER...." She undulated to the music, her eyes closed, as if she were singing in the shower.

I felt a screw tighten in my belly as I glanced at the silent strangers. Everyone else had obviously memorized the bus rule in civics class, because no one reacted. Marty, please stop, I thought.

"SOMETIMES I DOUBT IT...." Then silence. "LIKE A BROKEN DOWN CAROUSEL, WHERE SOMEBODY LEFT THE MUSIC ON...."

I tried to stay expressionless, hoping that no one had noticed my association with this disruptive woman, hoping I wouldn't have to defend her against someone looking for an excuse to cause trouble.

We got off the bus without incident, but anger immediately replaced my fear. I waited for it to cool as we walked through misty yellow streetlamp light, past the postal distribution center and roaring warehouses. The anger only grew as we walked. By the time we got to the carport outside my apartment building, I was bursting.
I said, "I can't believe you were singing so loud on the bus. I thought you were going to get me in a fistfight." I moved toward the stairs, hoping that by the time we reached my apartment, Marty would have apologized and we could call it a night.

She stopped. "What? What was wrong with that?"

"It was disrespectful to the people on the bus. They were being quiet. What gave you the right to impose on them?"

Marty looked at the pavement, her mouth open, shaking her head. Her face reddened and her eyes flooded up. She took a couple of steps backwards, as if to make room for the shouts that followed. "I don't believe this! The Big Performer, the High School Teacher, doesn't believe in singing on the bus?"

I hadn't expected such a furious response, but I knew what she was getting at. I usually loved a crowd's attention. Marty couldn't stand it, except for occasional moments of unbidden confidence when the smoky-voiced soul singer or hilarious storyteller leaped out. Marty hated the fear that kept her from auditioning for the local theater production or talking back to her demeaning boss. That night, she hated me too, because I was in league with her fear.

We made it up the stairs together, but four months later, when Marty walked down the ramp to her California-bound plane, I stayed at the gate. I explained to my friends, who were baffled that we broke up, that for the two years Marty lived in Seattle, she never found a good job and a solid group of friends. It's the truth, but what I've realized since Marty left is that she also wanted someone who was willing to sing with her in public, and I too often stood to the side and said, "Too loud," or, "Too flat," or, "Be quiet."

I wish I could be back on that Seattle bus. I would squeeze into the seat next to Marty, lock my arm in hers, and sing to the busload of people that they never cry like a lover and that they can't get loose if there's too much light. We may not have started a citywide boycott of the bus rule, but on the other hand, I doubt we would have truly upset many people. Who knows--maybe that roughneck in the back was an Eagles fan looking for an excuse to pull a harmonica out of his pocket.

Robert W. Hampton is a freelance writer living in Ballard where he performs penance at local bus stops by singing Sinatra tunes.

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Michael Weidler	Feb 16, 2002	Seattle, Wa	Professional Temporary
Being a transit dependant person myself, I agree with the author's original reaction. Marty had no business singing on the bus. There are laws about such things. Always remember, your right to free speech (or singing) ends where my ears begin.