tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16536985844484956012024-03-15T18:09:28.069-07:00From the Driver SideCopyright 2013-2023 By Patrick B. Coomer (RIP Deke N. Blue), a "writer who drives a bus for a living."
Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.comBlogger505125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-37662487181515407222024-03-03T08:09:00.000-08:002024-03-03T08:09:24.052-08:00My Post CRASH Reality<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEija3mvFSjZQpdbYDBWXzlPcjv7UJ2_jmexK11MhKV0L4khOPo2aBtQ-cF33WWNl0psk-Vovnw-NfDcf-6goYjPYkw57JbB4oRGXlPxRl9hDlDrjmTeJ7Np3V36aQ6tWW6oEfuyJ1YysxDHOh7upgOCy2X4JMFzWoAogx-9cWYKMZxTZTEwOOAqxgG9CCcu/s4032/IMG_1758.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEija3mvFSjZQpdbYDBWXzlPcjv7UJ2_jmexK11MhKV0L4khOPo2aBtQ-cF33WWNl0psk-Vovnw-NfDcf-6goYjPYkw57JbB4oRGXlPxRl9hDlDrjmTeJ7Np3V36aQ6tWW6oEfuyJ1YysxDHOh7upgOCy2X4JMFzWoAogx-9cWYKMZxTZTEwOOAqxgG9CCcu/w300-h400/IMG_1758.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Deke’s Note:<i> While waiting for my 12yo computer to return from its constant state of electronic senility, the cellphone (damn habit-forming device) takes hold of this post’s epiphany. So many ideas swarm around within as I drive the Beast it seems silly to remember them all. Here’s yet another attempt to recoup these ideas.</i></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Over the last three years, having endured a pandemic-inspired shutdown whilst driving through it, I’ve witnessed a horrific breakdown in sanity amongst fellow motorists.</p><p>Not enough cops = "screw y'all I'll do what I want." </p><p>Yeah, okay dumbasses. Your number is coming faster than you're smart enough to realize. Take too many needless chances and fate is likely to catch up wit ya. One such fool decided to race through a red light at Burnside & 6th Avenue downtown Portland one rush hour late last year, and he almost lost his life. Only his lucky stars prevented my bus from crushing him through the passenger side of his Honda as he raced through an intersection a full 5-7 seconds after his light had turned solid RED.</p><p>BANG! SMASH! WTF?!?</p><p></p><p>EVERY motorist needs a refresher course every decade. People skid from being ultra careful to overly carefree and phone-stoned. It's imperative that you realize RED means STOP. </p><p>The lack of attention out there is appalling. It's as if we've morphed from a society that looks out for one another to one that focuses on "individual freedom" much too dangerously. Your life, and others', is at stake out there, people. It's not a fucking video game. It's REAL.</p><p>At any intersection: PREPARE TO STOP. A fresh green means look both ways for idiots who believe a lack of oversight allow you to put others' lives in danger, THEN proceed. You stupid fuck. This is exactly how people get killed every minute of each day: YOUR inattention and indifference to the safety of everyone around your supposed invisibility.</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><blockquote style="text-align: center;"><i>SAFETY IS A TWO-WAY STREET. </i></blockquote><p></p><p>When I left the bus stop on the transit mall at 6th and Burnside, I saw eastbound traffic on my left had dutifully stopped for the red light. As I proceeded through the intersection I noted the eastbound traffic had dutifully stopped. Westbound 2/3 lanes of traffic on my doorside had stopped. So I proceeded across that tricky intersection, now focused on errant pedestrians.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicANtCIaanrbKGerQD8TL01negHBCgZoepAY8PNO-bdLFBb4xOlwc4COz_85khPLb7ubdlbmA7FWhmRtc3e9RSJYvwzFO1SRBrHi2bK5iySDyTrj1iTzc0NixNU3_SMcp5d8ZWg3hq2Ll1XSZG0ZZezQjchwE-58Y12icTW51lV1saM1GPxLtFPzThcysV/s4032/IMG_3673.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicANtCIaanrbKGerQD8TL01negHBCgZoepAY8PNO-bdLFBb4xOlwc4COz_85khPLb7ubdlbmA7FWhmRtc3e9RSJYvwzFO1SRBrHi2bK5iySDyTrj1iTzc0NixNU3_SMcp5d8ZWg3hq2Ll1XSZG0ZZezQjchwE-58Y12icTW51lV1saM1GPxLtFPzThcysV/s320/IMG_3673.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Somehow, one, single-minded (or likely phone- or pot- or booze-stoned fool) ignoramus suddenly caught my peripheral vision immediately prior to his zipping in front of my lumbering 20-ton Beast. </p><p>CRASH! SLAM! WHAT THE...?!?</p><p>It happened so fast. Simultaneously, in slow-mo. I did not see the driver as we collided. Pulled the parking brake and put the tranny in neutral out of ritualistic habit. Seconds rushed by as I slowly realized <i>my bus had collided with another vehicle</i>. Shock set in. In 50 years of legal (and a few illegal) operation of motor vehicles of many varieties, this was the <i>first</i> <i>time</i> I had impacted another vehicle. It was all at once a horrific, life-changing event for me. A single moment in time that will live forever within me, etched forever into the fabric of my being.</p><p>Meanwhile, my seven passengers simply looked up from their phones after the BANG, saying "What was <i>that</i>?!?"</p><p>My first thought was for my passengers.</p><p>"Are y'all okay?"</p><p>A murmured chorus of "yeah". Then constantly, from <i>them,</i> as I walked into their midst, "Are YOU okay?" Yeah, yes, and yeah again. So I thought, anyway. </p><p>This subdued concern was both disturbing and comforting all the same. Over the past decade our populace has morphed from conscious to phone-stoned. We're lucky to be slightly acknowledged as people board, let alone <i>noticed</i>. They settle into their favorite seats, plug in and tune out. Most passengers have a built-in alarm to their stop. Neither noticing or seeming to care what their Operator deals with on the path to their destination, they are blissfully unaware to the many near-disasters we avoid while I safely conduct them to their destination. Their immediate reality, the joy of life we once celebrated pre-cellphone, is replaced with what strangers beg us all to "like". Meanwhile, a beautiful Portland and its fascinating populace beckons just a slight right or leftward glance from their immediate notice.</p><p>As I sat in the aftermath of the collision, my mind reeled. Did I do the right thing? <i>Right</i> as defined by that which my job is judged, how the Accident Review Committee views my actions up to and during the crash. I hoped in that decisive moment, my actions hence would not define my career.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIgiyonX7sZSlJbOC48fzfD_8pRW9qFUAPtTh5KM2habcxJuyigkCC9ipHITjX4lhD2ojJCQV5H5WvPyQ5FdgmAawy7kZYZwgUEKZF20x4qPKAbrpcyUaC-Asy4SiJ0LN7SrkhNew0HjMqOZgW8rr8S_RjcljQPl0MOW3CJPShQIiTtKRbme1FNB9_zKgK/s4032/IMG_1700.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIgiyonX7sZSlJbOC48fzfD_8pRW9qFUAPtTh5KM2habcxJuyigkCC9ipHITjX4lhD2ojJCQV5H5WvPyQ5FdgmAawy7kZYZwgUEKZF20x4qPKAbrpcyUaC-Asy4SiJ0LN7SrkhNew0HjMqOZgW8rr8S_RjcljQPl0MOW3CJPShQIiTtKRbme1FNB9_zKgK/w300-h400/IMG_1700.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The first several days after the collision, it replayed in my mind as a pre-programmed rerun reel every few seconds. <p></p><p><b>FLASH! CRASH! FLASH! CRASH! BANG! BANG! CRASH! FLASH!</b></p><p><i>Over and over again.</i> I could not escape it. Even while driving my car, I had to fight my subconscious from running this unwanted newsreel on constant replay. My dreams showed bloodied carcasses of the other motorist, even my own corpse in a casket (not my choice of a farewell scenario). It took the caring professional concern and wise guidance of my constant support system, via my Beloved and a professional counselor, to steer me away from these horrific flashbacks. Realizing it was my first collision in over a half-century of driving many different types of vehicles helped boost my confidence enough to regain the seat of my 20-ton behemoth.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * * </b></p><p>It has been nine weeks since the crash. I have worked on this post sporadically since then.The memory of it still evokes a frightening reminder of how vulnerable my fellow motorists are to their own frailties. I hit that car with the equivalent of 200 tons of mass at 10mphX40k. I often wonder if the recipient who refused medical treatment at the scene escaped permanent injury. Meanwhile, the Accident Review Committee has thoroughly investigated my actions and deemed it an "Incident". Not a "Preventable Accident", as I imagined it would be. The difference between the two exonerates me of ANY wrongdoing. While it's a major sigh of relief, it has also quadrupled my vigilance "out there". This experience has taught me <i>that</i> guy was lucky, and that I need to be constantly aware at ALL intersections, not just THAT one.</p><p>For weeks after writing that incident report, self-doubt shaded my every move on duty. Did I do everything <i>possible</i> to avoid that collision? Did I miss a scan? How could I have possibly avoided that collision? My confidence was momentarily shattered. Over 50 years of driving, heeding my father's gentle yet intense training, I had avoided colliding with another vehicle. I was alternately depressed, frightened and largely freaked out after doing so in such a deadly carrier of forceful mass. </p><p>Today, I'm back to normal, whatever <i>that</i> is. Workers Comp "denied" my claim because they decided I wasn't "injured". They're wrong. My psyche is forever altered. The first front-end collision in my 50 years of driving ANY vehicle left me shaken, battered and bruised. The resulting medical exams revealed I have suffered an arthritic spine and hip after 11.33 years on the job. The psychological impact alone is one I shoulder each day I clamber into the driver side. Evidently, a psychological impact means <i>nothing</i> to Corvel or therefore my employer. We're just cogs in the wheel, not meant to feel any impact that we feel due to another's misdeeds.</p><p>This is yet another "incident" of transit management's disregard for its supposed "family". Since the collision, I have only heard from my Assistant Manager ONCE, via voicemail. My return call was never returned. After meeting with our GM soon after he assumed that mantle, he postponed our follow-up so long I lost interest and denied him when he finally reached out to schedule. Even my former supposed ally who is now in the upper echelon of management has totally abandoned me.</p><p>March 18 is Bus Operator Appreciation Day. Given management's continued ignorance of a full-third of its workforce, I'm glad it's my Regular Day Off. Once the sun goes down, management's concern for its workforce is no longer on duty. The night shift is left out of every celebration. Only wilted leftovers greet those whose end-of-shift comes after banker's hours. It's okay; we're used to it. Some things never change. Upper management has its own concerns, and they don't include us. Our union leadership doesn't care either, evidently. We only hear from it via a monthly newsletter, even though it has several online mediums which it regularly ignores.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt1LcLC-U1-NlR8imGTuswN0sog4EQ0Fbj1hDSw_HLrUewA-jHcARVjhuq7lIQInF1K4CFPpjcNkhjN76cbYaVjy-2J-gv6VAsnI3K3h_YxkMz733jgDrCtM2a-dpQezZu-vc-7mGkqo4D3wn3Lfu8M-a7fLa8EH04KYjsIpeS4K44GachjMSLRsj8Pfp/s2048/IMG_1675.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1602" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt1LcLC-U1-NlR8imGTuswN0sog4EQ0Fbj1hDSw_HLrUewA-jHcARVjhuq7lIQInF1K4CFPpjcNkhjN76cbYaVjy-2J-gv6VAsnI3K3h_YxkMz733jgDrCtM2a-dpQezZu-vc-7mGkqo4D3wn3Lfu8M-a7fLa8EH04KYjsIpeS4K44GachjMSLRsj8Pfp/s320/IMG_1675.jpeg" width="250" /></a><b></b>So here I go, day in and out. I meet my bus on time as it rolls to a stop. Without fanfare or even a nod from the passengers as I assume the position. Appreciation, my ass.</p><p>Just roll, son. That's what I do. <i>Safely</i>, and 90% on time. For whatever <i>that's</i> worth. To me, it's a big deal. Not noticeably appreciated except by the passenger who thanks me on their way out the door, while those who make it their slogan to call us "family" largely ignore us.</p><p>I delivered my load safely to its destination. That's all I care about, and you're welcome.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-66996828831747915592024-01-21T06:44:00.000-08:002024-01-21T06:45:36.608-08:00Lucky Icy Weekend At Home with Family!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><b style="text-align: left;">Author's Note: <i>I just ended another Silver Thaw Week as a Bus Operator in Portland, Oregon. While fellow ops throughout the world have endured worse, as have I in years past, this one was especially brutal. As the years pile on (11+ now post 50-years of age), my body reacts a bit more defiantly each time.</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><b style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></b></div><b><i><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAuUQ7PKspsHYX3pQZLGpn3ICbIj-zn0oVnTQODUWiR_v0j6X8374gdfXOJDRUGfwQoPMi68XvPgHJe2sMrW4KH-fhi9UGpZJQlYC5ZzhyfdATVxJ5uY7lt2DSh1O71kbp8Xa6J54R002zl43w2-b7L41pEt_OU3eDSb5ZyoPsgIxynhFZPhwVTh095o9/s4032/IMG_4634.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAuUQ7PKspsHYX3pQZLGpn3ICbIj-zn0oVnTQODUWiR_v0j6X8374gdfXOJDRUGfwQoPMi68XvPgHJe2sMrW4KH-fhi9UGpZJQlYC5ZzhyfdATVxJ5uY7lt2DSh1O71kbp8Xa6J54R002zl43w2-b7L41pEt_OU3eDSb5ZyoPsgIxynhFZPhwVTh095o9/w300-h400/IMG_4634.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Three Brothers and my son</i></td></tr></tbody></table></i></b><p></p><p>Luckily, my brothers and I planned our post Lil-Bro funeral reunion months ago. While I realized January is a risky month to plan visits, I hoped Mother Nature would cooperate. She did, to a point. My trip to (and from) PDX Airport went smoothly thanks to our weather nerds missing the mark by a full half-day. Traffic at rush hour was surrealistically light traffic-wise, with light rain in spots, no ice. It was great reuniting with my surviving brothers John and Bill. I eased onto the I-205 with once again, light traffic and typical winter weather. </p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbwJaCpZmqGB9XDu9GFPKeFyEeYhPUXoG4Y-Sls9nM236udq5c6jnOmEBUP6QG2XaPkvrv1_h6gUXjrRGQmFmPemIjeo92r4UGT3aR6_5GQhZVTxuYARaduItnibOqT96ztaE8uHpb7p2cHldOHXfA2at8GyfVCYfthO20iGu5NWPrOgwJ5ekwzu1DOp8/s3088/IMG_2598.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbwJaCpZmqGB9XDu9GFPKeFyEeYhPUXoG4Y-Sls9nM236udq5c6jnOmEBUP6QG2XaPkvrv1_h6gUXjrRGQmFmPemIjeo92r4UGT3aR6_5GQhZVTxuYARaduItnibOqT96ztaE8uHpb7p2cHldOHXfA2at8GyfVCYfthO20iGu5NWPrOgwJ5ekwzu1DOp8/w320-h240/IMG_2598.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Settling the bros into their rooms, we ate a wonderfully-delectable chicken soup prepared by Beloved. She boiled down a chicken carcass the day before, which provided a rich broth into which the next day more chicken, veggies, meatballs and a decades-long recipe enveloped our warm home with an aroma one cannot adequately describe. It was this homey atmosphere which welcomed my dear brothers. We enjoyed a toast to our departed loved ones, mostly Lil Bro Dan'l. Then we feasted. Later, the elders retired outside to enjoy their cigars. While I once would have joined them in this, I simply sat with them as they puffed. It's been nearly four years since I smoked my last cigarette, so I decided against lighting up. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlB-sNJmgBJzfX4L1j-VRBPL1Q6Tqn_L_SxlqcgLUpDj47dkpZ_qws9YnNjNvXnNDuMFjGDZZr5gUwvS8sl9H6kRwiT0VBnxojTUaN8_cIpvQR_m0gNza8BBQUFI-U125IVxwxIzptlmpodod0yi481ecxQft3YM_VQI4hiNlJxsQ7g57ZS0qjhW5w8VO/s3088/IMG_2641.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlB-sNJmgBJzfX4L1j-VRBPL1Q6Tqn_L_SxlqcgLUpDj47dkpZ_qws9YnNjNvXnNDuMFjGDZZr5gUwvS8sl9H6kRwiT0VBnxojTUaN8_cIpvQR_m0gNza8BBQUFI-U125IVxwxIzptlmpodod0yi481ecxQft3YM_VQI4hiNlJxsQ7g57ZS0qjhW5w8VO/w150-h200/IMG_2641.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div><p></p><p>The next day began Portland's 2024 Silver Thaw. A brittle East Wind sent a blanket of ice pellets to the ground. A brutally-cold air mass settled into the Willamette Valley with warmer air above, creating a 17-degree ice storm with single-digit wind chill. Like Dad would have, we layered up and ventured outdoors to walk three blocks to a local pub for to add to our collective chubs. After filling our <i>pansas</i>, we ventured another two icy blocks to a bar for to enjoy a few more warm toasts.</p><p>We were homebound pretty much their entire stay due to hazardous conditions. Luckily, my son drove his family to visit in their 4x4 Jeep and the "Gruncas" were able to meet our Mila Rose, who turns a year old this coming week. She was not wholly receptive to "old guys who resemble her Grampy", but warmed up enough to tolerate their presence. Mila even took a few wobbly steps to impress us all. Watching my brothers get down on the floor as to not intimidate her with their tall bodies was precious. At this level, she was more comfortable in their presence. </p><p>Given a relatively-light road danger, we ventured out two nights to enjoy meals at pubs which bravely endured the weather to remain open. The meals were unfortunately riddled with phone gazing and little banter. I mourn the days when we spent more time picking on each other than gazing at screens. However, just having my brothers (and son and Beloved) there was comforting. We're all we have left, and I pray we're able to do so many times more before we Old Farts roam into the family history into which three of us have passed.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJr-qSkmEZ0xzxWzsnmrjQIVR1eFmW0lm5ePc-DKpBsw5LJlLKWx__0OyeSvUr1OJdvIG9Kx9UEL7n4FmT0LYQhkitFxwNnTaflTx959UI0ancvEjmK-FHc59qnYC3bNeOwNBQIKI6R59JM0i1jB2l2RpIGNYYKuNTglXIQcRRDojsti1jAAez8QANLlMj/s4032/IMG_4629.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJr-qSkmEZ0xzxWzsnmrjQIVR1eFmW0lm5ePc-DKpBsw5LJlLKWx__0OyeSvUr1OJdvIG9Kx9UEL7n4FmT0LYQhkitFxwNnTaflTx959UI0ancvEjmK-FHc59qnYC3bNeOwNBQIKI6R59JM0i1jB2l2RpIGNYYKuNTglXIQcRRDojsti1jAAez8QANLlMj/w150-h200/IMG_4629.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Getting back to driving a bus during a Portland Silver Thaw will have to wait until the next post. It took an hour to get this aging computer logged in/updated/awakened enough to put in my picks for the next signup. I'm high enough (top 25%) to basically get what I ask. Except for Chuck, my classmate and ONE above me in seniority who happens to love the Line I drive, I'm pretty much guaranteed to get what I want. Except, of course, when they change the runs each time as they often do. Chuck gets the juiciest runs and I get his leftovers. Lucky fuck, he reached into the hat when we were newbies selecting our pecking order and plucked out ONE number higher than I did. Oh well, that's transit seniority... you get what you do, it is what it is. I love him just the same as all my other brothers and sisters of the road.</p><p>More later. Meanwhile, I'm exhausted from riding hard chains all week. Vibration, noise and 25mph over 55 hours tend to send my body into spasms of pain. Even Scotch wasn't able to ease it. Time to sleep deeply on my back and without alarm. Ahh... Friday at last.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuyu5CjgpSu8iEUvVW_x-ILHUsI0VZcogG1SAFV_k_m7m39uyQ_E6q4EdGEoXsGPNDQa7_SMp16x9xTpVHHQkqEFwRdeyvfoLO3oxLvyBnlAYObbSqXlRJxvvRTekf58F0TDXPeWS_rcMUdJhLOetUm0tYxvJRvRZ5ASKGBqUCnkxLlPcRINrCxpEKJtl/s4032/IMG_2662.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuyu5CjgpSu8iEUvVW_x-ILHUsI0VZcogG1SAFV_k_m7m39uyQ_E6q4EdGEoXsGPNDQa7_SMp16x9xTpVHHQkqEFwRdeyvfoLO3oxLvyBnlAYObbSqXlRJxvvRTekf58F0TDXPeWS_rcMUdJhLOetUm0tYxvJRvRZ5ASKGBqUCnkxLlPcRINrCxpEKJtl/w400-h300/IMG_2662.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The aftermath, my Monday. Slip-slidin' away.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-18356063709143400922024-01-14T03:05:00.000-08:002024-01-14T04:02:18.530-08:00All You Need is L-O-V-E<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGA7XgyvdggWvW4TRNsg2_OptE0-cbT8fxuL6N4UugwVf9GE0b3buK-jF8JeLbyIP92Okiqz7wpWXJywDFNCw5E0AMLLn4-Hik8MOW69Ods9J8nAUUGcsq7Ea8V4tRnikMAByGpRNkMIvNJaC6gis3Y7SgYI7lwG09ICu02uqfN1scfFwAttE68vAmtvdO/s2286/IMG_0884.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1909" data-original-width="2286" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGA7XgyvdggWvW4TRNsg2_OptE0-cbT8fxuL6N4UugwVf9GE0b3buK-jF8JeLbyIP92Okiqz7wpWXJywDFNCw5E0AMLLn4-Hik8MOW69Ods9J8nAUUGcsq7Ea8V4tRnikMAByGpRNkMIvNJaC6gis3Y7SgYI7lwG09ICu02uqfN1scfFwAttE68vAmtvdO/w400-h334/IMG_0884.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><b><i></i></b></p><p><b>Deke's Note: </b><b><i>They're all asleep now. Beloved Stacers, John & Bill</i></b><b><i>, Baby Mila Rose, her mama and papa. How am I still awake? Sheer willpower plus the fact I work the late shift. I'm always UP this time of night. The wee hours are when I write to YOU. It's my self-therapy. Today is uplifting to me and I wanted to share it with you. This post begins with a song which registered early for me on the radio, and rings true for all those within my loving arms. Although perhaps TMI, it's one I sing in the shower.</i></b></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>L - is for the way you look at me</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>O - is for the only one I see</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>V - is very, very extraordinary</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>E - is even more than anyone that you adore</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>(LOVE, sung by Nat King Cole, 1964)</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Great timing, bros. I put in for these two days a month ago. I didn't know the weather would be so bad then, but predictably, Portland skewed the forecast by at least a smidge. <i>Mis hermanos </i>arrived at rush hour Friday when the weather was predicted to be horrendously <i>blizzardy</i>. But as usual, the weather dudes were off about 12 hours. Regardless, I left home early expecting the roads to be packed and likely impassable. Wrong on both counts. Traffic was light and there was zero precipitation. I glided into PDX early, without the slightest turbulence, to gather my two remaining brothers (we were once four, RIP Daniel).</p><p>It has been both a lively and also blissful reunion. We haven't seen each other since Dan's funeral. We spend time reliving our childhood stories and adventures. It's fascinating to me because my older brothers have a different perspective. They cringe when I remind them of things they would rather not recall, as I do when they turn the tables. It's still a wonderful moment to come together. Bill corrected my cloudy recollections of Mom's ancestry while John sat back and (as usual) just enjoyed himself telling stories. Each interacted with my granddaughter, as Great Uncles ought. One of <i>mis hermanos</i> will return with his family in March so his son can meet cousin Mila Rose. We eagerly await our nephew and his mama, with whom we have spent too little time with. They have scheduled a family visit in March.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPot1iBEy-OsdjSdGFBPTJaC1Kq-kWlsQE6vzLfsNUIwgtkbdkcB1hR9ettWxafvui0FioU2QsM-2NgS0XSwWuvYM3F-TiSRtqvcTcXgSzRfSOMDyoD8Q9nORAtAqh8NUsAAG46L6427SU5iQbaJKHkcD6BpNRrDqrCn2eYE-mZtoaL69eDt0eD02tf2ht/s3088/IMG_2616.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPot1iBEy-OsdjSdGFBPTJaC1Kq-kWlsQE6vzLfsNUIwgtkbdkcB1hR9ettWxafvui0FioU2QsM-2NgS0XSwWuvYM3F-TiSRtqvcTcXgSzRfSOMDyoD8Q9nORAtAqh8NUsAAG46L6427SU5iQbaJKHkcD6BpNRrDqrCn2eYE-mZtoaL69eDt0eD02tf2ht/s320/IMG_2616.