The Kindness of Strangers
Going downtown on a rainy
Saturday morning, riding the bus. It's late spring in
Portland and the sun hasn't shone for months. The city is
gray and flat. I've got a baby on my lap and a little girl
in the seat next to me, and we don't make a sound. We stare
out the window along with everyone else, slumped in our
seats. We pass the strip bars with no windows, and then we
are on The Morrison Street Bridge, looking down on the
industrial landscape below, old warehouses and railroad
tracks. No one looks at anyone else. Eyes accidentally meet
and then dart away. Hands are clenched into fists on our
laps.
As we pull onto First Street, the driver announces, "I'm
stopping at every bus stop downtown, so don't ring the
bell. Let's not interrupt Vivaldi."
Every passenger looks up to see the driver's smiling face
looking back at us in his mirror. And then, over the
speakers: Vivaldi. The music fills the bus and spills out
into the street. We all turn in our seats to look at each
other, and every face is laughing.