It was around 7:30 a.m. when I arrived at the King County Metro stop in Seattle, coffee in hand, messenger bag slung across my shoulder. The air was crisp, the sun just rising—and yet, something felt off.
The stop was unusually crowded. A couple of unhoused individuals sat sprawled across the bench, chatting and laughing, while another man—alone and visibly high—stood nearby, swaying slightly. The Transit app on my phone assured me my bus was ten minutes out.
As more people began arriving, one man in particular stood out. He was tall, gaunt, and hacking uncontrollably as he walked toward the stop. People began shifting uncomfortably. I’ve seen it before: riders sick and coughing, climbing aboard like nothing’s wrong. I quietly repositioned myself to give him space, hoping to avoid catching whatever he had.
Then came a strange sound—something between a wheeze and a slurp. It was unnerving. Two women nearby exchanged glances, clearly disturbed, though they tried not to stare. I assumed the noise was related to his cough and brushed it off.
The Transit app now said the bus was just two minutes away. But those two minutes passed, and the bus never showed. I checked the app again. Gone. Just like that, it vanished into the growing list of “ghost buses” that show up in Metro’s systems but never arrive. These phantom rides are no glitch—they’re an ongoing issue that’s become so disruptive even the King County Council has taken notice.
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Frustration started to boil over. On top of the disappearing bus, a strong odor of marijuana started drifting from one of the homeless individuals at the stop. The situation was uncomfortable, and the idea of waiting another 10 or 15 minutes for a bus that might also never show pushed me to leave and walk to the next stop. It was a decent morning, after all.
But as I turned to leave, passing by the coughing man, I finally saw what others had noticed long before me.
He wasn’t just sick. His left cheek was gone—literally. A gaping, open wound exposed his teeth and jaw, covered partially by a stained bandana. The eerie slurping sound? That was him struggling to manage his own saliva through what remained of his face. It was a jarring, grotesque sight—and yet, he moved as if everything were normal, completely detached from the shock he caused.
A City Where ‘Compassion’ Means Turning Away
This man wasn’t a threat. He was clearly unwell, but what stood out was how normal this all felt. No one called for help. No officials showed up. No outreach team arrived. He was just part of the scenery—a symptom of a city that’s redefined “compassion” as indifference.
Once, Seattle’s transit system served as a reliable option for students, office workers, and everyday commuters. Today, it feels more like a mobile snapshot of everything the city has failed to address: untreated illnesses, addiction, homelessness, and the complete erosion of public safety expectations.
We’ve normalized scenes like this. Drug use in broad daylight, people passed out on benches, others yelling at invisible enemies. It’s not just uncomfortable—it’s dangerous. Yet the city’s response seems to be silence, or worse, denial.
Policy Without Accountability
Seattle officials are quick to boast about record spending on homelessness, mental health, and addiction services. Billions have been allocated to solve these issues. But where are the results? Why are our buses filled with people who need urgent medical intervention, not just a free ride?
Meanwhile, the city continues to push “fare enforcement” as a cure-all. But enforcement appears to be either symbolic or nonexistent. Bus drivers radio dispatch when things get out of hand, but until help arrives—if it ever does—commuters are left to fend for themselves.
The people most affected? Working residents who pay full fare and expect a basic level of safety. And the homeless individuals themselves? Left to drift from stop to stop, further lost in a system that has no meaningful intervention in place.
We Don’t Need Less Compassion—We Need Smarter Compassion
This isn’t about criminalizing homelessness. It’s about admitting what’s broken. People with visible medical crises shouldn’t be riding public transit—they should be in care. Drug use in public shouldn’t be tolerated—it should be treated. And the notion that public spaces must absorb every societal failure in the name of “tolerance” is not compassion. It’s abandonment.
Seattle doesn’t lack heart—it lacks leadership. Until city and county officials commit to both accountability and assistance, nothing will change. Outreach without enforcement is useless. Enforcement without services is cruel. But done together, they can restore dignity—for the vulnerable and for everyone else.
Until then, the buses will keep running—sometimes—and each ride will offer a front-row seat to the fallout.