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Amo a mis hermanos, John and Bill</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Moments like this are exceedingly short. We are contemplating the golden age of our lives, aware of how precious this weekend is. Time wisps past as quickly as this weekend's snowy winds. One of us has already gained his Heavenly reward, as have our parents, uncles and countless friends. Each of us is more acutely aware how vital it is to come together, as often as possible.<p></p><p>My message gleaned from our visit thus far is to enjoy all my loved ones. My brothers and I now laugh at our own embarrassing moments just as we sometimes teased our parents for their gaffes at our current ages. We laugh, sometimes tear up, when our collectively most difficult moments are recalled. It is still cathartic, bringing shared memories together while reinforcing this strange force of brotherly love. It is a bond we are lucky to still have, one I hope lingers for decades.</p><p>As you read this, hopefully you can relate. It's <i>life</i>, spelled out and starkly illustrated. However either of us may have sinned against each other, we forgave the other long ago. It's all meaningless detritus flowing past the bridge of time, billions of particles both sad and happy mingling together in a fast-moving journey to infinity. It is a bond harder to break than two hydrogens and one oxygen in a river rushing hellbent for eternity.</p><p>Yesterday we trudged through the icy wind and snow two blocks away to enjoy Happy Hour together. The 17-degree weather buoyed our hunger onward into a boisterous pub with great food and drink. After, we continued on foot another two blocks into a bar where we further warmed ourselves.</p><h3><i>"It brought us close together, and I guess it broke our hearts. It opened up a space for us to be..." </i>(thanks John Denver)</h3><h3><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihokW0zYX_PlVgx4iV0qFz9HjPbXsGQv-tKJl5RJtKhyphenhyphenrJspB-j8_doGRS1NSYsJ5x3rrOBzbQTYCU4DT-5eIQGVOf4a7RLKwPuqrIiY_3gZHvj8tyEw-AkIXiCEhSsCNmCasnnRKO7dWwDfX7L0TmBz7zYWlIRo5od1REW12GKvAYggmTYJtRih3UOhfR/s1600/image000000.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihokW0zYX_PlVgx4iV0qFz9HjPbXsGQv-tKJl5RJtKhyphenhyphenrJspB-j8_doGRS1NSYsJ5x3rrOBzbQTYCU4DT-5eIQGVOf4a7RLKwPuqrIiY_3gZHvj8tyEw-AkIXiCEhSsCNmCasnnRKO7dWwDfX7L0TmBz7zYWlIRo5od1REW12GKvAYggmTYJtRih3UOhfR/s320/image000000.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Munchies and booze at a local pub we walked to</i></td></tr></tbody></table></h3><p></p><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div></b><div>My own health scares me today. While I constantly pray I not yet leave my beloveds behind, certain factors both hereditary and personal have me worried. We all wish for a long and healthy slide into the next dimension of life. However, I am faced with immediate lifestyle changes which may (or may not, given the line of work I'm in) extend this life further than my current medical future foretells.<p></p><p>There are many goals I have yet to accomplish, both personal and creative. I want to build a dollhouse for Mila Rose, preferably completing it long before the one I built for my daughter. There are three novels I began but have yet to complete, each of which I am excited to write their climax. While their publication might not excite the masses and bring financial success, it's the completion of each which I will cherish given a lifelong trait of procrastination.</p><p>Most of all, this aging bus operator simply wishes the best for my beloveds. I have two remaining brothers I love dearly, and the memories of a lifetime with Dan and our parents. Beloved and I have three accomplished children together and two incredible grandchildren whom we celebrate every moment. My nephews and their children are constantly ringing joy within my soul. They may not realize it today, but someday in the future each will be able to say with confidence: "/Papa/Grampy/Unca/Grunca Patrick <i>loved </i>and believed in me <i>wholly</i>". That is all that will matter when my earthly carcass becomes food for a tree in a (hopefully) distant place.</p><p>Peace be with you, dear readers. Celebrate your loved ones, and revel in the immediate happiness you share. Forgive and forget easily; you never know which moment together could be your last. Be safe and may peace and joy follow your every step forward.</p><p>With love,</p><p>DiB</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpB9YsfdorfthUxzwbVS_ImTzWdnxPM4Y2vm39c7mBg1bjAnNkvBeGZ6BVI-iJVNksIJq3VFge-G6tAXVZtn8WkLQ5yUv9-VL3d_Bcjzxz-90Q7T4ZD6vHgOg6Rq_5FOY-fE5VkShEZI8mDqyhWcnNyQPo8HvHe9PgH0WScYAopvwtM4ZBurJdzRhHDG3n/s4032/IMG_2624.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpB9YsfdorfthUxzwbVS_ImTzWdnxPM4Y2vm39c7mBg1bjAnNkvBeGZ6BVI-iJVNksIJq3VFge-G6tAXVZtn8WkLQ5yUv9-VL3d_Bcjzxz-90Q7T4ZD6vHgOg6Rq_5FOY-fE5VkShEZI8mDqyhWcnNyQPo8HvHe9PgH0WScYAopvwtM4ZBurJdzRhHDG3n/w400-h300/IMG_2624.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Thanks Neighbor Pat, you ornery rascal,<br />for shoveling our way home.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-68786009942841183162024-01-03T04:52:00.000-08:002024-01-03T04:52:09.752-08:00Back in the Saddle (Ever) Again?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS3rRafZcosqs50DdZK8yABQ-70xDv5mPrdWURcDnTHg_F2PUMS3TxqSCfT3TzSjCa8mYQsvbQ11C5GaRwRNaAV9FQaOyKVz94cebA-xDMUKrgqlEUw_IE3q2zvAPLD6_7QmMW5bVzN9fI7Tt_-z78FxvT1Hm9PTHNghi8MaZdGfwxEil49mA0LoxQjftj/s2560/20140721_125816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS3rRafZcosqs50DdZK8yABQ-70xDv5mPrdWURcDnTHg_F2PUMS3TxqSCfT3TzSjCa8mYQsvbQ11C5GaRwRNaAV9FQaOyKVz94cebA-xDMUKrgqlEUw_IE3q2zvAPLD6_7QmMW5bVzN9fI7Tt_-z78FxvT1Hm9PTHNghi8MaZdGfwxEil49mA0LoxQjftj/w225-h400/20140721_125816.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />I’m trying to figure out how I can make it back into the seat.<p></p><p>“Write what happened,” a sister said. “Print it out, then burn it.”</p><p>Supposedly this method will rid me of the stress and fear. The damage done, the fucking grief.</p><p>I am a writer. Wrote a blog post about what happened and how I feel. Can’t post it for legal reasons. Unable to burn it either.</p><p>My body has rebelled against returning. Physically ill. Exhausted, then insomniac. Nightmares. Flashbacks galore. Confidence shattered. Bathroom blues.</p><p>Refuse to medicate with <i>uisge beatha</i> for it doesn’t erase the problem, only accentuates it. Compounds it, pushing it deep below instead of to the surface where it hopefully will exit.</p><p>Eventually I will get back into the “office”. They say to “take all the time” necessary to heal. I wonder when it will happen, or how much time before my employer demands my return.</p><p>Male hormones scream at me to “man UP!” Then the constantly playing rerun queues up. Again, constantly, relentless in its insistence of never being forgotten.</p><p>Ugh! The plague of self doubt is real, and currently winning. I must win this battle, then the war.</p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-43573700928163463152023-10-31T04:50:00.003-07:002023-11-01T01:55:51.242-07:00A Bus Operator's Halloween Story<p><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-size: 14px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZs6KZQzFXTLg5h0PssQMoutPJDzCvwXTu_Hzk0ePy3SIo9ZCGJETi8YPyyE5uaqVJEuj1N4X8dYqt2wUmFEKsXtDYviHdx2EB7mbkoy2BKyG4WDwBK0pNgZT_7UvKNiCh0tjPICROFMSGzSg6nwPpDau5hXKkSaSvoyLI9y3hD7ecf_DWCk443jeOt1R/s2560/20140531_223737.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZs6KZQzFXTLg5h0PssQMoutPJDzCvwXTu_Hzk0ePy3SIo9ZCGJETi8YPyyE5uaqVJEuj1N4X8dYqt2wUmFEKsXtDYviHdx2EB7mbkoy2BKyG4WDwBK0pNgZT_7UvKNiCh0tjPICROFMSGzSg6nwPpDau5hXKkSaSvoyLI9y3hD7ecf_DWCk443jeOt1R/w640-h360/20140531_223737.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-size: 14px;"><b>Author's Note: <i>I began writing this story on a layover one afternoon last month. The idea for a story struck me as I drove my 35, so I just had to start writing it. The majority of it was written on my phone in the Notes app, a paragraph or two at a time just before I nodded into dreamland. Promising myself to finish it for Halloween, I finally did just a few minutes ago. Critics may assail this clumsy offering to the genre of horror, but fuck 'em. I'm happy with it. One idea morphed into a whole story. It was fun writing it! Hopefully, it scares you shitless on this spooky eve. It scared me just editing it, mostly the realization that I could write such grisly shit. Happy Reading, and Happy Halloween.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-size: 14px;"><b>* * * * *</b></span></p><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-size: 14px;"><b>Grizzy's Bus</b></span></h2><p><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-size: 14px;">Empty bus, cool foggy drizzly night in Portland’s Northwest. It’s a week prior to Halloween, a few minutes before midnight. Few venture out this Tuesday, except for the unfortunate who have nowhere warm and dry to be.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Drugged out miscreant Dusty of a sordid history approaches a bus long after its final departure time. Interior lights off. He tries rubbing fog off glass on back door, looks inside. Completely dark. Empty blackness. No seats, nothing but <i>nothing</i> inside, only a translucent blue mist floating within.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Bus fart. Air tanks expelling excess, a completely common occurrence. This time, it sounds <i>hungry</i>.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Dusty the bedraggled jumps and leans backwards to look toward the back end of the bus. Swirling mist coming from there engulfs him, luring him closer with a favorite childhood scent of pumpkin bread. He sways to the rhythm of a mysterious humming. Bus rocks begins gently rocking side-to-side.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Hungry</i>.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">A pair of blue lights shine out toward him from the operator’s seat. Just as he realizes these are eyes,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>hypnotizing him, the door slams open, smacking his head. He’s pulled in by an invisible force and he screams, fighting whatever has grabbed him. The door slams shut, lights come full on. Dusty sees the “operator” and howls in terror.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She’s a full skeleton morphing weirdly human into an even more horrifying human countenance and back to sheer ugliness. She smiles. Eyes hypnotizing her victim, she jerks her head backward and Dusty is pushed into the empty darkness where his fate eagerly awaits.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Bus shakes violently, up and down, sideways. C<i>hewing</i>. Moans, metal grinding within screams ending with a wolves howling, then echoing into sheer silence.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Another bus fart, long and loud, blue mist enveloping the entire bus. Shaking stops, mist disappears. So has the bus, and its victim.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Bus appears out of a fog bank, rolls down the mostly deserted street. Slows to a stop. Beeping as it lowers. Door opens, a bloody bundle of bones and blood catapults from the ramp onto the lawn of an abandoned house beyond the bus stop.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Seconds later, the bus emits what sounds like a belch, then the final body part pops out of the door. Flames rush through the doorway. Doors close, smoldering through the blue mist. Smell of sulfur and incinerated human. Bus disappears as the air clears.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“What the…?” Mark Shifler mumbles, watching from a block away. He’s been summoned by Rocky the mutt for a late night potty call but dog only whines; his master is the only one who has pissed. Knees shaking, Mark shuffles toward the scene, shaking his head to clear his mind in hopes this is a nightmare.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">A humerus sticks out from an overgrown rhododendron, various other bones still halfway covered with smoldering burnt flesh litter the pathway to the front door. In his shock he doesn’t sense the stench. A burning hand falls on his head and he screams, frantically swiping it off him and patting out the flames in his hair. Stumbling, he grabs the decorative yard lamppost to catch his balance. Holding on, he slides slowly down to his butt, looking up. His mouth forms a scream but no sound erupts.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Precisely impaled on the bus stop pole, Dusty’s head gapes down at him. Mouth frozen in his final scream, his half-severed tongue protrudes from a dangling jaw, dripping blood onto Mark’s face.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">A car approaches, then stops, driver staring open-mouthed. Mark raises his hand, and lady rushes over to him, eyes fixed on his bloody forehead and singed hair. She either ignores or fails to notice the horrific scene beyond and above.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Help him,” Mark manages to whisper.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Well I don’t know who `he’ is,” she says, “but what happened to you?”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She wipes blood out of Mark’s eyes and off his forehead and looks for injuries, finding nothing but a scalp cut. He brushes her hands off him and points up at the lamppost above.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“<i>Him</i>, not me!”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She stares at Mark a moment, his upward stare alarming her. She slowly looks up. Screaming at the sight, she jumps up and backs away, stopped by her still-running car. Leaning against it she continues shrieking, hands cupping her cheeks, unable to stop staring.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Lights come on next door and across the street nearly simultaneously. People in pajamas run up. more screaming. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Mark’s shoulders hunch upward, his face contorted in agony. Nobody sees the only eyewitness die. They’re all transfixed by the grisly scene in the yard beyond.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Griswoldene is ecstatic. Se escaped hell, now she’s creating nightmares in this, her “special” transit vehicle, for those who tormented her in life. Or, like this time, just for the <i>hell</i> of it. She’s eagerly awaiting her next victim, salivating at the prospect of making him suffer even worse than the hapless Dusty just did. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Much happier in death, her mind <i>thinks</i> something evil and this bus acts it out. It’s not a hunger, since she no longer needs calories. It’s rather a quest for bloody mayhem. It’s new and exciting, and each new <i>slayventure</i> strengthens her. The bus and her companions are teaching her how to exact terror. She thrives on it.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Upon her arrival in hell, she attacked Satan’s minions so savagely they begged him not to admit her. So fierce she stole their pokers and smashed their brains, roasting then devouring them.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Satan was so eager to expel her he gave her a bus and threw in a few demons to ride with her. These became her “fellers”, who both loved and feared her.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The Fellers are soon hungry again. Being live creatures on another plane of existence they can eat live flesh only if the spirit stays in the body. Many of Griswoldene’s victims were horrid souls in her opinion, destined for hell anyway. Their harvest helped maintain a steady stream of spirits for the demons to send screaming into the fiery depths.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Grizzy”, so called by the Fellers, because she lacks the maternal instincts of a grizzly. Her stepfather adopted her but changed her name over his wife’s objection.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“He named me for the son he never deserved,” she explained to a curious cell mate. “He only added the `e-n-e’ because it rhymes with obscene.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She harbors a list of targets from her tortured life. She killed many in life, including her executioner. Before the lethal injections, she whispered to him in tongues, imploring him closer. As if she desired to ask a last wish.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Half curious but mostly entranced by her beguiling eyes, he leaned too close and she bit into his neck. Severed carotid artery sprayed arcing jets of his blood around the tiny death chamber. A prison guard frantically pushed all the buttons at once and her body shuddered instantly dead. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Enough history. Now, there’s a creepy bus hungry for flesh.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Dell Mayer is drunken on a diseased liver. A decade of “Easy Does It” morphed into “Ah Fuck It” when his death row stepdaughter refused to allow him to apologize and “make amends”. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I ain’t fit for heaven and I’m too mean for hell,” she hissed at him over the phone the week before she was executed. “So I ain’t care to let you off the hook whispering how sorry you are in one ear while kiddie memories stick your pecker in my other. I’d rather cut your dick and balls off with a dull razor, pour a whole bottle of rotgut down your throat, then stuff the rotten trio in your mouth like a cork. Just to watch you drown.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Dell’s “recovery” ended there. Proud after completing every step, confident his heartfelt apology would seal the deal. After hearing that harsh condemnation from Grizzy he dove off the wagon into a fresh river of whiskey.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Stumbling down Lombard at 3:12 a.m. he’s startled by the sound of a bus behind him. Harboring a nervous habit of looking behind, he hadn’t noticed any traffic. Only the most dense, bluish fog bank he has ever seen. It wase following him, he knew it. Stopping and turning around, he sees nothing. Spooking him sober.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Dell walks away, the sound of a bus starting making him jump. Landing into a full sprint, no easy task for a boozer in his early 70s. Looking over his left shoulder he sees the bus materialize and lurch forward. He screams.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Hungry, Fellers?” Grizzy hisses to her eagerly-drooling fire passengers.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The chorus: in a full feeding frenzy. Shiny sharp teeth roll up and down the interior, making a shrieking grinding sound, sparks flying, demons flying into each other, furiously rocking the fiery feeding frenzy.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Grizzy punches the accelerator. “No gov’ner holdin’ THIS bad girl back! Hold on Fellers, FOOD FIGHT!” </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Bus closing in on him, Dell’s terror interrupts his futile grip on survival. He leaves the tree-lined sidewalk and dashes diagonally across the street, hoping to find safety off road in Columbia Park. Grizzy punches the accelerator through the floor and hits Dell at 45mph. This crushes him, hurtling his body forward, then under the bus.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“PIZZA!!!” they shout as the rear duals crush Dell’s body flat.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Thin crust, too!” Grizzy shouts.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Got any hot peppers and parmigiana?” another says with a giggle.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The bus stops over Dell’s mangled body. Swallows him. Demons devour it in seconds, swallowing his soul while slurping up the gore.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Grimly satisfied watching the feast, Grizzy murmurs, “Bet he tastes like shit.” She stops in front of her childhood home and uses the modified ramp to catapult Dell’s steaming heap of bones into the yard. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Bye bye, Daddy.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Unsure if my first guess of location is correct, I take a chance and choose the sanctuary where I often hide during the often-horrid self pity well I go to drown in. Right on both counts.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I arrive early, having scanned for any other human presence. Finding none, I sit. Moments later the voice was sitting next to me in the form of this other-worldly beautiful child.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">DaeShown is more dazzingly bright than any human I have seen. Shiny eyes of intense cobalt beam from a brilliantly dark face framed by long braids of tawny brown hair. Never have I seen such devastating beauty.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">At four years and five months, she’s already devouring Shakespeare and solving calculus problems. But that’s a <i>secret</i>, she tells me. Seems an historic statement, oddly.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Shhh,” she whispers, “I don’t want anyone else to know. People get hurt by my smarts.” She solemnly taps her forehead in emphasis.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’m shaken. Talking with a small child, in a deserted city park. I’m hearing two voices, one aloud and another I’m not sure is my imagination gone bonkers. Asking whoever if my sanity is intact, as I have since I was contacted via telephone early this morning. The electronic-sounding voice said “Meet me at the rusty bench in the park. You’ll know which one.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It is beyond freak out weird, but it’s now. It’s <i>real</i>.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She understands the police will want to question her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This is suddenly understood, unspoken.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I don’t want to cause trouble,” she explains. “So you cannot reveal your source. And you can only write about it if it is published post mortem.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">After promising to protect her anonymity, I’m about to question the validity of her statement. The absurdity of such a claim by a young child is instantly dashed before my question is finished.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Why should I…”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She hypnotizes me with her suddenly cold stare. Instead of speaking, I hear her plainly in my mind.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“BECAUSE I SAW IT! I WAS THERE!” she shouts telepathically.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The voice, louder than my son’s stereo, knocks me to the ground. Hands clutching my head, my eyes closed, I felt DaeShown standing above me.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m sorry,” her sweet child voice said, this time aloud. “I will help you up.” </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I feel her tiny hands on my cheeks, and a warm feeling enveloping me. Opening my eyes, I’m surprised to see I’m standing. DaeShown is standing a few feet away, gesturing to a man 20 yards away. Not speaking, yet communicating. He nods, smiling at her.