Should I say something?

It didn't really seem like a big deal at first.

Then it became an ethical dilemma.

I gazed a half mile into the distance, spotting the bus as it rounded the corner and slowly approached. Swiveling my head ninety degrees, I noticed an elderly woman walking as briskly as possible toward me; she had no view of the oncoming coach as I did.

Was she trying to catch this bus? Maybe, but they come every ten minutes. Should I yell to her that it's coming? I could, but she may not understand and feel threatened. How about if I just motion with my hand to come quickly? Also creepy, plus, if she picked up her gait any further, the specter of a broken hip looms with the risk of slamming to the asphalt.

What did I do?

Nothing.

I boarded the bus and watched the woman's wobbly silhouette diminish through the back window. I then sat and ruminated for the thirty minute trip downtown. By rationalizing each scenario into a course of non-action, I had possibly robbed this elderly woman of a ten-minute chunk of her day. Due to perceived embarrassment and sheer laziness, I had committed, albeit slight, an unethical act.

We encounter these situations more often than we think.

My eleven-year-old daughter and I enjoy watching a show entitled, What Would You Do? every Friday night on ABC. Unsuspecting witnesses are faced with ethical decisions through the use of hidden cameras and actors. For example, a waitress in a diner, played by an actress, refuses service to a gay couple with children and creates a scene in front of a roomful of patrons.

As the cameras roll, some people ignore the situation entirely, while others choose to confront the server and/or comfort the victim. A substantial minority actually side with the waitress. The drama builds until the show's host, with camera operators and grips in tow, bursts into the room to announce that it's all been staged.

The scenarios are intense, like a group of drunk teenagers on a public sidewalk, encouraging a sober friend to imbibe, or an adolescent couple dealing with a new found pregnancy in a coffee shop.

But those types of dramas are rare, compared to the smaller and more common scenarios we face.

When should you say something?

Sometimes, it's simply a matter of reaching a boiling point, like when I encountered a guy scattering his toe nail clippings on the floor of the gym locker room.

Other instances, we're trying to do someone a favor. It's easy to tell your spouse that she's got a piece of chickpea in her eyebrow, but try it with a stranger:

"Excuse me, ma'am, but that leaflet of romaine lettuce between your teeth flaps like a little green flag whenever you make the long "e" sound. I just thought you should know."

I've got a big problem with people who need to just blow their nose, but won't do it, even when an Aloe-lotion-coated nose wipe lurks ten feet away. It's easy with one of my kids: "For the love of Kimberly Clark. You've been sniffing since Monday. Stop doing nose Kegels and get a freaking Kleenex."

But when it's a stranger, I'd feel pretty jerkish asking him if he'd like a tissue.

Yesterday, again on King County Metro Route 21, a man sat beside me, zoning out on his palm held electronic pacifier.

Remember as a kid, when your big brother would pin you down and dangle a thick saliva rope over your face, only to slurp it back in just before it splashed down on your little oily forehead?

That slurper was my seatmate, only he was playing professional Duncan snot yo-yo master, performing amazing nasal feats prior to snorting his inventory safely home in the nick of time. Growing distracted to the point of obsession, I highly considered ripping my shirt off and offering it to him as a small token of my irritation.

Before doing so, however, I felt compelled to play the scene out mentally. You know...a little cost/benefit analysis:

"Shit! Just blow your nose!" barked the pallid, shirtless, middle aged man, extending a torn Old Navy polo toward the startled commuter. The irate passenger's arm quivered as the striped blue material offered itself to no one.

The bus halted and idled at the next stop as Transit Security pulled up behind. The bare chested perpetrator was led away in handcuffs.

I'll just put on some headphones next time.

It's so nice when two people hit it off

King County Metro Route 54, 7:54 AM

The tires on my Ford Ranger unnaturally chafed against the curb as I straightened the steering wheel. I had found a spot on the street, and the Metro bus, the second leg of my commute downtown, approached rapidly from behind. I tumbled out of the door, snagging my bag on the gear shift and slammed the door partially closed. Oh, well, I thought, it's still locked.

