Bus Chronicle No. 1 -- the 77-Broadway-Halsey

I'm trying to figure a way to work smarter at my job. I'm nowhere near making the kinds of stories I want to make, so I'm trying to figure ways I can become markedly better. To start with, I'm re-reading old journalism narrative guides. The first -- "Stalking the Feature Story" -- urges writers to get in the habit of writing scenes. Not just when you're on a story, but always. To be in the habit of deliberately writing down all details. To paint a scene. I'm especially bad at physical descriptions, so I want to work on that. What do people look like, how do they move, how do they sound, how do they sit still (because, does anyone ever?). To that end, I'm working on a little journalism 101 project -- chronicling my bus rides. Here's my first attempt. It is super light on all those physical descriptions, but I'm just trying to start. It's from two minutes of my ride from the gym to my apartment.

Bus Chronicle No. 1 -- the 77-Broadway-Halsey

The oversized boy could be anywhere between 20 and 40, depending on his growth rate. He has a full mustache, but his skin lacks any wrinkles.

"I don't go out much," he tells the woman next to him. "And if I do, it takes me a while to open up to people."

He's wearing shorts on a 45-degree day. He wears hiking boots and a windbreaker. His teeth aren't any more crooked than anyone's, but they aren't straight either. His hair grows in pointed angled tufts that could go Eraserhead, if only he'd let it shoot.

"She's already my best friend, so I thought ..." he trails off.

"When we go out to dinner, she always pays $5 or $10 more than her half," he says. "She doesn't have to love me, mom. She can just like me."

His mom raises an eyebrow, repositions her purse.

"It's true. Love is unconditional. But you build up to it. I mean, she loves me in a way already."

"She's not very affectionate," he says. "Like, she won't hold my hand, and she doesn't touch people's arms when she talks. But she's friends with all her ex-boyfriends. She's just a really great person."

His mother moves her purse again. Thirty seconds pass.

"I haven't ... yet," he says. "Right now I'm still ... I just wanted to let you know."

Digging like you can bury

Telling me how you're going to outlive your body

Two years ago I lost my best friend. I didn't know I was mad til last night, hearing the news that she wants to go, too. Can't you all just take better care of yourselves, stick around for me?

I still see him everywhere, though. I still think to write him. Anytime something is good or bad or pretty. Even if it's not.

on seeing the 100 percent perfect writer one February evening

I arrive 6:15 for the 7:30 reading, and only a dozen seats remain. I grab a solo at the front, flanked by a middle-aged ladies book club on the left, a couple of college girls on the left. Everyone is wearing boots.

The middle aged ladies say "Tenth of December" will win the National Book Award. The college girls are hatching a plan to take George Saunders out for a drink. The twelve seats are gone by 6:30; the standing room is taken by 7. It's Friday night in the most literate of cities.

A woman nearby says, "I saw him a year and a half ago and only twenty people were here. What happened?"

A college girl says he is just publishing more regularly. She doesn't mention the January New York Times Magazine article that proclaimed three days into 2013 that "Tenth of December" is the best book we'll read all year.

A table is set up for post-reading autographs. On it, there is a bottle of Purel, a box of Kleenex and fifteen pens. A Powells worker says if you go to the bathroom, you cannot come back. He teaches us three times how to make a line. "When the author appears, do not follow your instinct." Do not curve toward Architecture. Go back. Wrap the room. Snake back to the staircase if you must. Don't go the bathroom.

The middle aged ladies say "Lincoln" will win the Oscar. They say, "This sure is a young crowd." The college girls are starstruck when Kevin Sampsell passes.

"Kevin Sampsell," one says. "That. is. Kevin. Sampsell."

I spy with my little eye, six seats down, Cheryl Strayed. The college girls don't notice, but, George Saunders does. He sneaks up through the back stairwell, fresh off an airplane, and takes two steps back when he sees the crowd.

"Cheryl," he says.

George Saunders has a lisp, two bald spots and too-long, boot cut jeans. His cuffs are torn. He plays with the change in his pocket. He looks like a dad, but he is god here. Damn funny, too. He is humble in a way that feels real. Insightful, gracious, silly. He reads thirty minutes in six different voices. He jingles his change. He looks for the first question. Even at capacity, it's hard to find the first ask.

"Who in here has the most sexual energy?" he asks.

The front row of boots-wearing 20-somethings can't help but laugh when a guy raises his hand. The guy is hefty, and he has the exact hairstyle of Larry from The Three Stooges. His glasses aren't plastic frames; his jeans aren't skinny.

Talking is easy after that, though Saunders fumbles with his change the whole time. He talks about his wife, the years he sneaked writing fiction at a day job drafting technical copy. He says we should give in to our native charms. He says he is anxious, but writing is easy now. He has tricks and no TV.

The Powell's employees let a few questions slide past the 8:30 mark. When the line does indeed snake back to the staircase, the college girls give up. Outside, by their bikes, they discuss going for a drink without George Saunders. But what's the use? They're buzzed already.