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“He looks like Morgan Freeman,” I say, noticing his profile.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She giggles. “He gets that a lot.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Daddy gets worried sometimes when I talk to strangers,” she explains, vocally. She seems older. “But he told me about you so no strangeness.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We sit. I look for the man, but he is not there. Seems to have vanished.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I know you’re a good person.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Thank you,” I mumble, for want of anything more to say. Then suddenly, “Are you an angel of some sort?”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She giggles, back to a four-year-old. “Daddy says I am, he’s so silly.” Another giggle, not so convincing in comparison to the last, punctuated by a dismissive flick of her wrist.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“You will help me <i>fix</i> that bus.” Back to telepathy.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I shudder at the prospect.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I know,” she whispers in my mind. The voice of an adult now. “It’s strange. But I came to rid this world of a perilous consequence of its apathetic refusal to battle evil. I choose you to help. Don’t ask why. Instead, look at me.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I turn my head slowly, my gaze downward. Stop at her bare feet, realize they now belong to a woman. Freak out afresh. Not wanting to yet compelled, maybe even forced as my head seems guided by a force not my own, I look up to the face of an even more beautiful woman than the child of a moment before.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Close your mouth, lad,” she says, placing her hand over it. “Good. Now <i>listen</i>.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Evidently, there’s a ghost bus full of evil running around Portland, and it’s leaving ghastly piles of bloody bones behind. The cops have yet to reveal the deaths. The bus “operator” is an executed murderer who, according to DaeShown, is coming for me next.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Why me?”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">My mind’s eye is assaulted with the memory of me closing windows on a bus one snowy night. The bus driver screaming in an other-worldly shriek. “Did I appoint you window monitor, punk?”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Fuck yourself, bitch,” I say. “It’s colder than my first wife out there!”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’m the sole passenger just after midnight, having finished my shift as a late-night reporter for the local daily. Writing about the storm I was hoping to beat home, now worried about freezing to death <i>on the bus</i> after waiting an hour <i>for</i> it.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Not as cold as you’ll be if I beat your ass out the door, asshole,” she screams. The tone of her voice prompts me to reopen the two windows.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I’ll report you…” I remember saying before I’m suddenly back in the present.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">DaeShown is hugging me when I return.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“She took offense, lad. Now she’s after anyone, but especially those who ignited her wrath as a mortal.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’m confused. The memory is from a decade ago, one I have shuffled into nowheresville. Doubtful I would recognize the driver again.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Yes,” DaeShown tells me, “you are <i>next</i>. My <i>bait</i>, I’m sorry to say, but it’s absolutely <i>vital</i> to do exactly as I tell you, when you hear my voice. Anything else you’re doing will have to wait. If you survive.” Each word italicized is louder by far than the rest.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“What if I refuse?” I say, feeling defensive.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“YOU MAY NOT!” Morgan Freeman’s voice commands in my mind. He’s standing three feet away, facing me with arms folded, stern faced, his eyes piercing through the back of my skull. My pain is for emphasis, and disappears immediately. As if He doesn’t want me to feel it afterward.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Whoa, dude,” I manage to say. “<i>Okay</i>.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">He vanishes, replaced by DaeShown.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Are we understanding each other now?” she asks, cupping my cheeks in her incredibly soft, gentle hands.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Yes, ma’am,” I say, complacent now.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">My life changes drastically from this moment.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">* * * * *</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Flash forward 37 years. It’s October 15, 2035. I’m dying of a failing heart and kidneys, glad I beat thyroid cancer in my 30s. I’m 77, and until today I forgot that day at the park and everything afterward. Just writing this makes me shudder, extremely grateful for these amazing decades.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Ever since that horrifying day, my life has been blessed more than I had ever dreamed possible. My books sold millions, became famous and well-renowned, found love and fathered three extremely gifted kids. My life has been exemplary since then, and I enjoy every day as a grandfather and husband of the most wonderful woman. Until the first heart attack, I was extremely vibrant.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I woke up today knowing my time is freaky short. Days, maybe? <i>Hours</i>? Whatever dude, I dreamed this vision from long ago that was lost until now. The past three months however, I have known my death will occur at 12:34 a.m. on October 17. <i>Day Something</i> nags at me, but I don’t remember anyone of that name. What I do know is that date is just two days nigh, and it’s my final goal to write this story. Here it is. If you don’t believe it, I don’t give a fuck. It happened, and this is my testimony of the event as was dictated to me. By <i>Her</i>.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">*****</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">For six days after meeting DaeShown and her “daddy”, I wandered about in a daze. It’s funny that as soon as I felt the keys at my fingertips, the story just came to me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to write. It was forgotten, intentionally by my psyche or forbidden by now by DaeShown. I get her name now… it means <i>The Day Shone</i>. I can remember her face and intense lovely beauty now after all these 13,245 days. Her fuzzy memory led me to my Beloved Stacey, with whom I have shared such an incredible life I doubted could ever happen. Now, this heaven here must end, so here goes something.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">* * * * *</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I quit taking the drugs Doc prescribed. She wasn’t even born when this story happened. Instead, I’ve indulged myself in a few joints of my home-grown green magic with a bottle of my fave Scotch bedside. A just-lit stogie in my mouth, I’m eager to write the final story of this weird life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">A few drinks in, I’m giddy thinking it would be fun to plagiarize Charles Shultz but that would be dishonorable. Instead, it was a clear, warm fall day when DaeShown’s commands dictated my next moves. It was the seventh day after meeting her, and that memory was lovingly-fresh in my mind. I was in love with an apparition, and it was fun feeling that emotion again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">That day was typical. Finished my shift, hopped on the wrong bus not realizing it was taking me north instead of otherwise. Coulda swore it was my normal Line 199. Fell asleep in my usual seat just one up from the back door, enjoying a dream of a lass long lost. Bus driver woke me up quite suddenly at the end of the line, telling me I had to get off. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Shaking my head, I apologized to the newbie operator, whose kind face dictated the same in return. I thanked her, closing my eyes another moment, rubbing them and thanking her for allowing me to shit my get together.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Upon opening them, I was confronted with Griswoldene’s visage. The bus went dark, gradually brightening into a hazy blue mist. Her skeleton mouth loomed inches from my face, her jaws wider than humanly possible, intent upon swallowing my entire body.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Hello Brian, P-Brain, <b><i>Dumbfuck</i></b>,” Grizzy snarled. Drool drizzled down her jawbone, slowly receding to whatever <i>normal</i> should look like. Skeletons don’t usually have that ability, I thought.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Grizzy morphed into the operator who screamed at me when I shut the windows. Seeing this, my body shot deeper into that hard/unforgivingly stiff seat than possible, every inch super-glued into it. Frozen with fear as Grizzy went back to a skull and bones, weaving internal organs into flesh and back to skeleton again. All the while, her face/skull wove in rhythm to some B.B. King-inspired tune. She gradually into a Stevie Wonder boogyin-down riff I never danced to again afterward. Words cannot describe the terror I felt with her jaws snapping to and fro, closer to my neck while I could not even move. My neck hairs are stiffer than my 15-year-old dick just thinking about this moment.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">My life until then was not worth the movie they tell us happens this close to death. For what seemed like minutes I didn’t even breathe. Then, I felt thankful as she backed away. Only for a moment, for she waved her arms and I was instantly faced with a dozen demon-looking, I can’t describe other than “things”. They weaved hypnotically in front of me. Snarling, hissing, snapping their teeth in hungry manners like a starving dog confronting a fresh side of beef.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">My body just gave up this ghost. Deathly functions preceded the forthcoming event. It stank worse than the fart I let when Davey entered our tent on Mt. Graham, got zipped up in his sleeping bag and I let loose with the Mutha of All Stinkers. When I opened my own bag, laughing myself silly at the odor, Davey’s dog Dylan burst out the door in disgust before his master could even unzip his bag. It was a horrid stench, and I was certain my life was about to be brutally ended.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Then, at 1:12 a.m., the sun rose brighter than normal midday. Millimeters from my throat, demons stopped. Frozen in time. I wasted not a second, jumping from my seat leaving a horrid trail of bio-hazards behind me and flew through the back door. I think it was closed, but I managed to escape. Into total darkness outside. The sun was directly above, shining solely on the bus.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I shudder stepped backward and away as far as my feet would shuffle, directly onto the lawn where Grizzy had deposited that first sack of bones. Sitting there in the shit and wet grass, I watched the intersection of Lombard and Chataqua become a gaping sinkhole. That sun, completely enshrined in darkness, shone solely on Grizzy’s bus.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The silence was pierced by the cries/shrieks/howls of a thousand wolves and ghouls as the bus slowly rose several hundred feet in the air. Slowly doesn’t accurately describe the horror and escalation of volume as it rose ever higher. It took several minutes. As I watched, the bus became enveloped in a flame-color I had never imagined possible. A combination of orange, purple, green, then red and ultimately bluer than the sky ever was. The heat grew with intensity as the screams subsided, then went silent.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Just a few moments afterward, as if whatever was raising it was satisfied, the bus slammed down into the sinkhole. The ground in front of me began caving inward. I scrambled frantically backward, escaping the downward pull.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I could see the bus, some several hundred feet down in the sinkhole, flaming as the Earth reclaimed its demons. Then, a torrential downpour frequent to the Northwest this time of year rained molten rock down into the hole. Only there. Upon me fell the sweet, cool rain I was only too happy to feel.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The molten rock covered the ever-descending burning bus and its occupants, and the sinkhole began to close. After 10 minutes, life returned to the intersection. The street was just as it had been before, perhaps a bit smoother than a Portland tax dollar was ever able to accomplish. In fact, for decades afterward, it was remarked that this intersection’s pavement remained flawless.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">* * * * *</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I sat there in the park’s grassy middle, 120 yards away from the sinkhole, shit-and-piss-smeared, breathing heavily and fearing a fatal heart attack at 40 years of age. Found myself sitting on the same bench where DaeShown found me. Swearing off cigarettes and booze (which I failed to fulfill) if this vision escaped me, I watched until the end. I dreamed of Morgan Freeman laughing in the distance as the Earth closed down on Griswoldene.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Several hours later, a cop woke me, holding his nose in disgust and bade me get the fuck outta there. I don’t know where I went but my next recollection found me safely home in my cozy shower. About 20 hours later, I awoke with a dimming memory of something weird happening on last night’s drunken festivities.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">* * * * *</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Sorry, I must have dozed. These drugs the doc scored me are good dope.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>It was a dark, cold, stormy night…</i></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">* * * * *</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">That week’s obituaries included one for Brian P. Gomer, found in his bed, hands on his laptop keyboard, having passed of “natural causes” following a “long battle with heart disease”. He was survived by his wife and scores who loved him dearly. None of them knew <i>this</i> story.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Until now. God help you, chillins.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(53, 53, 53); color: #353535; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-11823661728096371672023-10-01T03:48:00.002-07:002023-10-01T03:48:22.357-07:00The 500th Post!<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd89HTkLDjF-ZpGP_j63WYhHDR2EeN90JhQWZrImKBMUq5aNJXle9FvJZDHU2LvNkGlMRNJj9wrXqJ1D7URmLfw6_PAV9jwxTl4NttvxZz9FobFVEmo9svLi3_XftgFiZZfyqKeeGPah353rrpJW6KGP1RKb-bf5zCMSvnrzZuPRe3EOArL-ZCbDlTv-BJ/s4032/71779300378__919D6C4F-AE6B-43B8-8B03-698A1EBD2418.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd89HTkLDjF-ZpGP_j63WYhHDR2EeN90JhQWZrImKBMUq5aNJXle9FvJZDHU2LvNkGlMRNJj9wrXqJ1D7URmLfw6_PAV9jwxTl4NttvxZz9FobFVEmo9svLi3_XftgFiZZfyqKeeGPah353rrpJW6KGP1RKb-bf5zCMSvnrzZuPRe3EOArL-ZCbDlTv-BJ/w300-h400/71779300378__919D6C4F-AE6B-43B8-8B03-698A1EBD2418.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />My Note:<i> Perusing this blog's stats last week, I saw there were 499 posts so far. It was only fitting, on my Friday night, to find enough inspiration after another 55-hour week to write #500. It was too rough and unpolished to publish, maybe still so, but here it 'tis.</i></b><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b><i>I began this odyssey 10 years ago, simply to describe my life as a bus operator. To me it was pure nirvana to be read by so many of you for so many years. To the internet nerds, it was a paltry number. However, I have never written this blog for </i>them, <i>or any perception of "success". It has always been one operator's viewpoint FromTheDriverSide, for whatever value any of you may have placed on my humble offerings. THANK YOU!</i></b><p></p><p>The good things. The decent, hard-working yet least appreciated of America's Working Class.</p><p>I've seen <i>every</i> segment of American society, yet I'm still surprised on occasion after 11 years at the wheel. Those who toil each day, often six or seven each week at one or more jobs, just to make ends meet. They pay their fare, are kind and respectful. I'm so grateful for them and their experience. Because there are so many, I can still warmly smile at everyone I serve and heartily welcome them aboard. I learned early on that people <i>need to be acknowledged</i>. Some could care less, but it became <i>vital</i> to me. People too often treat one another with cruelty. If I can evoke a smile via a compliment upon their entering, it's a reward. (Thanks <a href="http://tommytransit.com/" target="_blank">Tommy Transit</a> for your wisdom and guidance here.) I've become expert at spotting potential trouble causers. Although my Scots-Irish blood makes me too willing to fend off any troublemaker, my father's side fights for calm. Dad was gently tough, a musician who enlisted as a fresh 18-year-old in 1944 during World War II. He never backed down, but knew how to exercise logic and kindness to diffuse a potentially-volatile situation. I'm still working on that, and I'll turn 63 this week.</p><p>I've been kicked, stalked, hit on the head with a full water bottle, cursed, harassed, threatened, racially-profiled as a bus operator. I didn't, nor do <i>any</i> of us, deserve it. My life prior to this career was much less volatile. This one has worn me down both spiritually and physically. I have made many valuable friends however, so it helps assuage the painful moments. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwt8FkM6Ph5y0sBskIwp7TLVLvq8JVHmd4xKUxW-qs8kmr2w9BzrvVcQj6HzjjqKLfS5kzzA3M1yd_E-t5NJCVFBvaYY4mxFk5Qjm6rjE3uB8xfkHKoiWa9HAje6byF5a_3pjw8f2yLnFFp5GmayJNyzg7it7nA4eONoKa-Y-dEXRRj6izld8GptBFxnhF/s2895/1D519F01-E033-4D47-B043-6E42D92C1763.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2895" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwt8FkM6Ph5y0sBskIwp7TLVLvq8JVHmd4xKUxW-qs8kmr2w9BzrvVcQj6HzjjqKLfS5kzzA3M1yd_E-t5NJCVFBvaYY4mxFk5Qjm6rjE3uB8xfkHKoiWa9HAje6byF5a_3pjw8f2yLnFFp5GmayJNyzg7it7nA4eONoKa-Y-dEXRRj6izld8GptBFxnhF/s320/1D519F01-E033-4D47-B043-6E42D92C1763.jpeg" width="256" /></a><b></b>This past week, my goal once again was to enlighten the public and my fellow transit brothers and sisters about the sad fact of attacks upon our numbers worldwide. My local friend Henry Beasley and I joined a brother from Florida five years ago to educate the public about the dangers we face "out there". We formed a silent protest we named "BandTogether" during which we placed a bandage on our door-side cheeks in homage to those of our beloved numbers who have suffered attacks.</p><p>A few days ago, a dear friend/fellow operator informed me he was brutally attacked and beaten on a MAX platform. In his 70s, this dear man is struggling to recover nearly two months later. I dutifully donned the badge of courage in solidarity with those like him. For those who were <i>murdered</i>. For those who suffer Post Traumatic Stress Disorder yet drive right through their anguish in solemn dedication to our profession. </p><p>At this stage, five years in, my hopes of a worldwide show, let alone locally, of support via this simple yet poignant protest were dashed by the dismal degree of participation. It seems that our fervent support of those who have suffered fizzled out rather than becoming a leading cause. Henry is more encouraged than I. We'll keep at it year after year, bandages upon cheeks until it clicks. It's for US, therefore YOU, after all. And that's why I'm still here.</p><p>* * * * *</p><p>Just last week, one of my favorite singer/songwriters died. It's as if my generation is passing quickly into history as fast as it grabbed our young souls. Jimmy Buffett penned so many vital tunes, his death was a horrible start to my work week. The first few days, I had to blink through tears and change my thought processes just so I could safely roll.</p><p>When I was sure my bus was empty, I keyed up the PA microphone and sang <i>a capella</i> my fave Buffett tunes <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RaHy_Fs6iHg" target="_blank">Banana Republics </a>and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKGw_hrlaOY" target="_blank">Come Monday</a>. I failed to notice the "creep seat" passenger. Sitting there listening, unbeknownst to the seemingly-alone operator. Tears pouring out of my eyes, I belted it out unaware my grieving emotion was affecting my unnoticed passenger.</p><p>"Nice take on a groovy tune, dude," he said as he exited. "I loved Jimmy Buffett too. My condolences."</p><p><i>Wow</i>. His exit left me to sit and collect myself. My unnoticed passenger was a fellow Parrot Head. Fins to the left, I saluted him to my right.</p><p>* * * * *</p><p>It's truly fitting that today is the 29th anniversary Beloved said "I will" to my altar plea. Beloved is my biggest fan, toughest editor and most supreme confidante. She edited the book "<b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37427063-just-drive" target="_blank">JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane</a></b>" (now out of print), celebrated when sales went through the roof and consoled me when they just as suddenly tanked.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjV6KKK412xaz-jQvlqrsDZy-LHpliMcTG7-GHdJJZXT9o1urXEISdPGAM1LGRjiy3-4UWY8tKBeQ29t1n71K2xEm3vd5lJx_B_gz0RMzIvhdsVw3mcnHL7guGymE1OvpVO63J5WiBzevs_WmGocShNy_495MmlX3VhMfExDwfvmsrVsJESlpRthGBc7f/s4032/IMG_1298.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjV6KKK412xaz-jQvlqrsDZy-LHpliMcTG7-GHdJJZXT9o1urXEISdPGAM1LGRjiy3-4UWY8tKBeQ29t1n71K2xEm3vd5lJx_B_gz0RMzIvhdsVw3mcnHL7guGymE1OvpVO63J5WiBzevs_WmGocShNy_495MmlX3VhMfExDwfvmsrVsJESlpRthGBc7f/w300-h400/IMG_1298.jpeg" width="300" /><br /></a></div><p></p><p>Now, as this blog is in its sunset era (a moment I have been preparing for years), Beloved is gently urging me toward more lofty goals. I have a few novels in progress. One I began 27 years ago, went gangbusters through 1,100 pages and stopped. Its characters beg me to finish, as they are aging past where they were written. The other is one I began nearly five years ago, an idea borne on a late afternoon roll over the Tilikum Crossing. I'm also working on a grisly short story (about a bus which eats people) as I lay in bed before sleep claims me. It's a new form of writing, in my phone's Notes app. Slow and tedious, therefore hopefully brief and intense. (Coming soon, I promise!)