Yellow Line

I'm not much of a storyteller. My dad would randomly say "So, there I was- knee-deep in grenade pins and running out of ammunition." By itself it's sort of amusing, but there was never a story that followed- or if there was, it never had anything to do with the introduction. I always laugh, because it's supposed to be funny, but it's not nearly so funny as it is supposed to be. I could claim that my dad's inability to tell stories well became mine over time, but I just like to get to the punchline too quickly. So this story will surely start awkwardly as I try to work into an actual tale and not just giving the long and short of it. Though, really, if we count this as the introduction, we've already started in an awkward manner.


I like to travel. But I don't know how to drive, so my limitations are literally the extent of our local metro transit system- robust, to be sure, but certainly not as free as driving or even bicycling. But that's okay, because no matter where I go, I see and experience all manner of new things. Some are interesting, others mundane, and some are so fantastical that my friends can hardly believe that such things might have happened to me. Some of those I may try to tell later, but for this trek, Tim decided to join me, as much to give witness to the incredible should it occur as anything else.

This time around, I wanted to ride the Yellow line MAX train to its end and back. It travels from downtown to northern Portland, and I knew very little about this side of town. Knowing what I know now, North Portland has a couple of gemstones here and there, but all in all it's fairly rundown and nothing special. I can't say what I was expecting at the time, but I know that Tim and I couldn't help but express our hopeful delight at what we might uncover.

"What if that dude with the hat over there turns out to be a magician? And he's going to a magician's conference at the Expo Center?"

"Would they even let us into MagiCon without magician's credentials? How's your forging skills?"

But as we neared the end of the line, the incredibly drab nature of the scenery sunk in and left us in a somewhat disappointed silence. It was a Thursday, and I can only assume that MagiCon doesn't start until Friday, and aside from that my forging skills are very poor. We looked at what there was from the train, but decided in the end to just wait there for the next driver to take us back downtown.

As we waited, I watched the various folk come and go from the train. An older gentleman, leaning on a plain wooden cane, hobbled off as soon as we pulled into the last station, followed quickly by a woman who had no right to wear skintight clothing in public (but did so anyway), and her apparent boyfriend who could best be described as a manatee in a t-shirt. The last man was a pair of well-dressed black gentlemen, wearing suits of beige and grey and sporting overcoats that might have well cost more than my entire outfit. Once they departed, Tim and I were the only people left on the train.

I was a little disappointed with our trek, and apologized to Tim. "I was hoping that our little adventure would be a bit more... adventurous," I mumbled as I stared out the window. "This train line sucks."

Tim was about to respond when he was interrupted by a man who seemed to be unable to control the volume of his voice. Despite the empty train other than the two of us, he parked himself in the seats behind us and bragged loudly to his friend about how he was cheating on his wife, sordid details and all. We sat and listened to the cellular soap opera for a minute or two before Tim started again.

"Should we get off and look around somewhere? Maybe the adventure's just out there waiting for us to find it," he offered. I can only imagine how uncomfortable he was with the information we were being force-fed on this guy's love-life, and I was inclined to agree- until another person stepped onto the train.

He was tall; I can't estimate measurements well, but he was certainly six foot at least. His hair was a curious mixture of purple and fire-engine red. I'm going to guess it wasn't natural. He wore a leather jacket over a white shirt and a vest, like a dressy-style vest that one might wear a pocket watch in. His jeans were well worn, with holes here and there, and his shoes were blue Converse, a must-have for the punk rocker of the day. But while he was certainly an interesting figure, that wasn't what drew my attention nearly so much as the guitar he held in his hands.

It was acoustic, cherry wood red in color and looked well-used. The black hard-case he had for it was lying on the seats next to him, open. I assumed it was for donations, as he soon lifted the guitar and began to play.

Now, I love the sound of an acoustic guitar, but this was different. There was something about the music, the chords and notes and quiet thrumming that held my attention in a way I never thought possible. My mind was no longer wondering onto all sorts of thoughts; instead it was fixated on the auditory sensations I was receiving. I was vaguely aware that the irritating cellphone conversation had ceased, which I greatly appreciated as he began to sing, even softer than his guitar playing.

I sat, mesmerized, for the whole song, unable to speak, or move, hardly daring to breathe. The music was all-encompassing, and when it was over, tears jumped to my eyes out of the loss of that sound. I saw Tim wiping his face with a sleeve, and someone who had come aboard during the song was outright weeping. A small voice piped up, "Hey, I missed my stop!" Looking out the window, I realized that we had probably gone four or five stops already, but I get the feeling that most of us on board didn't care all that much.

The man picked up his guitar again, and started in on a new song. Unbidden, my eyes focused on the guitar and I was swept away in emotion and sound once more. He was so amazing as he played, singing this time in Spanish a song that made me think only of new, young love. At least, I think it was Spanish- with lack of skill for languages, it could have been Elvish for all I know.

It felt like days later when the song finished, and I think coming down from that experience was nearest to the hardest thing I've ever done. As I regained my bearings, I realized we were now back in downtown Portland. I don't know what that meant for time, but I saw more people annoyed about missing their stop, though I saw just as many attempting to dry their eyes. I wasn't worried about them; rather, I was feeling despondent about the man packing his guitar up and preparing to depart. Before I knew it, I launched myself down to the middle of the train, though whether to stop him or what, I can't say for sure even to this day.

I caught up to him before he hopped off the train, along with an old woman and the man with the cell-phone. The lady asked, in a voice quivering from old age, or perhaps excitement, "Who are you, young man?"

He smiled. Serene, sincere, sparkling, he smiled at us, and said in a soft voice, "I'm called Jim." Then he stepped off the train, just before the doors closed, and the train started moving again. Jim waved, and began to walk toward Chinatown. At the next stop, four or five people actually disembarked and headed toward Chinatown themselves.

I might have joined them, but Tim, who previous to this had been staring off into space wistfully, came to in time to stop me. "We should get home," he told me softly. And so I stayed.

After that first day, and the marvelous feelings I had felt faded somewhat into my memory, that urge to find Jim didn't return. But I do look for him when I'm riding the MAX trains around, just in case. I think Tim does too. And maybe that's how it's supposed to be.