Humming helicopters through the blades of a fan

Riding the 17 home: This bus is stone-cold quiet most hours, but PSU's classes empty right into the bus every run between noon and 3 p.m. The 1:30 is jostling already with girls comparing shoes and nail polish, girls who will get off at the mall or the parents' homes in Alameda, but the bus driver has something to say, too. "It's time for class," he says. "The bus is moving."

We break into the street and he points to the courthouse. "You want to stop at Main if you're interested in the justice system or if you have business with the justice system," he said. He points out Pioneer Square, and it sounds like he's telling its history, but he has no microphone. He's no match for the churn and exhale of the engine. The next time I can make him out, we're stopped.

"Burnside is a great connector," he said. "You can go to Beaverton or Gresham, but we'll wait here with a view of Northwest Portland."

"And now the bus is moving."

A woman in hijab is face-timing, but she snakes an earphone out from her scarf to hear the man in front of her. He's looking, pointing to her head.

"It's 80 degrees. Aren't you hot?"

"No," she says, then turns back to her phone with an eye roll.

"I'm just saying it's hot," he says.

The college girls talking boys switch to singing to overcome the engine and the lurker. But no landmark goes unmentioned from the front. The grey house bus station and the I-5 overpass are as important as the place where NBA stars shoot. We're two miles from industry, he says. We are above the Willamette River. Six buses cross the intersection of MLK and Broadway, he says, and you can walk to any of them.

The bus is moving.

"We have crossed into Northeast," the driver said. "Everyone has their own preference, but if you're still on this bus, you probably like Northeast. I do, too."

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."