</p><p>Perhaps it's fear which keep me from finishing these fun novels, but I MUST. This blog was simply <i>practice</i>. Of all my life's greatest loves, Mom often knew me better than I did. It's time I pay homage to the wonderful woman who willed me to excel when doctors told her to forget about me. If not for her, I wouldn't even be upright, let alone a writer, <i>twitterpated</i> husband of three decades, father of three and grandfather of two beautiful people.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeeSof5y36kUpTiebGC1xG2ijep5Ck8_qALCNjvX79miGYt7AnmpuXvPhcymZV2zCZ-MNTY_b2OK_bTKZXlKWztBr8crQj2uxQIUL1nZDzSU7Iex23S571HIRZZz1At5XSsEDpVTPZiwmdT6wLcmicv-oHPzDvH6qaluEmqgmD26cF-xN1eny9k6IO5Bq2" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeeSof5y36kUpTiebGC1xG2ijep5Ck8_qALCNjvX79miGYt7AnmpuXvPhcymZV2zCZ-MNTY_b2OK_bTKZXlKWztBr8crQj2uxQIUL1nZDzSU7Iex23S571HIRZZz1At5XSsEDpVTPZiwmdT6wLcmicv-oHPzDvH6qaluEmqgmD26cF-xN1eny9k6IO5Bq2" width="180" /></a></div><p></p><p>I'm trying to transition, but it's damn hard sometimes. How can I abandon these transit blogger roots and move on? Nobody else takes on transit management, which requires chastising quite often. I feel a responsibility to STAND in support of those who do the real <i>work</i> of transit. Just like Mom, I'm never compliantly-silent. The literary poker remains red hot, because I don't see many taking a fiery-enough fight to the unnecessarily-protected transit management. Brothers and sisters regale me with tales of their mistreatment from the mid-management monster our transit agency is heretofore incapable of taming. They fuel my fire, especially when I realize management is looking for anything we do "wrong" even when we do everything else "right", the best we possibly can. Piss me off, and you can be sure I'll write about it.</p><p>* * * * *</p><p>Once again, our transit agency is sponsoring a "Bus Roadeo". Problem is, like all events management puts on to "celebrate" its workers, it ignores a full <i>third</i> of us. Night shifters cannot possibly participate in events which begin at 8:00 a.m. because we are <i>asleep</i> then. Any celebratory meal offerings are merely wilted leftovers when we arrive back at the garage in the wee hours of the next day from which we started our shifts. Unless you work bankers' hours, you're the forgotten lugnuts of transit. We have come to accept this disrespect, and it's just <i>wrong</i>. Truly pisses me off, Boss. </p><p>It also makes me sad you still suspend/terminate operators with decades of tough experience because of your refusal to educate the public on the basics of transit, in place for a century. You're trying to re-define the rules to support irresponsibility, ridiculousness and laziness. At the expense of your most-valuable resources. You refuse to teach the public the basics of <i>How to Ride</i> then punish us when some malcontent complains when we insist they simply follow the rules. <i>Transit</i> Rules, not mamby-pamby hold-their-hand-and-kiss-their-boo boos over petty bullshit <i>management</i> rules.</p><p>I had hoped this new GM would change that, but he won't even schedule a follow-up meeting with me after his "hey look at me I'm the new GM!" meeting 15 months ago. I had hoped to have a meaningful discussion with him, and then a follow-up to discuss the progress. Fairly, there have been several positives since Sam took over, but it's the harshest crap he needs to send packing before we feel truly appreciated.</p><p>Yeah, I'm bitter. Most veterans are. That's why they want to get rid of us. They go "phishing" whenever some idiot complains, even falsely. Worst part of this is, our union <i>allows</i> them to do so. I'm sorry, but none of us are, or ever could be, perfect. We sure don't see management setting an example lofty enough to admire, much less follow.</p><p>* * * * *</p><p>The Best: After all I've seen as an 11-year Operator, I still love driving The Beast, meeting new passengers and having the best view of our lovely city. Hopping off my bus at a layover, I enjoy stretch my limbs by walking into the beauty Northwesterners may not cherish often enough. Savoring lovely vistas of the Willamette Valley rising to a newly-snowy Mt. Hood. Finding my humanity intact after seeing the worst of it, still finding beauty within and acknowledging those who share my vision.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zJ9_ttmznHPIkJ1UsB9gedkPrALN6YowZnB2WVSpWv2hYQgR7kxdtMR4yJEe5nb30YCQy4T7RUw8FeiDAdmSGf5rgXTE_b5VI0tJa-jucGp9nPzYIc_83svq2ByexXDW4e6SeYq3NaUVGaFXyMI-Fy0AX79lz4S24OWFDz8bffc8K_tfjd3mgIzRb6pM/s4032/IMG_1327.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zJ9_ttmznHPIkJ1UsB9gedkPrALN6YowZnB2WVSpWv2hYQgR7kxdtMR4yJEe5nb30YCQy4T7RUw8FeiDAdmSGf5rgXTE_b5VI0tJa-jucGp9nPzYIc_83svq2ByexXDW4e6SeYq3NaUVGaFXyMI-Fy0AX79lz4S24OWFDz8bffc8K_tfjd3mgIzRb6pM/s320/IMG_1327.jpeg" width="240" /></a>Those of you who know me are aware of the joy who came bouncing into my world January 25th. Distance separated me from my first grandchild, but on his 20th birthday a week ago, he finally said "I love you too". It was a quintessentially-shining moment, equal to the joy my new granddaughter brings me. She, who bounces with joy upon seeing me, reaching out to be held as I sing... "<i>Mila Rose, my itty bitty Mila Rose. She's got 20 fingers and a button nose, my love for her grows and grows</i>." I dance around with her in my arms, and it's the best medicine for an aging fellow whose love for his children and theirs is infinite. Those of you who share this honor know <i>exactly</i> how it feels.</p><p>Last week, this bundle of boundless energy was grumpy. She missed Mama and Daddy, but they needed to attend to serious business. Beloved is gifted as a grandma, as she is always an incredible mama. I'm second to her, and truly embrace that.</p><p>One recent afternoon, I sat in my dear departed friend Liz's rocking chair, bottle to Mila's mouth, rocking gently. I held her tight, but not confining. She wiggled, cooed, zerberted and grumped. I began to softly sing, gently cupping her head and massaging her temples. I felt her grow heavier. The sucking continued rhythmically, and her breathing became slower, more regular. She sank into me, her eyes struggling to remain open. I placed my hand over her face, radiating my love. Within seconds, she fell asleep. The bottle's nipple fell from her mouth. Gently lifting her to my shoulder, I patted her back. A good solid burp later, she snuggled deep into me. For 45 minutes, the wee lass slept, content within my arms. It was easily one of my most blissful moments. Ever. Each second, I cherished her soft breath upon my cheek. It took me back to my earliest moments as my father sang to me. He was <i>much</i> better at it. Still, it was a generational moment, from my father to me, from me to Mila Rose. What a wonderful moment to rock <i>any</i> baby to sleep, let alone my own grandchild!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyOgprXnd72KrdBLT9AQ5oIJQsF7LrQRFl_WcGS1FEGt-pZB3znZE5SU_ixn5Y5ZaZOueQp-29UBm82Rp5_38U8thc5AdTs2lMrCPRBqGHjaKFWr2t4na0A11PRrxSFYdw6qbiH83E3gOdk2-qOMd4Ymb4Xy2Ejw7nglC_Wsag2K901hxAV5-9QtJZfdX/s2969/IMG_8943.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2969" data-original-width="2418" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyOgprXnd72KrdBLT9AQ5oIJQsF7LrQRFl_WcGS1FEGt-pZB3znZE5SU_ixn5Y5ZaZOueQp-29UBm82Rp5_38U8thc5AdTs2lMrCPRBqGHjaKFWr2t4na0A11PRrxSFYdw6qbiH83E3gOdk2-qOMd4Ymb4Xy2Ejw7nglC_Wsag2K901hxAV5-9QtJZfdX/s320/IMG_8943.jpeg" width="261" /></a></div><p></p><p>Remembering each of my three incredible children doing the same so many years ago, it was pure contentment. I was <i>one</i> with my granddaughter just as I had been with her father, uncle and aunt. No matter how much pain the days before had wrought, it was all erased by a baby's softness upon my neck. Nothing else mattered.</p><p>And that, dear readers, is where I am today. Content, happy and loved in my personal life. Conflicted, often angry, feeling neglected in the professional. If I were dead tomorrow, all that matters is that I loved, and was so. In 25, 50 or 100 years, my life will be long forgotten. Today, it is <i>real.</i> I am stubbornly enjoying it regardless of the dark spots which try to cloud my vision.</p><p>Peace and love be always with you and yours. Thanks for reading #500.</p><p><br /></p><p>-- <i>Deke</i>/Patrick</p></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-35324312105898625622023-09-22T05:22:00.003-07:002023-09-22T20:40:55.454-07:00Beep Beep BANG!<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtUxJX4mqf3e_rWV5jhaeGkBHKdx8FvqoDb34LgbEm9nEn6hNwW474tL43nMuGUtAgTvxdoMQRp-JyVRiJGW_geGaf7ZLoE9BMHHnnPEZBTdu5k26YvpDino10-mHzDdsbbD55dwkmGM47G-4c7wLlSHnnmoWDDK6AgvSt2DQw4rCnK_4WZeac7b1xllH/s4032/71331105765__A28EF528-2CBF-4E1A-9931-BD53F9E6ECE3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtUxJX4mqf3e_rWV5jhaeGkBHKdx8FvqoDb34LgbEm9nEn6hNwW474tL43nMuGUtAgTvxdoMQRp-JyVRiJGW_geGaf7ZLoE9BMHHnnPEZBTdu5k26YvpDino10-mHzDdsbbD55dwkmGM47G-4c7wLlSHnnmoWDDK6AgvSt2DQw4rCnK_4WZeac7b1xllH/w300-h400/71331105765__A28EF528-2CBF-4E1A-9931-BD53F9E6ECE3.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">Her habit of exiting the bus and then walking right in front of it without even looking for the inevitable car zipping by horrifies me. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">I honked one night when I saw a car passing me as Dory Dumbo pretended my ride was a school bus. Frantically waving my hand out the window to alert both dumbasses of impending doom only prompted a middle finger from the 20-something I was trying to safeguard.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">The car stopped just in time, the driver also flipping me off and honking at me in foolish annoyance. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">Saved both dumbasses.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">She doesn’t care to hear me. “Spare me the lecture and let me off, Boomer,” she snarled one night. Skipped underneath the sign above the door: “Don’t Walk In Front of Bus.”</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">Every time she exits, she flips her hand dismissively. Doesn’t look as she clears my 20-ton/40 foot long protective barrier, showing her IQ in the form of a middle finger.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">One night, she will die in stubborn defiance of my trying to keep her safe. Before it happens she’ll likely complain about me honking at her. Maybe she’ll add how I always mutter, “Dumbass.” Management will call me in, chastise me for honking and stating the obvious.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">If I don’t honk to warn her, or say absolutely nothing (as it seems she expects) I can to stop her from dying at the hands of Izzy Impatient, I will be lambasted for not doing what I was told not to do.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">That’s transit management for you. Too often masters of reckless incompetence. Rest assured though, I’ll be painted guilty either way.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;">Beep beep BAM. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px;"><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFL1OJ7X3vv_HfwnmUlUsl2zC4twhf428714wEM6siAsIVL0QWAYgbyDFnI_JHaV2DSIP1wkiYYafjLAxCc1VcboyD2kZBXfSVL6oFKIE99G5hMyeDTXipb_Z-S5w8SQJGaoz_PacgXy9dLcn-hNiuLW8jduQTFQMh7kwGeQI0Nv_kk3yUn0Na0S0xGSwQ/s4032/IMG_0895.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFL1OJ7X3vv_HfwnmUlUsl2zC4twhf428714wEM6siAsIVL0QWAYgbyDFnI_JHaV2DSIP1wkiYYafjLAxCc1VcboyD2kZBXfSVL6oFKIE99G5hMyeDTXipb_Z-S5w8SQJGaoz_PacgXy9dLcn-hNiuLW8jduQTFQMh7kwGeQI0Nv_kk3yUn0Na0S0xGSwQ/w300-h400/IMG_0895.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div></div></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-43929480487370055502023-07-25T02:18:00.004-07:002023-07-25T15:22:22.159-07:00How to RTB (Again)<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnnCBE49drDplHPWaRoHolrfjsMp1418aeFDGmcehyH7RmMZkTlS-cAsBXKdPAeOWpLXzDnEF3rCnbPqTpq9XGzJteqPY-n2CeA_tGVBQlmiZEV4-GitaBDkANqKZ6gjfuy-liNkPBd-ifyFkT6k5qoxqng0SSIeVkd6JnYpA0nSg-i9v1uuo3B-8E3yA/s4032/IMG_0420.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnnCBE49drDplHPWaRoHolrfjsMp1418aeFDGmcehyH7RmMZkTlS-cAsBXKdPAeOWpLXzDnEF3rCnbPqTpq9XGzJteqPY-n2CeA_tGVBQlmiZEV4-GitaBDkANqKZ6gjfuy-liNkPBd-ifyFkT6k5qoxqng0SSIeVkd6JnYpA0nSg-i9v1uuo3B-8E3yA/w300-h400/IMG_0420.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Writer's Note:<i> People tend to believe there are no rules on transit. Well, there are. Most are unwritten, common knowledge. Others are inherent, kindly practiced without complaint by thousands each day.</i></b><p></p><p>Let's get some age-old (and not-to-be-forgotten, if I have any say) transit edicts straight, you and I. First, there ARE rules to riding that you should be familiar with, and abide by if you have any hope of becoming a professional, thereby truly "honored" professional passenger. No matter how much our management tries to erase them, these rules have been honed over a century of our service to Portlanders. Here are the oldest, most honored transit rules my decade of service have taught me.</p><p><b>BE READY TO BOARD (RTB) so you can RTB (Ride the Bus). </b>You're likely at your bus stop five or more minutes prior to my arrival. In this interval I expect you to put aside your social media or whatever jerks your internet chain, to achieve the following:</p><p><b>1)</b> <i><b>Know when the bus is coming</b></i>, by using that powerful computer in your hand to track my bus.</p><p><b>2) </b><i><b>Get your fare ready</b></i>, whether it be Hop Pass, credit card, or that ancient and fading fast standby, CASH. </p><p><b>3)</b> <b>P<i>repare your belongings</i></b> by placing them at the bus stop pole, NOT 20 feet away, scattered haphazardly about needing to be collected into half a dozen garbage bags. Don't expect me to wait if you're 20 yards away yakking with buddies, expecting me to know (via osmosis perhaps? which is NOT an acceptable form of communication) you need MY bus. If you're not ready, standing at the stop when I arrive, you can expect my doors to close and my bus to move away once my traffic light turns green. This is especially true if the bus is on the Downtown Portland Transit Mall. If I fail to adhere to this rule, the bus operator behind me (and their cargo) is highly inconvenienced by my trying to please YOU, the unprepared who would be the first to berate me if I'm late even if YOU are part of the reason I am so.</p><p><b>4) BUSES DO NOT WAIT FOR PEOPLE; PEOPLE WAIT FOR BUSES. </b>If you're running late to your stop, it's a good idea to be looking over your shoulder, or above cellphone level, to see if the bus is coming. Simply because you're in the vicinity of a bus stop doesn't mean the operator can tell you're intending to ride. Simply holding out your hand (with a light attached, if it's nighttime) is enough of a signal. Communication is key, unless you want us to roll right by you.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKp1-MtzHzemsIfbwTaD7M7KJiAFbXAotJxUVN2J17rkvJAOb_syHz0XLT-cfiEv8Er1ClOx_12593WmLlsE3Yj6SUtNrmAbdyPrdbL14asy6wVOanfk7NftIaP9SUZ1LG6KjMOGUSHZ1o4npJsKSS_Ea77_e5FRiLBL32omdGzqf9WtuBy4MMWa-0Hsl6/s4032/IMG_0418.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKp1-MtzHzemsIfbwTaD7M7KJiAFbXAotJxUVN2J17rkvJAOb_syHz0XLT-cfiEv8Er1ClOx_12593WmLlsE3Yj6SUtNrmAbdyPrdbL14asy6wVOanfk7NftIaP9SUZ1LG6KjMOGUSHZ1o4npJsKSS_Ea77_e5FRiLBL32omdGzqf9WtuBy4MMWa-0Hsl6/s320/IMG_0418.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><b>5) <i>Once the doors close, expect the bus to move</i></b>. You not being RTB does NOT dictate when the bus moves away from the stop. Once fare is paid you are expected to hasten to a seat, or find a hand hold to secure yourself. I take great pains to gently leave a stop, and to watch when you have reached a spot on my bus where there are places for you to grab onto before I release the brakes. If you are elderly, or physically challenged I will wait for you to safely find your spot before rolling. Please don't stand there, fussing that wallet back into your pocket or bag; please do so <i>after</i> you sit. I won't touch the accelerator before the bus has rolled a good 10 or more feet. This ensures a smooth launch from a stop. I won't wait while you play EENY-MINEY-MO on your phone. </p><p><b>6) TURN YOUR AUDIO OFF! </b>Including ALL sounds. A bus is NOT a Light Rail Vehicle. Your bus operator is a very busy person, folks. I share the same space as you, in a 40' long echo chamber. I can hear the lowest volume at the back of the bus as easily as that just behind me. I am constantly listening to my 40-foot machine and also everything outside and around it. When your device adds other noises, it takes me out of my "zone". My training and subsequent decade of experience has me zooming along at the speed of dark in a professional trance. When your artificial noise interrupts my flow, it distracts me. Your personal conversations are white noise, easily filtered out. When artificial sound is introduced into my mix, it <i>interferes</i>. It's truly a pisser when a passenger whines "my other bus drivers don't care if I play audio, why should YOU?!?" First, because I politely <i>asked</i> you. If I allow YOU to play audio, then others think it's okay; soon there are several others blasting their own crap. Don't argue like a four-year-old in full tantrum. <i>Just do it</i>, aight? Buy a cheap set of headphones for cryin' out loud.</p><p><b>7) Read the signs above the front door, and OBEY them</b>. They're there for a reason. Not mere <i>suggestions</i>, but actual safety-related <i>rules</i>. I use that word specifically to get your attention, because it's usually distracted by that device in your hands rather than focused on any form of common sense. (If THAT'S even a <i>thing</i> any more.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDH7fMVUXgOjFdCqtjOWwevvVb77quC9tZhRu9BpHrOv2jpikp_0f0bJIDxb85p_eM25J-EFKaji4ciJcyK0bYbIuu42L3JBd_jhARLwcO0Wy8SNiyFkJkRu5B4vVYC7ANiO-pBG0aF6iKvMqI81ZM4p_e4B1Inc9DdyIzxfDqnrd_IJVYHuaqsNgs06T/s4032/IMG_0331.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDH7fMVUXgOjFdCqtjOWwevvVb77quC9tZhRu9BpHrOv2jpikp_0f0bJIDxb85p_eM25J-EFKaji4ciJcyK0bYbIuu42L3JBd_jhARLwcO0Wy8SNiyFkJkRu5B4vVYC7ANiO-pBG0aF6iKvMqI81ZM4p_e4B1Inc9DdyIzxfDqnrd_IJVYHuaqsNgs06T/s320/IMG_0331.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><b>8) Do NOT exit, then cross the street in FRONT of a bus</b>. The sign above the front door (did you know they are there?) bluntly states this. If you have to ask WHY, I worry about your diminished capacity for common sense and personal safety. But hey, I'll tell you anyway, in hopes the message resonates. BECAUSE: motorists behind a bus think it's vital they get around us at any opportunity, everyone else's safety be damned. Doesn't matter if the stop is at a pedestrian crossing with double-yellow lines prohibiting passing, Billy Beamer is gonna zip past to race to that red light ahead. If you take one step past the bus Billy cannot see through or around just as he decides to blast past me, you gonna die. Get it now? Just calmly wait for me to lumber on, then traffic can see you intend to cross the street. If you're lucky, Molly Mercedes will stop (as traffic law dictates, but is often ignored) so you can safely cross.<p></p><p><b>9) If you don't know how to open the back door, <i>watch people who can</i>. </b>Take a break from Twitfeeder or whatever and pay attention. First, the bus comes to a complete STOP. The Operator will then flip the door handle, which activates a green light above the back door and unlocks it. There are simple instructions on the door, usually between the handles, which read "Touch Here". Notice the word <i>touch</i> is not the same as <i>push</i>. Sometimes, depending on the model of bus, if you simply place your hands an inch or so in front of the word "Here", the door will open. Screaming "BACK DOOR!" at the operator only irritates us. No, we won't leave our seat, walk back and open the door, then hold your wee hand as you walk across the street. </p><p><b>10) When a bus (finally) reaches the end-of-line stop, give us a break</b>. We will usually turn the bus off and take one. This is not a signal for you to attempt boarding. We have to scour the bus for lost and found items and trash. Then we're gonna go pee, folks. Stretch a bit, walk about, check our own phone, and breathe easily a few minutes. We will gladly serve you in a few minutes, so please be patient. It doesn't matter if we arrived five minutes after we were supposed to leave. Until management finds a way to replace human operators with artificial intelligence, humans all have needs. A 90-minute stint in the seat may seem "easy" to you, but it certainly is not.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Whew! There are other points I should have also covered, but these are the basics. It's amazing that I should have to repeat myself every few years, or go into such detail. Please pass this along to anyone who rides a bus or light rail vehicle. Perhaps an emphatic "DUH!" should be added afterward, but only to those who deserve it. My thanks once again to the thousands of "professional passengers" out there who make our lives easier.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg54l1pYjQLCmamlM_Bm0AKpoUdgqggdVgYcEYPIcGrJH7MUJ-oK5HdqpXrYweLCAzucDvkESMWKMwswBAoACavvW3LzOf5Q-7-OrmJz7rExbJj34tZwkY6dseWUQ-aycZd9PjY75MxfBC0KY3J9qcDgBanjQLGhTZfsOGLb4cPvSCp2-lgDbANQpenlTTn/s3430/IMG_0292.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2081" data-original-width="3430" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg54l1pYjQLCmamlM_Bm0AKpoUdgqggdVgYcEYPIcGrJH7MUJ-oK5HdqpXrYweLCAzucDvkESMWKMwswBAoACavvW3LzOf5Q-7-OrmJz7rExbJj34tZwkY6dseWUQ-aycZd9PjY75MxfBC0KY3J9qcDgBanjQLGhTZfsOGLb4cPvSCp2-lgDbANQpenlTTn/w400-h243/IMG_0292.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p> <b></b></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-68614302197216923932023-07-10T04:52:00.003-07:002023-07-10T05:00:52.841-07:00Just Roll<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcNySDPs1FQLMMfZExBfA4DHW1KgGFkkQPlqCCtY4B_EEdno-wk1KQMhsL2SIhaZmU6OOt6n22mP0uLUviQIXmOylRgT-PhjTTyhzgdkLWEN9jaTymNbgtqEbRWv6JG42nSyzI8WAfHpmmuwDstPFJG_1QCkIO40_8BxkTGA37rey-A_PIjVFnHLPHOQd/s2457/20140217_143205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1293" data-original-width="2457" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcNySDPs1FQLMMfZExBfA4DHW1KgGFkkQPlqCCtY4B_EEdno-wk1KQMhsL2SIhaZmU6OOt6n22mP0uLUviQIXmOylRgT-PhjTTyhzgdkLWEN9jaTymNbgtqEbRWv6JG42nSyzI8WAfHpmmuwDstPFJG_1QCkIO40_8BxkTGA37rey-A_PIjVFnHLPHOQd/w400-h210/20140217_143205.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><b><br />Writer's Note: <i>I've been driving Line 35 every day for a year now. Having had enough of the Dirty3, where maybe 50% pay fare and even more cause trouble, I was just... done. A very few of my regulars miss me, the troublemakers do not. It was the Dirty3 which taught me to be either sweet and sassy or terribly hardassed. I did not enjoy how often I had to be the latter. After 10 years as a bus operator, my bullshit meter just up and broke. The 35 features a professional lot of whom 90% or more actually pay for their ride, and their respect level is far and above the majority who I once ferried about for a pittance of appreciation.