The articulated coach sped by me as I lengthened my stride to a full sprint, awkwardly clutching the bag's nylon fabric, rather than its strap or handle. The bus slowed to a stop to pick up passengers half a block ahead, and just as I reached it, began to slowly pull away. I slapped at its dusty blue and yellow exterior and mumbled an oath at the faceless driver and his mother.

The vehicle again slowed and stopped at a red light approximately one hundred feet up the street—one last chance. I jogged up to the door and stood in the middle of Alaska Street, staring up at the operator, his gaze locked on a distant horizon. I knocked but he didn't respond. I knocked harder and he finally turned his mulleted head in my direction.

My arms spread in a conciliatory manner, as if to say, "Hey, man, no hard feelings about leaving me in your exhaust. Now open the door, please." My facial expression betrayed pleasantness combined with anaerobic strain from the recent eighty-yard dead sprint. No words were exchanged; it was as if I were doing a private show for the man, where I played the part of a begging mime. He looked down at me, shook his head and swiveled his cranium back to its forward facing profile.

After abruptly realizing a lost cause, my emotions rapidly morphed from desperation to frustration to seething, swirling anger. I now wanted to yank his disproportionally long hair from the back of his head and duct tape it to his forehead to even things out. Since this wasn't an option, I quickly resorted to my profanity portfolio, ready to lob at least a couple of F-bombs into his area before he could drive away. Testosterone has a way of knocking on your door without first phoning.

Rage choked me as my brain fumbled for something, anything to yell inside the bus. I looked briefly to the left and noticed a small boy glaring out the window at me, curiously assessing this crazed, would-be passenger standing in the street, gesturing and panting. Our eyes met, and I could feel my ire transition from white hot to red to a dull orange.

I looked and felt like a fool.

The light turned green and King County Metro Route 54 lumbered away as I retreated to the safer confines of the sidewalk. A minute later, my head rose to greet the sound of another 54 approaching from the distance.

No such thing as a free ride

King County Metro, Route 54—West Seattle to Downtown.
It's amazing to me how many people grip the metal bars. Call me a germ freak, but those posts are a primordial crock pot for the next bird flu. On the occasion that I have no choice but to hold on to one to avoid spilling into someone's lap, I attempt the highly difficult square dance maneuver, the "elbow hook," but this has also backfired. I once whipped around the pole with such acceleration, that I butted heads with an elderly man—bulls eye into a liver spot on his forehead. I felt really bad not only that I had injured him, but also that I got close enough to recognize that he smelled of hamsters.
Every morning and evening contains the potential for a memorable experience. One may witness a drug deal, a fist fight or simply a man who has decided to liberate the encumbrances of his bladder.
A few weeks ago, I overheard a young girl conversing with her mother. The little girl was observing a rather overweight woman laboring down the aisle. "Mommy, is she going to have a baby?" the little girl asked after the woman passed by. "No, sweetie, she's just a larger woman," the mother discreetly replied.
"Well, maybe she's going to have a dog or a cat, then, mommy?"
Good stuff.
The silent majority of Metro riders are the electronically disengaged masses, those who become one with their personal data devices. Headphones, Blackberries, iPhones, all melting into lines and columns of anonymity, their heads tilted downward at a forty-degree angle. I've certainly been a member of this demographic, but lately, I've found life on the bus far more interesting when actively observing my surroundings.
And then there are the drivers. On a steel horse they drive, as Bon Jovi might say. These beaten-down folks not only deal with Seattle traffic and criminally insane passengers, but they also must face the wrath of those average worker stiffs who are just late for a meeting or having a bad day. I really have no idea why anyone wants this job, but I'm glad someone does. Hats off to you, Metro operators, but next time you pass my bus stop without pulling over, I'm lodging a formal complaint.