Thanks, Mike

Deke's Note: Just spoke with my beloved daughter tonight. Our discussion ranged among many topics as usual, but she reminded me of her bf's Uncle Mike. I've met him on a few occasions, and found him to be an admirable character. A former carny who rolled with the hucksters of many a small-town ride and quarter game show hosts, he's wise to just about every game around. A free soul, he asks for nothing, but gives of his soul freely with wise and sage advice from someone who knows this world better than anyone who pulls down the big bucks his lifestyle negates. 

His 80lb. backpack riding light upon his lanky frame, equipped to the hilt against the raging rainfall that sends city-slickers scurrying with their $100 umbrellas from shelter to tree and bus stop to tavern, Mike cheerfully chips along. A buck-fifty in his pocket, the clink and clang of bottles and cans in one of the bags hanging the promise of the next payday, he is more free than those who splash past in their $550-per-month Audis.

A fifth of Jameson's in his back pocket, one payday due him from washing some rich fuck's ride the driveway he happened past earlier that afternoon; it also afforded him a daily special from iHOP for dinner. Mike lopes along Burnside on a fine spring afternoon, the sun warming his face as the air cools him. Free. Society has no hold on him. No job, no need for one. Having done the 9-5 gig long ago, he gave it up for the road. Mike has seen more of the world than Working He has no bills to pay other than the cell phone which keeps him in touch with whomever in the outside world he deigns to communicate with. Nobody tells him where to go or how to do so.

The government once tried to take Mikey in. However, it expected many things from him that he wasn't willing to do. Give up a daily joint? Fuck off. Never drink booze again? Go to hell. What right does a government have to insist one give up anything in exchange for his service? Fascism demands total loyalty to the stupidest rules imaginable. Rules are only for those who choose to adhere.

Fuck that. This is the country of the free. I served it, I live in it every day, unbound by the strict bonds society seduces its least with. Uncle Sam promised me the world. What he gave me was a steel-toed boot out the revolving door. He sends a piddly check to some post office box. It helps, but isn't enough to pay for the slummiest apartment in the worst part of any town. So I wander like the hobos of old. As long as I keep a low profile, I can live how I want without fear of this freaky uncle's punches to the gut.

"Yo bus driver," he tells me,  "gimme a ride. I only got a buck thirty to get me into next week."

"Yeah, okay," I tell him, weary from already 40 hours into a 54-hour, five-day roll. "It's all good brother. Just don't bitch me out if the Fare Inspector busts you."

"Fair enough," he says. I look into his eyes, see no malice, only peaceful acceptance. He knows the hand he's been dealt. My own life could have been his, a few lefts instead of rights. We're cool.

Skip 20 minutes down the roll and some drunk asshole gets on, gives me lip over nothing worth a damn. I tell him to sit down and shut up so I can roll. He escalates my de-escalation techniques. We're held up, a stalemate of transit proportions. Why? Because I refuse to let him ride with an open container of alcohol.

"Just drive the fucking bus, dude," he tells me. "You're nothing but a fucking bus driver. Shut up and drive, asshole."

"Sure," I reply. "As long as you dump that buck-fifty of booze on the sidewalk."

Ralphie RiverRat refuses, belching inches from my face in contempt.

I'm exhausted. My right big toe itches to explore his anus, sore as it is from stopping the bus 800 times already that day, smoothly and without a hitch.

Mike leaves his backpack, holding his only belongings to sit unguarded in a middle-bus seat. He walks casually up to the drunken punk, grabs him by the sagging pants and shirt collar, tosses him out of the still-open door.

"Some people got lives to get to, boy," he yells at the stunned punk. "Try that with the next driver. This one gets a pass from me."

I look at my new hero, who turns to me and says, "Close the door and roll. You don't deserve that kinda shit."

For once, I do as a passenger tells me. This one is special, and he's right. There are decent people sitting within my ride, not needing to be delayed while the booze-addled, self-entitled troublemaker is dealt with.

"Thanks Mike," I tell him. In my hand I hold out a day pass printed by mistake earlier that shift.

"Thank you," he says as he takes my offer. "You guys take more shit than you should have to."

His acceptance of the ticket is worth a bag of gold to me. It keeps me rolling with a ton less of grief than I desire.

A few stops later, Mike trudges off the bus with a pleasant word of thanks, smile and a nod. More than most give me. I thank him again for his help, but he waves it off and exits into the cold, rainy Portland night. He might ride the rest of the evening on the pass I gave him, or find a spot to pitch the tent riding upon his pack. Either way, he's free. I have bills to pay, loans to satisfy, lofty dreams I may or may not reach.

Mike has only what steps lie ahead of him. Sometimes, I envy him. Maybe he envies my life, but I doubt it.


The door sighs shut, and I release the interlock to roll along. Life on transit. Stop to stop, you never know what's out there.

Thanks, Mike.