</i></b><p></p><p>Ahh, the benefit of seniority is finally showing itself after 300,000 miles behind the wheel. The longer you toil in the seat, the fewer the runs you are willing to sign. We all find our favorites and those less desirable, with a few in between you're willing to roll if the hours are enticing enough. I've found a niche of a route which allows me a certain freedom with my rush hour crowd. They allow me to be as real as I'm willing to be, to sneak a few sentences on the PA system where I hope to entice even a few of the high end of transit passengers a smile on their daily roll homebound. </p><p>It all depends on the mood. Mostly my own. If I'm grumpy, sore and tired, it's less likely for me to find the words other than "At this time of day, this bus does NOT service the stops on the Sellwood Bridge." Usually, the first few days of my week allow me to do as Dad told me: "have fun". </p><p>Dad's words have seen me do so in the sense of pure orneriness. Once, a passenger berated me for being late. Of course, it wasn't my fault to be behind schedule, and I drive the same no matter where the clock finds my ride. Looking in my driver side mirror, I saw my follower directly behind me. As we rolled, Joe Jerkoff kept up his tirade, whining about how my being late was ruining his life. As I pulled up to a stop, I mentioned to Joe that my follower directly behind me was <i>exactly on time</i>, perhaps a bit early, and that if he was so concerned about being "one time", perhaps the bus behind me was more to his liking. To my surprise and the amusement of my passengers, he exited. I chuckled with delight as he ran to the bus behind me and demanded to board.</p><p>Then there was a known troublemaker awaiting any bus at 5/Davis. After two paying passengers boarded, Whiskey Willy appeared. Remembering the last time he delayed my bus when I had to call for help after refusing him service, I found my most ornery side. "Hey dude," I shouted while simultaneously raising the bus, "did you drop that $20 over there?" He turned to look. I closed the door and floored it.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>A few years ago during the darkest moments of the pandemic, I took to the microphone in an attempt to encourage folks with messages of inspiration and humor. We were all wondering WTF about this supposed humanity killer. Everyone was on edge. Many saw their financial situation turned upside down as the early months saw the world just simply... STOP. I drove Line 9 back then (the inspiration for my short story "Love Renewed on a Bus" and novel-in-progress about a certain troll), which was normally a heavy-ridden ride until then. </p><p>So many folks were frightened, or refusing to believe "the media". Nerves were frayed, faces sad and worried. I felt the need to find their smiles again. It became my goal to give folks hope where everywhere else they only saw fear and dismay. Digging deep into my library, I found messages of hope to send to my fellow Portlanders.</p><h4 style="text-align: left;"><i></i></h4><blockquote><h4 style="text-align: left;"><i>"You are never given a wish without also being given the power to make it come true." </i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Richard Bach</span><i>.<br /></i><br /><i>"I believe every human has a finite amount of heartbeats. I don't intend to waste any of mine." </i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Neil Armstrong.</span></h4><h4 style="text-align: left;"><i>"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." </i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Maya Angelou.</span></h4></blockquote><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></h4><div><span style="font-weight: normal;">I didn't often hear responses when I shared these inspirational quotes. All I hoped was they reached my audience. What they did with the message was entirely up to them.</span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;">It uplifted me the number of times folks would walk from the rear of the bus to the front upon exiting, to quietly thank me for making an attempt to ease their fears with a message of hope. These personal connections meant a great deal to me, a bus operator at the forefront of the pandemic, needing my own uplifting in the constant fear that my life was in danger simply doing my job. </span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;">Having a connection with those I serve has always been vital to me, even when some encounters are less than rewarding or downright dangerous. My goal has always been to acknowledge my passengers one-by-one, to warmly welcome them to my ride. Most appreciate this greeting with a muted one of their own; some totally ignore me; a few look at me sideways with a distrustful smirk as if to say "What do you care?"</span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;">All this aside, my main goal is to safely ferry my passengers to their stop. Without scaring them with questionable driving techniques, or frightening confrontations with troublesome assholes. Not only does this goal make the ride <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTseTg48568" target="_blank">comfortably numb</a>, but it helps <i>me</i> get through a shift. I strive to be the shining moment of their day, to ease their soul even for the average 20 minutes of their ride. It's amazing what a smile and kind comment can do to ease someone's daily strife. When folks tell me they appreciate my roll, it's a welcome elixir for my anxiety-ridden soul.</span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal;">It's a rocky two-way street where bus transit is concerned. You can annoy an already-stressed operator if you're not "ready to board" when we arrive at your stop. Being hypnotized by your phone is not an excuse for failing to have your fare and belongings prepared when I roll up. No, the Cellphone Age hasn't changed the rules of transit: Buses Don't Wait for People; People Wait for Buses". (Oh, and please note that the plural of "bus" has only ONE "s"; damn that proper English anyway!)</span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div>To conclude this transit operator's ramble, it's vital that I recognize the "professional bus passenger". Thank you for being ready at the actual stop (the blue pole, NOT the shelter). We appreciate your being fare ready and efficient upon boarding, with acknowledgement of our greeting. Thank you for keeping your feet off the seats, for using headphones or otherwise keeping your audio to yourself, and for not arguing with your fellow passengers. Operating a bus is not easy, and anything you can do to promote a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-0lRkuNyj0" target="_blank">peaceful easy feeling</a> aboard helps us immensely.</div><div><br /></div><div>While I'm rolling wheels there's a constant soundtrack in my mind helping me along the way. Whether it's Steely Dan's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3nTMz1P09Uw" target="_blank">Deacon Blues</a> or James Taylor's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_77eQsFPm8" target="_blank">Traffic Jam</a>, Heart's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRKNXhG86VU" target="_blank">Crazy On You</a> or Aretha Franklin's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2v6ZEU4SLU" target="_blank">R-E-S-P-E-C-T</a>, you can be sure I'm in tune with my musical soul. Don't interrupt me with your own playback, folks... I don't NEED to hear it. Got my own song where I belong.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks for riding, thanks for reading. I'm going to bed now.</div><div> </div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-55137485210768305792023-06-11T09:12:00.500-07:002023-07-03T05:05:31.708-07:00CELEBRATING TRIMET'S FARE INCREASE!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19zLHKDVhCsb5aYdG1DWjtLuTrKhjRIO6Kd9fMz7Kb0bPrzmMTfKp7lTfR8sNdW94h8o2cmx3XxMhzEV2Snk0czlq-MJsA6uh8YI3BWadkJ1h0_xS80JVptiJSGOQUBx8nusGzEdNNIm1pi0GFt6TOakf6kB7I5RdZVJr9V9RCDVRkw1t8-iZz1bX_A/s4032/IMG_9524.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19zLHKDVhCsb5aYdG1DWjtLuTrKhjRIO6Kd9fMz7Kb0bPrzmMTfKp7lTfR8sNdW94h8o2cmx3XxMhzEV2Snk0czlq-MJsA6uh8YI3BWadkJ1h0_xS80JVptiJSGOQUBx8nusGzEdNNIm1pi0GFt6TOakf6kB7I5RdZVJr9V9RCDVRkw1t8-iZz1bX_A/w640-h480/IMG_9524.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b><br />Deke/Patrick's Note: <i>Please remember to click on anything underlined, as it represents a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6aogOR8c8Q4" target="_blank">musical gem</a> you might enjoy as an interlude while reading my posts. Each link will take you to a tune I have enjoyed while writing here, and also offers artistic value to these words offered. Meanwhile, thanks again for reading. It's been a while since I wrote this. It took some editing to remove the more-offensive remarks and replace them with hopefully more constructive criticisms of the world we roll within.</i></b><div><br /></div><div>After years of being punked by our former management, it's difficult to fully praise the new regime. Sam has had two full years to address changes necessary before Portland transit once again regains its worldwide excellence. His grade to date: C+. This is an improvement over his two predecessors by far, but he had a chance to improve to even an A- if he keeps listening to US rather than depending on his corporate leanings. Having met Sam and had a brief discussion, I remain hopeful he will surpass my naturally-skeptical feelings toward those who have occupied his current position.<p></p><p>Transit still fails to honor a full third of its workforce even more than its entirety. Any shift that begins after 3:00 p.m. is lost to the bankers' hours of transit management is largely ignored. <i>Corporate hours</i>. It fails my shift every "Transit Worker Appreciation Day", and any or every other honor bestowed upon its vaunted "full" workforce. If you don't fit within the Six-to-Five time slot, you simply don't count, unless you appreciate wilted leftovers. Night shifters collectively snort derisively every March 18, because it's evident our nightly efforts have never been part of this supposed "appreciation".</p><p>My bedtime is their alarm clock, my own signals the late afternoon they are winding down items on their "ToDo" lists. As I mutter my daily Mantra prepping me for another stressful shift no telling what will happen upon, they're texting the spouse regarding upcoming dinner plans. As they dine, I'm suffering the trials of rush hour traffic and heated disputes between transit management-pampered passengers. My life exists on a plane entirely opposite the time clock as those who are tasked with "managing" me. </p><p>As usual, the rubber-on-the-road workforce understands how transit <i>works</i>, from the ground UP. Instead of finding a more enlightened, "woke" (ha! there's a word for ya) management eager to reward us for the nightmare we just endured as "heroes", we're given a somewhat better version of what decimated our ranks during the pandemic. So many quit or retired in disgust over how we were treated during a worldwide pandemic, this agency had to offer a $7,500 bribe to entice people to work here. The worker shortage was so severe that, coupled with a sharp decline in ridership due to the fear of disease, transit had to sharply reduce service.</p><p>Now the pandemic has eased, management has an influx of new operators and Portland's high-end workforce dynamics have changed from office-based to remote. The service industry has amped up the past year, but it does not equal the massive numbers who once commuted to and from the city's core. One only has to tally the amount of empty storefronts and "For Lease" signs on once-bursting office buildings to see how our Central Business District has been perhaps forever altered by the devastation caused by a nearly-invisible virus. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGAdK1lmD4d6vnvIVx9qYMA1pL6EpKHEUzo4s1GvH59qxQx65ia9AIS5N0sAB9T1qk77I3-BR3lzi1n3xwHOu3GxUjRDPb_LBJil14TszUdB0Rgdde5-pHNWQrI1sGxY8d4Jt--Tbgoo_AYH2Y2ag8DZh5Jfm1SyzebDIienkv0mRVFI0QsVdESpQhRKGF" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3668" data-original-width="2273" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGAdK1lmD4d6vnvIVx9qYMA1pL6EpKHEUzo4s1GvH59qxQx65ia9AIS5N0sAB9T1qk77I3-BR3lzi1n3xwHOu3GxUjRDPb_LBJil14TszUdB0Rgdde5-pHNWQrI1sGxY8d4Jt--Tbgoo_AYH2Y2ag8DZh5Jfm1SyzebDIienkv0mRVFI0QsVdESpQhRKGF" width="149" /></a></div>Having survived my fling with the 'Rona, along with multitudes also-afflicted, I wonder what happens next. This past year, many of those just a few years senior to me have died due to Myocardial Infection. Supposedly, they were so-vaccinated as I am. Is this what my next few years offer? Am I to perish as my dear brother Bill's classmates did because they accepted the "jab"?<p></p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"Just a little pin prick. There'll be no more... <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QrWZNAQrkf4" target="_blank">AAAUUUGGGHH</a> (RIP Richard Wright)! But you may feel a little sick."</i></blockquote><p></p><p>We remained loyal to the job through two years of a pandemic once compared with the Black Plague yet fizzled in comparison. Its wake left a battered economy with the working class once again impoverished and frightened. Instead of rewarding our continued dedication falsely echoed in the empty phrase "Heroes Work Here", you used that money replenishing a workforce chased away or fired through heavy handed tactics. </p><p>Management has a new head who has offered (and delivered some) promising changes, but mid-management seems locked in a cycle of annoying incompetence. For example, one major top spot changed hands in the past year.</p><p>The new department head was reportedly thrust into a position with little or no documentation to ease their transition. This left them with the monumental task of building an entirely-new department upon one that had existed, in place for decades with reportedly no plans for a seamless transition to new leadership. This is plainly unheard of on so many levels of any management scheme. Even this blue collar worker of five decades has the ability to see how vital it is to communicate from one generation to the next. Isn't the need for continuity an <i>obvious stepping stone to success</i>? A <i>given</i> to any logically-thinking mind? Evidently, more emphasis is placed on "capital improvements" than internal competence. </p><p>Like I've always said, the higher you climb, the less oxygen is available.</p><p>As a result, at least one merit-based operator awards program has been stalled the past eight months while mid-management finds its own ass again. In Corporate America, this incompetence would not be tolerated. Each management position should be constantly evaluated, its methods and procedures documented for smooth transitions between directors. However, transit is rarely held accountable for its errors, while Operations personnel are often micromanaged and expected to pamper the trouble-causers and fare evaders who consistently make miserable our lives on the road. <i>Where transit actually W-O-R-K-S</i>.</p><p>Meanwhile, the "Bored of Directors" simply nods its collective bobbleheads at whatever is droned upon them every month. Anyone with disparaging remarks is limited to 180 seconds before "Sorry, your time has expired, we need a nap now." The day one of these governor-appointed do-nothing <i>dipshidiots</i> decides to grow a pair and actually look into what their agency is actually <i>doing</i>, I'll attempt a naked handstand at Pioneer Courthouse Square. (This spectacle might garner more notice than <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cb9bmS40J30" target="_blank">my last public speech there</a> which was cut short by an oversight of my own union "leadership" who had promised me five minutes then cut it to three because they forgot their own promise.) The possibility of either occurring are about as remote as politicians avoiding a chasm of free money.</p><p style="text-align: center;">* * * * *</p><p style="text-align: left;">WE are transit's long-heralded heroes. <b>100+ years </b>of Bus and Rail Operators, Station Agents, Trainers, Maintenance Workers, Road and Rail Supervisors. WE MAKE TRANSIT WORK. This remains the <i>ultimate truth</i>.</p>Pandemic aside, we endure whatever erupts before us. Concurrently, Management usurps our collective glory because it controls the media message. My vain attempts to convey the blue collar version pale in comparison to management's. They have allowed me to write simply because they are more powerful. My humble words simply whisper wind instruments where its own bellow the major horns.<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Then there's the local "special interest groups" who stomp their feet whenever transit attempts to adopt measures to limit ridiculousness on our rides. Lately, it was the meager fare increase which caught the whiny bitches all a Twitter. FORCE the tweakers to pay a penny more for their already unenforced-free ride, and woe to you! How <i>dare you</i> insist upon a pittance more for the best deal on a 24-hour ride all over town! Of all the nerve!<p style="text-align: center;"><b><u>NOTHING FREE or STOLEN, IS EVER VALUED!</u></b></p><p style="text-align: left;">We DESERVE to be honored, therefore, EVERYONE should PAY for transit. You could charge $10 for a day pass and it still would be for decades, the <i>best deal</i> in town. Try hiring a taxi, or Uber for such a deal. Ha! </p><p>I am profoundly exhausted by this whiny bullshit about how the poor are "unfairly" fared. Through my experience, Working Portland PAYS THEIR FARE. The pampered losers, failed drug addicts, drunks and other ne'er do wells FAIL to (no matter their skin color), yet are advocated for and protected by the most obnoxious. (OPAL, you garner NO respect from this transit worker who ferries your vaunted victims.)</p><p>Where are YOU, GREAT PORTLANDERS WHO PAY YOUR FARE WITHOUT WHINE? Pony up to offer some cheese to those who refuse! Please, SPEAK UP! You DESERVE to be heard above the whine of the thieves! Those who WORK for a living seem to have the faintest voice wherever "fare" is discussed.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgntdREMVE88xnk74blFayTV_Nr0ca5ROwGFVGf8D0kEc52gxOadzBopYzAktQITWLEEOKT1gkjWEhjW4VQAg_p6Se9xo9S7ogMiviLUb-5Fi_7gs4FX0GBjEzJ2swtZ5tmG5prwgRNHWlQUFg4VmPAGiy-ZFwtBumo9QGL3q8nFc62G9jPRO6E7l6DBQ/s4608/IMG_9759.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgntdREMVE88xnk74blFayTV_Nr0ca5ROwGFVGf8D0kEc52gxOadzBopYzAktQITWLEEOKT1gkjWEhjW4VQAg_p6Se9xo9S7ogMiviLUb-5Fi_7gs4FX0GBjEzJ2swtZ5tmG5prwgRNHWlQUFg4VmPAGiy-ZFwtBumo9QGL3q8nFc62G9jPRO6E7l6DBQ/w240-h320/IMG_9759.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>To "OPAL" and any other special interest groups for the lazy, drug-induced fare evaders of Portland, I say go away, shut up and stand down. As a transit bus operator, I see <i>what is what</i>. Those who <i>work</i>, <i>pay</i> their fare. Those who live off the system and fail to work or pay taxes and choose to "live off the grid", do NOT. There are THOUSANDS of fare-paying Portlanders who are sick of you standing up for the LEAST of US. Why can't you STAND for the honest and upstanding working-class who deserve a voice?</div><div><p></p><p>You whine about Fare Inspectors being "unfair" about "fare" yet ALL passengers are required to show paid fare, NOT just those for whom you allegedly advocate. Those who WORK, pay. Those who slack, EVADE. You <i>know</i> it's true.</p><p>Those of us who provide the service deserve infinitely more respect than your whining offal offer. Show US the respect we deserve for providing thousands of safe miles EVERY day we drive a bus, operate a MAX, LIFT or Street Car. We have provided Portland millions of safe miles over a century. What have your addicts contributed? Absolutely NOTHING of value.</p><p>We're working our collective ass off, paying exorbitant taxes and enduring attacks on working class decency demanding we bow down to the losers in life as our own lives suffer. What about US? Get a grip, and stand behind those who resist addiction amidst a world of horrors to power vast economies in every metropolis across the globe, rather than drain those who drive them.</p><p>Gallons of whine without the slightest bite of cheese: that is ALL you have to offer. You may have big hearts, but your brains are suffering a major malfunction. You celebrate the grifters, which insults those who work two to five jobs simply to support our families. We're not likely to feel sorry for the slackers who believe their "right to get high" beats our "right to fair pay for a hard day's work". Most of us were raised by parents who believed this, yet some believe that is "old fashioned bullshit". It’s still true and should always be so.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Tyac8d7Q6sTWaMUA4IXx8z1OeCVNlTDicjkPmlAaTqNhmYvgvx-Fc41hUevQEDNyUnWrABXFMDfVM-BL7QIKPUhKcH42pPvJKy4RJF_pMkw4d0Wxm--Is1JnQw82LI0kAmSAM54-MlquWjEnpf8kUHHo-OYCvO_NLAVVRYY2CLONzenmlYuCEBeRbhOi/s2560/20140721_130022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Tyac8d7Q6sTWaMUA4IXx8z1OeCVNlTDicjkPmlAaTqNhmYvgvx-Fc41hUevQEDNyUnWrABXFMDfVM-BL7QIKPUhKcH42pPvJKy4RJF_pMkw4d0Wxm--Is1JnQw82LI0kAmSAM54-MlquWjEnpf8kUHHo-OYCvO_NLAVVRYY2CLONzenmlYuCEBeRbhOi/w400-h225/20140721_130022.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Honest and decent Portlanders PAY their fare, and deserve the BEST we have to offer. The freeloaders/drug addicts/troublemakers deserve NOTHING, for they contribute the same. Let us move forward and beyond. Throw them in jail or ship them back from where they came. Hard-working Portlanders are tired of losers trashing our streets and openly doing drugs where tourists once freely-enjoyed our cherished Portland.<p></p><p>Therefore, I say to TriMet's "Bored of Directors": go beyond what you recently voted as a Fare Increase. Raise the 2.5 Hour Fare for Adults to $5.00; the Honored and Youth two hour and a half passes to $2.50. Make Day Passes for Adults $10 and Honored/Youths $5.00. It far surpasses the value of a taxi or Uber ride. Meanwhile, multiply the number of Fare Inspectors on buses and rail 500%. Ignore the whiny advocacy groups calling my brother/sister Fare Inspectors "Nazis". Such insulting bullshit should result in equally-aggressive enforcement. It would be a sign to your dedicated workforce that our services are more valued than the freeloaders' trouble causing antics we daily endure.</p><p>Until you have driven half a mile with bus or rail operators, your complaints register multiple ZEROES with US. Those whose skin color is darker than mine are collectively more fare-compliant and much less trouble-causing than those whose complexion more closely resembles my own.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7XMIX2aNBzUSnnsAa3Njz50UcpokUW_BdzvKuo5OhDChsE8w9VjMlx8KAvr8eiL84_V2v73TIsot6xbnyZf40hVkjCWnWauTQINLJzwUPfMEo_oa2zsfP2x8-2UC0ZYkDaNkEuXdjW5T0qJ4Jr4BJr60NNeZkq9vDa_Ob8iWC8_u3XppAPaHTErOmDHt4/s960/DekeProfile.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="959" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7XMIX2aNBzUSnnsAa3Njz50UcpokUW_BdzvKuo5OhDChsE8w9VjMlx8KAvr8eiL84_V2v73TIsot6xbnyZf40hVkjCWnWauTQINLJzwUPfMEo_oa2zsfP2x8-2UC0ZYkDaNkEuXdjW5T0qJ4Jr4BJr60NNeZkq9vDa_Ob8iWC8_u3XppAPaHTErOmDHt4/w200-h200/DekeProfile.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p>PORTLAND'S TRANSIT IS AWESOME! STAND WITH US! </p><p>We MOVE Portland. Thanks for riding.</p><p><br /></p><p>Love, Deke N. Blue</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p></div></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-9754292540543896582023-05-15T02:49:00.001-07:002023-05-15T02:49:46.181-07:00Celebrating My Return to Line Training<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHAfcHif1S-SS8wcO7Uyv3WQv3NJ7DxAvaG9xn7sYg5kuh2yygwhGGRGo5nWzzKXBmLwqY0yxqhit34LnFQDybuD7xMs7u6ARMtlC9LanJFqXvJppV-1bbxYE7Bwd7cJyARZSNFIsYCPrgTGP1MJNJ8k6tsGZPrcFG8t-mv7kfC5qPu670NCW8-nkAA/s4032/IMG_9401.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHAfcHif1S-SS8wcO7Uyv3WQv3NJ7DxAvaG9xn7sYg5kuh2yygwhGGRGo5nWzzKXBmLwqY0yxqhit34LnFQDybuD7xMs7u6ARMtlC9LanJFqXvJppV-1bbxYE7Bwd7cJyARZSNFIsYCPrgTGP1MJNJ8k6tsGZPrcFG8t-mv7kfC5qPu670NCW8-nkAA/w300-h400/IMG_9401.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br />Patrick's Note: <i>Seems I've wandered from this blog of late, but it remains with me each heartbeat. Where I once flooded these pages with posts, now I write occasionally. After a long week of helping new hires smooth out their skills, I'm full of newfound hope for Portland transit.</i></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Life as a bus operator is more than rolling through the curves and bouncing over Portland's ill-kept pavement. It's a deep connection with those whose lives comprise a city's heartbeat. </p><p>As I have become a decade-long guardian of passenger safety, my own soul has been through dozens of catharses. Rolling through the best, and worst of times, dodging physical or idealogical bullets. Weavinga safe roll through a myriad of angry protesters demanding we strive to do better for one another, I have felt the city's pulse. I have also contributed to it whether consciously or viscerally. </p><p>Along the thousands of miles logged, I have made scores of deep connections with Portland's enchanting residents. Some have become friends, even as decades-hardened operators once warned me against cultivating such connections. It's just how I have always rolled, folks. If you're intriguing, I will engage you. If we connect, it's a wonderful moment in time. Some of these casual relationships may take extended time to develop. Once they realize I consistently guide them safely to their destination, the bars which isolate them from my constantly heartfelt greetings gradually bend. Only to dissolve, as they realize I truly care their safety. Even those who cause trouble on my ride deserve the best I can offer.</p><p>After a two-year hiatus from accepting trainees onto my ride, I recently resumed Line Training. After decades of only adding one dollar per hour for this valuable service to Portland transit, they finally raised it by 350%. Management changed our title to "Line Coach", but I resent that. To guide newbies, give them the benefit of my experience and resulting knowledge of this profession, is not "coaching". It is the final stage of their "training". Their weeks of prior training propelled them into my world. They have progressed to the point where they are ready to experience what I do every day "out there". <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsoR1yIW1QwQEfWb8NsP_6Ro7d1qBD0mane1J6f5DRVNlTYpuvvoVy9LS1meAkXyr8l6l5uAiIe6ItqHNmRxtYWKEuDfUzmp5501hrYYI7cvcXkOohUDy-9dguJEfOMwmSP_q6AlsLGlfoSh4hdo547vOKPPVB1kWiTq8GdKoVnQxRVMqf6LDECRYLA/s2360/IMG_9320.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2360" data-original-width="1617" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsoR1yIW1QwQEfWb8NsP_6Ro7d1qBD0mane1J6f5DRVNlTYpuvvoVy9LS1meAkXyr8l6l5uAiIe6ItqHNmRxtYWKEuDfUzmp5501hrYYI7cvcXkOohUDy-9dguJEfOMwmSP_q6AlsLGlfoSh4hdo547vOKPPVB1kWiTq8GdKoVnQxRVMqf6LDECRYLA/s320/IMG_9320.jpeg" width="219" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Random image in marble, <br />downtown restroom. To me,<br />it resembles the face of<br />a new transit operator<br />facing the rigors <br />of our profession.</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Throughout the shift I teach them how to refine what they have been taught, through my own perspective and experience. Each Line Trainer provides them tips gleaned through many miles of mistakes and lessons learned. In some ways, our discussions can be even more valuable than what they have already been taught. While my Trainer's words remain a decade later in the recesses of my memory, those of my Line Trainers echo even louder for they come with real-life experiences.</p><p>Teaching others helps me slip out of bad habits, for I don't want to teach someone to do this job <i>incorrectly</i>. No matter how we may believe our years make us better, time also can guide us down the wrong paths. So this added responsibility forces me to guide my Beast even safer than before. Win-win on both ends, I hope.</p><p>The past week, I have been treated to four new operators on my bus. Each has survived not only a rigorous interview process but also six weeks of intense training where half their class may have been cut. Only the cream rises to attain Line Trainee status. Even then, some may not make the final cut. Of a class of 30, maybe only half will actually graduate. A Line Trainer not only teaches, but consoles fears of failure through calm guidance. We advise these new hires how to avoid pitfalls, mistakes which could cost them not only a job but also another's serious injury or death.</p><p>To those who ride our vehicles, be assured the Operator is much more than the "monkey" some think are capable of providing your safe ride. When I began this strange odyssey in 2012, we only had one "Hell Week" of Line Training. Now, newbies must endure 10 days of possibly the most-stressful part of their training. It's a good thing Management has done here. Extending Line Training will result in more-confident new hires likely to progress long past their probation, while prior classes probably resulted in only a 25-30% success rate.</p><p>Our newest Operators now graduate straight into full time work 50-70 hours a week, rather than being restricted to Mini Runs (30 hours). Many are immediately thrown onto the Extra Board, where they will have a minimum of 15 minutes to prepare for a route they have never experienced. With that extra week of Line Training, they are more apt to survive the treacherous rigors than their predecessors have. Although it's rare, I find myself applauding upper management for this decision to extend training during perhaps its most-valuable segment.</p><p>My best wishes to all four this past week's students on my bus: Armando, Luis, Ben and Matt. Each of you has some work to do yet, but I'm confident in your abilities and I'm sure you will excel to achieve decades of safe service. Just remember my mantra. Adapt it to fit your own soul, but it has buoyed me through some of my toughest moments on the job:</p><p><b><i>"Be Safe. Be Kind. Be Considerate. Be Thoughtful. Be Polite. Be PATIENT. Be Vigilant. Be Smart. Be Smooth. But above all, Be Safe."</i></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTJtPuP6sJrlT_NAWp3vU55kBl-zpiYEIL6dnp_gdC9a5XVF3HFhKZjkuclhx2RSyx5pHCjOX0YAtA2fjoxRZ2H3aUDyq8S_4qWpV2wc7gAG4H2waCPK-sWdCCPo-PiVdpgcg0f_DAn6_DtAad8FD1sxblOTh_YRWdv4iVNtx77y_h2BR89i0aYpkZQ/s3247/IMG_9406.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3247" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTJtPuP6sJrlT_NAWp3vU55kBl-zpiYEIL6dnp_gdC9a5XVF3HFhKZjkuclhx2RSyx5pHCjOX0YAtA2fjoxRZ2H3aUDyq8S_4qWpV2wc7gAG4H2waCPK-sWdCCPo-PiVdpgcg0f_DAn6_DtAad8FD1sxblOTh_YRWdv4iVNtx77y_h2BR89i0aYpkZQ/s320/IMG_9406.jpeg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-57476186542496544592023-05-02T05:22:00.004-07:002023-05-02T05:28:23.614-07:00Story Worth Submitting?<b>Patrick's Note:<i> I crafted this piece of fiction during my pandemic terror in March, 2020. Nobody knew if any would emerge alive. For all intents and purposes, life had stopped. None of us knew what "post pandemic" world awaited us. I was scared, like you. Fervently masked and as sterile as humanly possible, I dared the reality confronting me as a transit operator. Through the mass induced hysteria, I came up with this scenario whilst operating Line 9. This story exploded one night after a particularly-strange trip. Maybe it's worth presenting to one of thousands of writing contests. Maybe not. You be the judge.</i></b><div><br /></div><div><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter", serif; font-size: 36pt;">Love Renewed on a Bus<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><b><i>By Patrick Brian Coomer<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><b><i>© 2023</i></b></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ofPmPAVfWI-uxe0xmW9Fo9X46LMUoyeWViYa8XVKWywB02Sx8gAMrhorc5OeqvoFVRJhCQ2gV_yUafSBkEx5NgDLLNJW9iTH_bTyKNosp0sGcoqX7VU_158LSZrDtq2qth1orOnJSWYo5MsrL9lpzMHc87VfZHQIAj5TfdwQ0qClflZtsFUOhimRZA/s3648/CB319EA4-6E89-4E3F-87FB-23DCBE0A7237.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ofPmPAVfWI-uxe0xmW9Fo9X46LMUoyeWViYa8XVKWywB02Sx8gAMrhorc5OeqvoFVRJhCQ2gV_yUafSBkEx5NgDLLNJW9iTH_bTyKNosp0sGcoqX7VU_158LSZrDtq2qth1orOnJSWYo5MsrL9lpzMHc87VfZHQIAj5TfdwQ0qClflZtsFUOhimRZA/w400-h300/CB319EA4-6E89-4E3F-87FB-23DCBE0A7237.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span class="s1"><br />Anne didn’t know what led her to the bus stop that Monday morning. Habit, more or less. The start of a week which would be as never before, nor ever again.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Her hose was torn, clothing semi-fresh. Electric had cut off two nights ago during the rinse cycle. Everything had changed in five days.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Was her firm was still operating? Doom bloomed in shades of black grey, but Anne continued as if nothing had happened.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">But life’s finality <i>had</i> happened. The facts assaulted her from every direction. She was not able to accept the truth, because it had no comparable reality.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">A week earlier, she braved a late-winter blizzard to catch Line 9 at the Powell/Milwaukie westbound stop. To <i>work</i>. That then-constant trek to do another’s bidding. For beans, not quite cooked. Anne tapped her transit pass, pivoting her eyes away from the bus driver. No contact desired nor notice of that annoying “Gene the too-happy bus driver” bouncing off her hardened shell.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>He’s just a </i>fucking<i> bus driver</i>, she thought. <i>Just drive the bus like you’re paid to. It’s too damn </i>early<i> to be smiling</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne settled uneasily next to last night’s hangover. In the full rush hour bus, there was no other choice. She hated standing because it disrupted her musical balance.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Just inches away, Jim Beam’s poster boy was snoozing the night off, unaware of anything around him. His week-old stubble accentuated last decade’s BudLight T-shirt. He didn’t notice the exquisitely dressed legal secretary sitting next to him wearing lavender perfume.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>Good thing he’s out of it</i>, she thought<i>. Good grief, how he </i>reeks!</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Amidst an abnormal amount of coughing and sneezing, Anne registered nothing over the noise-cancelling headphones blasting her favorite Tedeschi Trucks tune. <i><u>Sweet and Low</u></i> helped prep her for the coming onslaught of legal briefs for attorneys demanding impossible deadlines. She dreamed of a future lover cuddling her on a brisk January eve. She sighed, resigned to yet another silky fantasy.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne snorted in condescension. Perhaps her father was right, a law degree <i>would</i> elevate her from bottom-feeder hell to greatness.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“With just a bit of work,” he once told her, “you will rise well above the hopeless nobodies.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>Like Gene, the bus driver</i>. God help her if <i>his</i> ilk was all her future held.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne considered Gene <i>unskilled labor</i>. However, his people skills were superb. He always complimented her style while extending warm greetings, which she routinely ignored yet secretly enjoyed. Nobody else complimented her carefully groomed hair, immaculate and stylish fashion, and understated array of half-moon jewelry. Her side of the moon was left; Daddy wore the right.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene was intent upon catching her attention. She thought he was flirting. But why would a 60-something guy do so with a 23-year-old? <i>Disgusting</i>. Still, his kindness was intriguing as her music muted his greetings.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">This bus operator smiled, complimenting everyone. Greeting many by name. They responded warmly. A grandmotherly type kissed him on his cheek as he spread his arms in a loud and boisterous greeting. Her husband followed, smiling broadly. Anne watched these moments with disgust.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>Smarmy and unbecoming a gentleman</i>, she scoffed. Flirtatious, perhaps? After months of observation, she gradually doubted it. From her lofty perch, she wondered why Gene was so upbeat. Was that the only way he could reconcile himself to his monotonous career?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">She exited the bus at 6</span><span class="s2"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="s1"> and Alder, this time using the front door.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Thank you,” she said. Gene was briefly startled, but his smile remained. It was the first time she had spoken to him, and he had driven her ride for 10 years.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“No,” he replied, “thank <i>you</i>! And don’t forget to <i>sing</i> today, Annie. Hope you accomplish something memorable!” He winked at her and flashed his trademark grin.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne stopped in her tracks, staring at him, mouth open. She had planned to disarm his supposed faux charm. Instead, Anne nodded curtly and stepped off.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Dodging the homelessness smothering the bus stop, she nimbly stepped off in a daze. How could he</span> <span class="s1"><i>know</i> her nickname, or that she sang?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Since childhood, she had cultivated a lovely alto-soprano voice through thousands of hours of lessons and practice. Diligently working her way up through the St. Patrick’s Cathedral Youth Choir to become junior lead soprano at 14, she hoped to become an understudy to the Great Lupe Armas with the Portland Opera.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne didn’t realize anyone <i>heard</i> as she sang along to her tunes on the bus.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene heard <i>everything</i> on his bus. He politely asked people to silence the audio on their cellphones several times a shift. Harmoniously attuned to the mechanical sounds of his rolling office, he needed to hear street noises, escalating passenger drama and <i>anything</i> besides artificial nonsense. He loved hearing Anne sing. Gene’s father had been a gifted tenor; he instantly recognized talent.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b>* * * * *</b></span><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">This winsome lass who projected rudeness was the niece of Gene’s favorite passenger. Anne’s Uncle Dan was Gene's drinking partner at Kell's Pub, and regularly rode his relief trip. Dan always spoke highly of his spirited niece.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“She has always been a cute lil’ songbird,” Dan told him. “Since she was about, say, three or so, ’Lil Annie (that’s what I call her even though my sister <i>hates</i> it), has sung her way through life. It has always been hard for her because she’d rather sing to herself than talk to others.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I don’t know how she stomachs those lawyers. Must drive her absolutely ratshit. Only person I know she actually <i>talks</i> to is her papa. They are inseparable, those two.” Dan shook his head, his wistful smile replacing a pained smirk.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene smiled at the connection. Dan's description confirmed the lovely songbird's identity.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">From that point on, Gene worked diligently to crack Anne’s hard shell. Then, the pandemic intervened. It drew them close with a force neither could have ever imagined.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1">* * * * *</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene walked into a mostly-silent garage. Station Agent Alvin was genuinely surprised to see him.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Gene!” Alvin exclaimed. “You’re a welcome sight!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">He gratefully shook his friend’s hand. Gene and Alvin were classmates, having risen together through tumultuous decades of Corporata's assault upon transit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“God, it’s good to see you, lad. How’s the family?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Alvin bowed his head, gradually glancing back upward. “Better than most. Lost Mom and Dad a few weeks back, but the wife and kids are still healthy, thank God.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“That’s wonderful news, regardless,” Gene said, ending it with a painful sigh both recognized.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Both your parents were very dear to me,” Gene added. “They were my Line Trainers. Their lessons have guided me for decades in this job, buddy. My condolences to you, little brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">They shared a silence.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Alvin smiled in pain, his head drooping. A river of tears rushed down his cheeks. Another moment of silence. Neither wanted the other to see his face.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Seems we fared better than most,” Gene said quietly, reaching for something good through his own pain.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Alvin sniffed, wiping his eyes with a shirt sleeve. His red eyes rose to meet Gene's.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Yeah, but we’re not alone,” Alvin said, his voice choking on emotion. “Al Bones was in a while ago to drive his Dirty 3, and a few Extra Board ops are out there too. Other than that, I’ve had a couple hundred call-ins and the other garages are about the same.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Alvin sobbed a snort. Fingers poised upon his desk, eyes dripping grief in a brief interlude, he continued.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Forty operators died over the past seven hours. We might salvage a few ops out of all this. But the calls… they’re so damn sad. Their husbands, wives, children... calling in...” At this, Alvin stopped. Unable to speak, his shoulders tremored. He turned away and walked back to snatch a tissue from a hidden alcove behind the counter.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Both men grieved. Over 750 of their co-workers had perished. The toll was too heavy for either to comprehend. Of the Portland metro population of 2.5 million souls, maybe 70,000 remained.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Stores were ransacked, food supplies virtually exhausted. Trash uncollected, the wind flitted it about the few vehicles venturing into a world punctuated with gunfire between factions of militia wannabes. Most survivors locked themselves in their homes, and neighborhoods consolidated whatever stores they had to form collectives.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">There were no public services; the government had instantly dissolved into nothingness. Nobody knew how many were left to lead them through their viral hell.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Somehow, <b><i>transit</i></b> survived. It rolled mostly empty buses and trains through deserted streets. Humanity vainly attempting to justify itself against the odds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Every city department was down to just a few souls. They didn’t even know if they would be paid, or what <i>that</i> would mean. Banks were closed. There was no longer an <i>economy</i>. Survivors believed they needed to <i>go</i> places, even if there was nobody to serve them at whatever destination. Any attempt at normalcy was all anyone could do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b>* * * * *</b></span><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“You have Bus 4055 for your 902,” Alvin told him, handing Gene a trip sheet and a roll of ticket paper. Gene shoved it back across the counter.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Nobody needs to pay now,” Gene said. “I haven’t accepted fare in two weeks.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Yeah,” Alvin said, “I get it. But Norm insists we give it out anyway.” They both laughed at the absurdity of the lone upper-management guru.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Fuck him,” Gene said, laughing. “What’s he gonna do, <i>fire</i> me?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Alvin chuckled. “He might try, but I say we <i>both</i> kick his ass. I’ll go left and you hit him with an undercut.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene smiled. He shook Alvin’s hand again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Hey bud, you all set?” Gene asked. “I just shot a deer on my street a few days ago, so my freezer’s stocked. Until the electricity goes away.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Alvin sighed. “We may have to take you up on that. Thanks. Where you holed up?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I just took possession of an ancient Victorian three blocks away,” he replied. “Had to bury the former occupants in the schoolyard, but I don’t think they mind my being there. 1420 Center Street. Come over later, I’ll throw some steaks on the coals. Got some potatoes and veggies from their garden too. It’ll be good to have some sense of normalcy. Say, around 6?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“We’re there, bro,” Alvin replied. “Hey I found a whole shelf of Scotch at a liquor store. Want me to bring a bottle?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Bring three,” Gene chuckled. “<i>Slainte</i>. We’ll put it to good use. We can always call in sick tomorrow.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Both laughed.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I don’t want a 4000-series bus,” Gene said. “Can’t I have a 3500? They’re a lot easier to drive and my back hurts like </span><em>fuck</em><span class="s1">.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“There’s only fuel in a few and Norm dictates we drive the newest ones. A 3500 would likely leave you on the side of the road with nobody to rescue you. Sorry, man.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Oh well,” Gene said, “this may be the last time I have to do this anyway. I’ve gone from 230 in seniority to about 15 in a week. Guess I can suffer through another shift in those new bastards. I miss the 2600s... they had some <i>zip</i>!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Be <i>safe</i> out there man,” Alvin said. “Lots of gunshots out on Powell lately. We’re on 135</span><span class="s3"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="s1"> and I can’t sleep well at night because of the warfare out there. Even my 11-year-old sleeps with a loaded 12-gauge by his bed.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I hear ya, bud,” Gene replied. “Why don’t you move closer in? There’s a bunch of empty places here in the Brooklyn. Safety in numbers, and a few of us have taken over the area. It would be a lot closer commute anyway.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">They both laughed. Suddenly, each realized this might be their last time as interacting transit employees.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“You’d better get out to your bus,” Alvin said with mock authority. "It’s way past 902’s pullout time and you know how Norm loves optimum On-Time Performance stats.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene laughed. “Fuck Norm and the bus he don’t know how to drive. But yeah, I’m outta here after I make the bladder gladder and grab a cup o’ joe from that pot I smell back in your domain.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Have a full Thermos to go,” Alvin said, swinging open the door separating the bullpen from his previously restricted area. “Just be sure to leave me a few cups. Stores running low here.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Gotcha brother,” Gene said, pausing to give his friend a bear hug when the door opened. Alvin hugged back, holding on just a moment longer than usual. They separated without looking at each other. Their love for one another thusly stated, nothing more was necessary.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene poured the entire pot’s content into his Thermos, but made sure to get another pot brewing. Sliding the steaming cauldron into his backpack, he strode out the door without looking back.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Ten minutes later, he guided his bus out of the yard, onto 17</span><span class="s3"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="s1"> Avenue and the Center Garage stop, where he paused to pray. Then, he pointed it northbound. He didn't even look for traffic. There was none.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1">* * * * *</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne was dreaming a moment with her parents a few months earlier as she waited for the bus. It seemed years ago. T<i>oday</i>, Gene was the only person she desperately <i>needed</i> to see. Everyone else was dead.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>“Daddy</i>! </span><em>No, no no no… NO</em><span class="s1">! Please let this be a fucking nightmare! I want to WAKE UP! PLEASE GOD, LET ME WAKE UP! DADDY? Why aren’t you answering me? FUCK FUCK FUCK!</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>“PLEASE GOD… make it ALL… just… go away.”</i></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">This disharmonic soliloquy sent her into spasms of grief. Grunting sobs, fist-clenching cries exploded outward. With nobody to notice, she allowed herself to mourn.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne needed somebody to lean on. After years of turning inward for solace, her soul screamed for acceptance. Gone was no longer her stubborn snobbery. It had been replaced by a sudden desperation for that once-scorned hug from humanity at-large.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">She had depended solely upon her father for love and support. No boys in high school had his charm, his good looks or impeccable character. All they wanted was </span><em>sex</em><span class="s1">. No thanks, she told them. It wasn’t some quaint desire to protect her virginity. Just disinterest. None of the males she knew had the ability to engage in intelligent conversation. They also lacked interest in her thoughts or dreams. She found them all boorish, unworthy of her tempestuously artistic soul.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Now Anne wished one of those foolish boys <i>had</i> hit the mark, having survived to find her during this awful week. She was horrifyingly, completely… <i>alone</i>. In the span of five days, she lost all those who suffered her aloofness yet remained her closest confidantes.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Not only Dad, but Mom, Sis and her two brothers, Uncle Pete, Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Andy along with their newborn twins. Georgie, Hans, Moddit, Mary, Sam, Bird, Roger… all <i>dead</i>. Each of them and everyone on the fringes. Of her three closest friends, none of them answered her calls. It was paralytic; one short week when numbness replaced confidence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b>* * * * *</b></span><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The <i>flu</i>. A stupid little virus had killed nearly all the world’s population in less than three weeks. The bug hit Portland like a sledgehammer in the form of holy rollers. They lit up the Convention Center with devoted gyrations upon the unholy scepter of promised “redemption”, then sent forth missionaries who infected hundreds of unsuspecting Portlanders with their hidden assassin: the vastly lethal King Virus. Those infected returned home, and the bug infected entire locales. It ravaged Earth like a wildfire consuming a shriveled forest.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Only the strongest escaped King's deadly grip. Most perished within a few days of contracting the virus. Those who survived wished they had been taken away as well, for they faced the nightmare of survival.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Meanwhile, other animals began to flourish. Humanity’s deathly pollution quickly subsided. The Earth began to reclaim itself after 200 years of abuse by those who now perished without so much as a daylong whimper. As money lost value, humans became even more violent. People were murdered for a stash of Lay’s Potato Chips. Gunfire was a signal to find shelter.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Governments were castrated by humanity’s assassin. They initially downplayed the virus, their inaction vainly masking their inability to contain it. Within days, leaders became violently ill, then died. Only those unknowingly gifted a simple variation in human DNA were immune.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;">There was no news. No internet activity, radio, television or any other means of communication. In some areas, a few had communicated via ham radio. In some cases, they briefly united only to find each other stubbornly retaining political divides.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;">Mother Earth had long needed to cleanse itself of humanity’s poisonous grasp. Inevitably, the one species which should have saved itself, <i>could</i> not. This shining blue planet found its healing nirvana through humanity's near extinction.<o:p></o:p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;">The sounds via which humanity roared for millennia were forever silenced. The wind rose victorious to accompany the birdsong soaring to reclaim nature’s harmony.<o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">It was hard for Anne to function with any semblance of sanity. She hoped it was just a lucid nightmare. Her dismissive behavior toward others had sustained her to that point. Now, everything she knew was horribly obsolete. She wasn’t ready to become responsible for those <i>weaker</i> than she.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1">* * * * *</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">So it was, that morning as Anne arrived at her bus stop. It was habit, comforting in its commonplace ritual. She rose at 6:00 as her cell phone alarm chimed. Allowing herself one blissful snooze setting, Anne’s dream continued. Dad tugging at her hand, urging her forward as she marveled the scent of yet another spring bloom at Washington Park’s International Rose Test Garden. Mommy laughing at his corny dad jokes. The sun bathing Tilikum Crossing’s glaringly-white cable stays. Puffy Tyrannosaurus-Rex clouds chasing Bugs Bunny into Mr. Rogers’ cardigan sweater. Her skin felt the warmth of the sun, turning pink in preparation of bronzing her into beauty.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>Bleepity-ring-a-bitty-do</i>. The phone implored Anne to rise into today’s new round of despair. Hands moved to her eyes, which immediately filled with tears. She writhed in anger and disbelief. She wasn't sure of which to be more afraid: nightmares of a comforting past, or the horrors of the now.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne blew her nose and sat up. Her senses clearing, she decided this strange new world demanded calm resolve. Daddy would have insisted.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">She rose and showered, applying light makeup (a dash of blush and dawn’s touch of lipstick). She chose a bright-yellow blouse to accent a sky-blue skirt, with a green tartan Scottish cashmere scarf (purchased on her 18</span><span class="s2"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="s1"> birthday trip to Edinburgh with her father). Perhaps hysteria-induced eccentricity led helped her pick the red Converse high-tops with bright-orange laces.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne exited and locked the door. Eyes glued to the sidewalk, the quarter-mile trek to the bus stop seemed longer than usual. She realized her headphones still hung upon the bedside lamppost and dismissed the urge to turn back. This accessory's absence was negligible in light of a reunification with normalcy she hoped awaited her.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Each step echoing between the mostly-empty homes along Rhine Street, she trudged toward Milwaukie Avenue and turned right. The early-morning sunshine felt good. All she could hear were birds, a weird departure from the din of motorists honking angrily while racing to the next red light.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><em>Silence</em><span class="s1"> assaulted her senses. No conversations from hordes of coffee-sippers dreading another workday.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">An empty Line 66 bus roared past as Anne waited to cross Powell. It was the only vehicle in either direction, so she crossed the street against the light. A block ahead, the rail crossing blared a MAX train’s approach. A few moments later, she reached her stop at Powell/Milwaukie. Eight minutes ahead of schedule.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The normally busy intersection was silent; no traffic awaited the timed signals.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">None a week prior realized they would be dead in a few days, headed to their non-existent funerals. No traffic, except a <i>Coca-Cola</i> delivery truck, its driver with nothing to deliver except his own grief.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Comfortably numbed by her headphone symphonics, she previously avoided noise. Today’s soda truck was the only semblance of normalcy in her new reality.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>Where the hell was it going</i>? Its very presence was disturbing. Anne wondered if the driver would trade Diet Coke in return for her companionship. She nodded at him as he drove by, and he returned the gesture in solidarity of their survivorship.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne stood, hands clenched tightly at her waist, her lithe body stooped like someone 40 years older. Hoping, even <i>praying,</i> to hear the familiar hum of rush hour traffic. Instead, only birds. Millions, singing more <i>happily than normal</i>. Amply</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="s1">celebrating humanity’s reckless self-destruction.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Two blocks away, the railroad crossing alarms once again blared through the eerie calm, startling her from aggrieved numbness. Normally, traffic would dull that noise, but in today’s silence it was piercing.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>At least the MAX is still running</i>. Each clickety-clack of the empty light rail car’s wheels was amplified a thousandfold.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne collapsed to her knees and began to laugh. Then just as suddenly, tears flowed down her cheeks and she spiraled into hysterics.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>“Where’s Gene</i>? You’re FUCKING LATE YOU BASTARD!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">He wasn’t. Still, she beat her fists on the sidewalk. Anne prayed he was still alive, still driving the bus she needed to come. It was now 7:20:45, almost a full minute prior to his normal arrival time. Anne’s watch was two minutes behind her phone, because she rarely synched them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Was Gene gone, like most of the city? She sobbed, begging any cursed entity to deliver her last hope of normalcy to that lonely street corner.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">After a few moments, she heard the hum of a diesel engine accelerating up the incline from the rail underpass at 17</span><span class="s2"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="s1"> Avenue. It was entirely too loud to be true. Anne glanced eastward to make sure her ears and eyes connected. Sure enough, a bus approached, its overhead sign read “9 to Portland/Masks Required”. As it drew close, she saw the route sign in the right corner of the windshield declaring it was indeed “902”.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne stared, hoping to see Gene in the seat. She couldn’t tell… the operator was obscured by early morning sunshine. Anne waved frantically. Shading her eyes, she squinted in desperation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>Is it Gene? Lord, PLEASE let it be him!</i></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The light turned green, and Anne raced toward the pole, waving both arms. She was intent on making sure the bus <i>stopped</i>. It didn’t matter if anyone occupied her office. She <i>had</i> to ride this bus at least one more time. Whoever drove it, she needed to greet them. To thank them for being there even though they had also lost those dearest them. To have another human to talk to after a weekend from hell, watching everyone she had ever loved fall into oblivion.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The previous silence was dimmed by the diesel engine’s slowing, air brakes assisting the 20-ton Gillig easing into the stop.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Bus No. 3505 stopped, but the doors didn’t open. Anne stared, but the operator was looking down, facing left, his back to her. Finally, the bus door eased open. To Anne’s ecstatic surprise, Gene swung his barrier open and walked out, enveloping her in a deep, fatherly hug.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Tears dripped from his eyes. Never having had any meaningful conversation, operator and passenger were equally overjoyed to see one another. While one week ago she sneered at him, now she eagerly returned his hug. A full minute passed as they poured out their collective grief in a mutual embrace. He swung her through the air, jubilantly celebrating their reunion.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene had lost not only his beloved wife, but also his entire family, numbering 22 loved ones and scores of friends, coworkers and passengers. He boarded only two passengers since the transit center. Empty again at the 82<sup>nd</sup> time point, he stopped for 10 minutes. There, he simply cried. He missed the early-morning grumps, sullen teenagers enroute to high school, the sullen drunks not ready to awaken. Hoping to see at least one of his regulars, he was rewarded when Al boarded at 52<sup>nd</sup> Street. Both were relieved each other survived.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Now, Gene’s grief was etched into his smiling soul. His sobs shook Anne’s slight frame. Her own attempted to match his. Anne felt genuinely sorry for him despite her own grief.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne began to feel <i>empathy</i> for the first time in her life. At first, his hug had been a great shock. No other male other than her father or a rare uncle had bestowed such affection upon her. Gene’s sobs echoed off the piano store walls across Powell. Rocking to and fro, holding her tighter with each sway, he murmured into her ear how ecstatic he was to see her. <i>Alive</i>.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne began to sob with him. Each heave of her chest brought them closer together. Time stood still while Anne patted Gene’s back, soothing him. Her formerly icy resolve weakened as their combined sadness consumed the moment.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">He began to calm, but still held her close. He felt like he was hugging the ghost of his beloved daughter. He realized Anne had likely lost many of her own family. Their tears mingled, becoming a shared river of grief.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>Finally</i>. For two days, she had hidden within a shroud of denial. Now, she was no longer alone. Her unlikely rescuer reigned from the operator’s seat of a 20-ton city bus.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b>* * * * *</b></span><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Seated inside the bus, Al watched Gene cradle the young lady, each begging solace. Their embrace reaffirmed his belief that love reigned supreme through that which had devastated humanity.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Al chose the back door to exit. He had nowhere else to go, and feared the unbridled violence Downtown Portland offered. Preferring the serenity of strolling through a peaceful yet ghostly neighborhood to the unknown terrors ahead, Al eased his walker to the sidewalk. He paused, watching Gene and the equally-aggrieved lass. He smiled at the sight, remembering his reunion with his Flora when he returned safely from World War II. This reunion was different, but weirdly the same, a few days divided by years.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The morning sun was brightly upon them. Looking down, Al felt lucky to have nobody left to grieve. He was 92, childless, an only son of parents gone six decades earlier. He accepted loneliness. Surprised the pandemic had spared him, he was sad for those left behind. He believed his survival must have purpose. Not knowing what it was, he would accept whatever happened.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Al shuffled up to Gene and Anne. Murmuring words of consolation, placing both his hands upon them. Both wrapped their free arm around Al, forming a triumvirate of comfort. Their tears ended as he drew them close. Massaging their shoulders, he helped them grieve. Al was all too familiar with that emotion. He knew too many who failed to feel, then later perished from prolonged heartbreak.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne broke the group hug to reach into her purse. She offered them tissues before taking one for herself. Each used theirs, backs turned to one another in practiced embarrassment. As they turned toward each other, each chuckled.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I guess we needn’t feel shame for shedding tears,” Al said. “Nobody but us to see them.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“<i>We</i> are here,” Anne said, “and I’m glad. At least we can share our grief. I’ve been <i>so</i> alone the past three days! I showed up hoping Gene would bring some normalcy to this nightmare. You and your damn cheery goodwill shit.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“<i>There</i> you are,” Gene said softly. “I’m so glad to see you again, lass.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I missed me too,” Anne said, smiling.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Oh,” Gene sighed, “how I have longed to hear your voice, <i>Annie girl</i>.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne was shocked. “<i>What</i>? That’s what Uncle Dan called me!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">She stared dumbstruck up at Gene, not understanding how he could possibly know her uncle’s pet name for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Al’s ears perked up at this point. He knew Dan too, having had many fascinating conversations with a fellow WWII veteran. He had also learned to love Anne without being introduced. He sat, refreshing his pipe with a bulge of what his sons once called “Barnyard No. 9”. Lighting the pile, he settled back to absorb the unfolding love story.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene stepped closer to the fragile girl who desperately grappled for strength through her indescribable grief, gently cupping her downturned chin in his left hand to meet his gaze.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">He wiped her tears with his thumbs. He kissed her forehead and drew her close as only a father knew how, nestling her chin into his shoulder. Gene patted her back as he would burp an infant, his other hand palming her head, keeping her close. He rested his chin atop her head, swaying with her gently. When he spoke, it was in a calm tone, each word carefully considered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Dan was my dear friend for many years,” he said. “He <i>bragged</i> about you, lass. Your uncle marveled at your pitch-perfect vocals, your fierce determination. For <i>years</i>, sweetheart, Dan spent his daily 20 minutes on my bus describing, in utter awe of his one, beloved niece. I grew to know you long before you stepped upon my ride.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“When I first saw you, I <i>knew</i> you to be the niece he so lovingly described. Especially now, I am so truly grateful. Annie, my dear lass, I now offer myself where <i>he</i> left off. I am so damn sorry everyone has left you. I, too, miss your uncle more than I could ever describe.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene stepped back, shading his tears with his hands with a bow worthy of Scottish nobility. Anne cupped her mouth with both hands, touched by the gesture. Remembering etiquette training from her travels to Scotland, she curtsied in return.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I am truly honored, kind sir,” she replied. Her tears continually flooded her vision, but it was a sight she would never forget.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“You must accept you’re forever stuck with me,” Gene said. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Once bonded, I’m hopelessly devoted to my child-… er, I mean, younger friends. But yes, you are young enough to be my grandchild. Still,” brushing off another memory, “I hope we can find solace in each other, given...”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne sighed, breaking away from him to light a cigarette. She had tried to quit smoking several times but walking into a deserted Plaid Pantry a day earlier, she grabbed every carton of American Spirits she could cram into her backpack.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>What the fuck? I have no reason to quit </i></span><em>now</em><span class="s1">. Whazzit gonna do, <i>kill</i> me?</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Puffing a furious first hit, she absorbed the moment as her exhale clouded their shared stare.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1"><i>No wonder he reached out to me all these years! He already </i>knew<i> me</i>!</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Suddenly angry, “How long have you <i>known</i> who I am and failed to address me by name?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Startled, Gene felt assaulted. Turning his back to Anne and Al, he boarded the bus to gain some composure. He turned off the motor. <i>Transit can wait</i>, he told himself. This was a moment he figured would come, albeit under different circumstances.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">He blew his nose, wiping his eyes with a dry corner. After a few deep breaths, he turned and exited the bus, stopping toe-to-toe with Anne. He felt accused, somewhat defensive given the hundreds of times he had complimented the lass in vain attempts to engage her.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I <i>tried</i> to connect,” he explained, “but you wouldn’t even <i>look</i> at me. I refrained from calling you by name because I simply wanted to <i>see</i> you. Without using my sleeved ace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Still, you treated me with disdain, like many others I greeted cheerfully every morning.” He gestured aimlessly, with both palms turned upward, unable to continue. He shrugged. Fresh tears poured down his cheeks with the memory of being shunned so many times.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne listened, arms crossed, left hand dangling her smoke, right index finger crooked against her mouth in silent respect of an elder addressing her.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I wasn’t going to push you,” Gene continued, “knowing my position required tact. Years ago, I decided my one goal in this job was to simply <i>acknowledge</i> people. They go from place to place, finding little or no kindness. I just needed them to know I do <i>care</i>. Every once in a while, a regular passenger would recognize my feeble attempts at making their day just a bit brighter, to know that not only did I want to drive them safely to their destination, but to also afford them an opportunity to make a connection with a fellow citizen of this world we all share. Because, dear lass, if nobody else you encounter during the day gives a damn, why not accept the one who does?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene paused, sadly remembering all those with whom he had made a connection, and how they expressed their gratitude for his attempts to brighten their gloom. He stared toward the Ross Island Bridge, totally deserted. Instead of the emptiness which assaulted his vision, his mind replaced it with a memory of the bustling metropolis destroyed by this damned pandemic. It took every ounce of strength he could muster to return to their shared moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Taking her hands into his, but without meeting her gaze, he continued. To look at her would make his next words impossible.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I watched you grow from a gangly pre-teen into the beautiful young woman I now behold. Alone yet lovely, now tortured by the grief we all feel. What was I supposed to do with someone plugged in and tuned out like the rest of her generation? <i>Beg</i>? Sorry kid, I stop short of sacrificing my pride for callousness.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Al sighed from 10 feet away. He knew all too well how Gene had suffered Anne’s callous indifference, having witnessed each attempt to connect.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne stepped back from Gene, staring at her shoes. Al thought she felt shameful. Gene feared he had shown too much anger, ashamed for his outburst.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The two new friends sighed. Al meanwhile, marveled at humanity’s downfall. A lone Honda sped through the red light at Powell, zipping past them at 70mph, amplified muffler overcompensating for a severe lack of combustive muscle.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne and Gene faced each other, identically stubborn. Arms crossed, both dealing with internal pain yet trying to recognize newfound common ground. It was up to <i>her</i>, Anne realized, to make things right. She dropped her cigarette and twisted it dead under her Converse heel. Gene had made daily attempts to engage her over the years, and she had consistently ignored him. Until this moment, when she needed him <i>most</i>. She felt childish, selfish and embarrassed.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I’m so sorry,” she sighed.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene lit a cigarette of his own. “Maybe we should step aboard and toke up a joint.” He laughed.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne laughed in surprise</span>. “I’ll pass on the pot, but I could sure use a wee dram about now.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene chuckled. “I’ve got several bottles stolen from a liquor store at home, but never will you catch me nipping on the job. We beat the hell outta that virus, didn’t we? What’s a toke gonna do us now?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne laughed, fishing in her jacket for a tube containing her “go to roll” she would have sneaked on her lunch hour. It felt liberating to smoke pot with someone 40 years her senior without being admonished.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">She held it high to the sky, then brought it to her lips with lighter in opposite hand. Al, who had never partaken in his long life, saw and heard the moment, jumping up to join them again. Anne ceremoniously lit the doobie with her Homer Simpson lighter. She drew deeply, offering it to Gene. He paused, still feeling “transit responsible”, then then realizing their combined reality, pinched the joint into his reluctant but welcoming fingers. For years he had abstained in fear of being caught “dirty” in a random piss theft.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">In defiance of a decades-long ridiculousness regarding cannabis, Gene took his first hit of pot in decades. Unlike his filtered tobacco cigarettes full of carcinogenic chemicals, the smoke was at once exhilarating yet simultaneously harsh. He held it as long as he could, snarking, choking, allowing the pungent smoke to overtake years of resistance before coughing it off. He leaned back into his bus, his eyes rolling skyward. Anne laughed in celebration of Gene’s “breaking the rules” nobody would ever care about.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Al ambled up. “Hey Gene, you gonna hold that thing untl it dies, or you gonna pass it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Startled, both Anne and Gene burst out laughing at the octogenarian’s willingness to join them in something his generation had long believed “devilish”, certainly frowned upon. In defiance to this, the 92-year-old pinched the joint and held it to his lips as he drew deeply. Without coughing, he held the hit a full five seconds before exhaling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Damn, kids,” he chuckled, “that beats the hell out of the 70s weed!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The pot-induced seriousness exhaled into a trio of THC-induced silliness. All three found anything and everything suddenly hilarious, their laughter lighting up a previously-silent streetcorner with unexpected glee.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Just as suddenly, the scene turned serious, as pot can do. It also loosened their emotions, giving them freedom to express what each needed.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Gene said, passing Anne the joint. “I shouldn’t have come down so hard on you. I found out from your neighbor how your whole family…” He stopped abruptly, seeing his words' immediate impact on her.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne nodded, her tears flowing. “They’re… all…” Unable to finish, she leaned her forehead into Gene’s shoulder. Joint smoldering, she quietly sobbed. She had not allowed herself to grieve. Until now.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene wrapped his arms around her.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I’m so… </span><em>very</em><span class="s1">… sorry for all your loved ones,” Gene said. “But Annie girl, you’re not alone. I’m here, so is Al over there, and we’re part of this shit show together. For better or worse, as they say.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne sniffed, and Gene handed her his clean handkerchief.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“How fucking </span><em>noble</em><span class="s1"> you are,” Anne snorted into it.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Yeah whatever,” Gene replied. “Just make sure you wash it before I get it back.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne alternately laughed and sobbed, burying her head into his chest, gently pounding her fists into him. She sobbed there for several minutes. In that time, a pack of teenaged survivors racing each other blasted through the red light, jealously staring as Gene embraced an exquisitely beautiful young lady.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene’s watch reminded him he was now 27 minutes late. He didn’t care. He would likely arrive downtown in five minutes with an empty bus. Dispatch would likely roll him back to the garage after another round trip.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Hey Annie,” he said softly, turning her head up so as to look into her eyes, “you want to stay over at my place? I have spare bedrooms galore, and I would truly savor your company. Nothing but grandfatherly intentions, of course.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne chuckled, snuggling even closer into his embrace. She felt loved again, no longer alone. It was a feeling in which her grief was tenderly abated. She nodded silently into his chest, seeking comfort in one she had previously abhorred. Now she felt safe in this kind bus driver’s embrace.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Got room for another?” Al chimed in, rolling his walker up to them.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene smiled. “Of course, Al! I’ll even give you the ground floor master bedroom, complete with your own full bath! Dinner every night at six, unless I have to work over.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“I can cook,” Anne said, feeling relieved at not having to remain alone the rest of her unmarried life. “If you don’t mind burger-mac and spaghetti.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene laughed. “Um, only when I’m too lazy to cook. My buddy Alvin is coming over at six for a barbecue. You’ll love him, and he’s bringing his wife and cute little buggers. It’s gonna be an even more fun party with you guys there too!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“It’s a deal,” Al said, holding his hand toward the trio’s center. He was elated at the offer, as he had nowhere else to go. The thought of a bed's comfort after a week’s living on the violent streets sounded luxurious.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Deal,” Anne added, extending her hands. “I’ll stop by my place and bring whatever I can fit into my suitcase. I’m </span><em>there</em><span class="s1">. Believe me, that’s the best offer I’ve had… <i>ever</i>!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">With that, Anne collapsed to the sidewalk in fresh sobs. Both Al and Gene knelt down to join into her grieving embrace. They huddled close, each finding that human embrace an immediate comfort. It lasted several minutes as each mourned what had once been. As they heaved a final agonized sigh, they squeezed adjoining shoulders and broke apart, finally finding a tinge of comfort through what had been an unimaginable week.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b><i>* * * * *</i></b></span><b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene left his bus right <i>there</i>, quitting his now-nowhere job on the spot. Out of formality, he called Dispatch to inform them. Dispatcher Liza, sounding resigned yet understanding in her sweet way, sadly accepted his resignation. Gene invited her to that evening’s barbecue, and she accepted.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>* * * * *</i></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Alvin appeared with family in tow as promised. This reunion was met with enthusiastic approval from Anne and Al, Gene the most boisterous in greeting. He raised both Alvin’s boys high into the air and swung them around as they laughed in excitement at the thrill. Alvin’s wife Freddi broke into tears as she laughed, thinking of her boys’ grandfather freshly buried in their back yard.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Five other bus operators, Sam, Tre, Amy, Chuck and Lance, surprised them all, having heard from Liza over the radio of the party. Liza herself arrived with a case of Scotch and a rack of steaks she found in her freezer. Each transit worker gathered for a group prayer and hug of solidarity, silently thanking their own deity for finding others to share their collective pain.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne shyly offered her lovely voice to their combined music that first evening, and it filled a renewed Brooklyn neighborhood with relief. The joy of their music was borne by a brisk breeze off the Columbia Gorge, and about 150 people from nearby areas followed the music to join in solidarity for their combined survival.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b>* * * * *<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Anne was soon swept off her feet by Roger Green, cellist/pianist/vocalist who ambled into the neighborhood that first night’s magical celebration. They moved next door to Gene and Al, and their joy resulted in a baby boy they named Albert Gene.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Lost children were drawn to the Brooklyn Neighborhood, enthusiastically welcomed by all who lived there. They found joy in the new homes of all who found themselves abandoned by death. Only love was acceptable; the hundreds of children drawn there found themselves part of a family larger than they had ever known. Within months, the local school was reopened by adults with no experience in teaching. All they knew was a need to help the young find a path back to normalcy after losing everything they had once been comforted by. Together, they found a way to teach one another, and tests became a challenge to become better humans. Classrooms were populated by those of all ages, each finding a way to teach one another in ways never imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b>* * * * *</b></span><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Al’s life was extended another 10 years, enjoying his new role as great grandfather to an expanding orphanage. He taught woodworking skills and baking to children eager to leave grief behind. His tenderness was fondly remembered by a rejuvenated city.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene lived his remaining 37 years as a writer documenting the plague and what transpired in its wake. He rambled about, shooting deer and rabbits for meat, occasionally venturing east via horseback, past the Cascades to find wild beef. He turned part of the local schoolyard into a community herb and vegetable garden.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">On his 101st birthday, Gene enjoyed a rowdy drunk with hundreds, sharing several fat joints of the weed he grew in his back yard. Two weeks later, he took a nap to awaken in his surprised final moments. Holding Anne's hand while tenderly consoling her, he said, "I'm finally gonna join my beloved Stacey Lynn. All is well, dear lass. Just… keep... singing." With that, he died.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene’s funeral was broadcast to the world over the re-vamped internet, Anne sang Gene's favorite tunes: James Taylor's "<i>You Can </i>Close <i>Your Eyes</i>” and Jimmy Buffet's "<i>Banana Republic</i>", ending the service with his favorite Lowell George tune, "<i>Willin'</i> ". Each was recorded by her husband, and they earned acclaim across the world. Her voice became widely-regarded as the finest of their time, and she toured the globe as New America's premier vocalist.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Gene’s hundreds of friends recalled how he cared for many who had lost their way after “King ’20”. His infectious joviality resonated with all he met. They missed his ability to create fun, his art of distilling fine whiskey and the block parties he hosted. These gatherings became a constant tradition in the jovial celebrations defining 2030’s Stumptown.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><b>* * * * *</b></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Portland emerged momentarily stronger than before, its leftover population forging a spirit of cooperation and goodwill foreign to the previous world. The <i>Portland Phenomenon</i> became a positive infection. It spread quickly as the planet slowly healed itself from human-induced poisons.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">It all stemmed from one bus operator who refused to kneel down to negativity. No matter the disposition of others, Gene treated all with respect and love.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">New Portland built a memorial to Gene the Friendly Bus Operator in the middle of Pioneer Courthouse Square: his uniformed 12-foot sculpture with arms spread outward, embracing a beautiful passenger named Anne.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Thirty years later, an even more deadly virus struck. Humans finally became extinct.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="s1">* * * * *</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">In 2517, a spacecraft alighted upon 6</span><span class="s3"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="s1"> Avenue at Pioneer Square. Towering pines had sprouted through the weaknesses in the pavement. Except for the breeze from the Columbia River, all the visitors could hear was birdsong. Tens of thousands of them, singing, chittering, calling to one another in pure joy. Symphonic nature had replaced humanity’s poisonous din.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">The human-like beings landed on the moss-encrusted, heavily-vined street. They marveled at the crumbling towers hovering over the landscape where animals roamed freely.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;">They came upon a relatively-untouched monument of sorts, statues of humans, male and female.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“What beings dwelled here?” one of them asked. “Surely, they created this monument, these structural canyons. It seems to have been inhabited by many, several <i>octens</i> ago.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Another replied, “A species which obviously valued </span><em><span style="font-style: normal;">something</span></em><span class="s1"> <i>other</i> than its own survival.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Truly,” another replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">Just then, an owl graced her shoulder. She extended an arm, and it hopped down to her hand. They admired one another.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Whatever species dominated here,” she said, closely examining the bird. “I hope it appreciated these winged creatures. They are spectacular! Look how they </span><em>rise</em><span class="s1">!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span class="s1">“Evidently,” the latter said, “those who built this, </span><em>failed</em><span class="s1"> to rise.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-6920022432000371342023-04-17T06:00:00.003-07:002023-04-17T06:34:07.811-07:00Peace Out Loud!<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtTpoDcoviZKzXmNcdaeDb3LCrtB_lL6pIRdeco1k2_satPxSQAdSX1RRwvYkHpM7bxJTDxeDA79o4jrFkGWjJ1daFThFo4jlB-36hY9eoMJjTFv9lpd3okp8OUI-FVeS6UtA_xbrlS8hoY1pRR-wMne2q6CJ0IoJeuF2vFJ7fIRLHrzTJhk5PzKX4g/s3088/2F5AEB3A-3C9B-4DE6-A9E1-666050A158AC.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtTpoDcoviZKzXmNcdaeDb3LCrtB_lL6pIRdeco1k2_satPxSQAdSX1RRwvYkHpM7bxJTDxeDA79o4jrFkGWjJ1daFThFo4jlB-36hY9eoMJjTFv9lpd3okp8OUI-FVeS6UtA_xbrlS8hoY1pRR-wMne2q6CJ0IoJeuF2vFJ7fIRLHrzTJhk5PzKX4g/w400-h300/2F5AEB3A-3C9B-4DE6-A9E1-666050A158AC.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Two of my Transit Faves, Gabe and Anna,<br />as we ride Line 17 to Downtown Portland on a springtime roll.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><b>Author's Note:<i> This blog has an anonymous detractor, folks. An invisible insulter, afraid to unmask itself in fear of having to explain its pitiful discourse. If you peruse a former post's comments, you'll find "it". This type of comment simply provokes a dismissive snort. Why? Because as a transit blogger, I only offer you a glimpse of </i><u style="font-style: italic;">this</u><i> bus operator. Those who toil behind the wheel as I do will understand my rants, while those who do not will weasel their ignorant comments into my posts. I don't care if you call me "Grandpa", </i>punk<i>. Rather than an insult, I claim that moniker with happiness and pride. To survive to my age is an incredible achievement, given my challenging start in life. I am infinitely happy to be who I am now. I only hope you someday find yourself anywhere near as accomplished as I am. Best of luck to you, Whiny Boy. Tell me your address and I'll send some cheese.</i></b><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></div><p></p><p>My words here may oft seem harsh, but they are <i>mine</i> alone. I am proud of what I write. I don't need anyone's approval or otherwise. I welcome ALL who read my posts. If you are rude, then I will <i>fucking nail you</i>. It's just the way I roll. Piss off if it hurts your widdle feelings, poor baby.</p><p>Thank you either way, just for reading what I choose to communicate along the long route of this bus operator's 10-year-long journey. Disagree? <i>Oh well.</i> Nobody who reads this needs your whiny bullshit bemoaning my truth via transit. If ya don't like it, I won't be pissing in your electric car batteries or rusty bicycle brakes, so just hold your breath. Only 1/1000th of my readership give the slightest fuck for your ignorant rant. Meanwhile, may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your nether regions.</p><p>It's my 10th Anniversary of being a transit blogger. There will be no fanfare or public celebration of this feat. This blog boasts a mere 775,000 Hits over my therapeutical writing decade. There are scores of others who boast millions of "hits" over the span I have written FTDS. Still, I celebrate EACH of your visits here. Bloggers who have achieved far more hits than my blog has, have likely prostituted themselves just to be noticed. It has never been my goal to bend over that far. This blog simply achieves readers at will, ones it actually <i>deserves</i>.</p><p>I write as I need to, sharing with a few like-minded groups via social media. Other than that, I simply write to let it out. There's too much stress to hold in, and this blog has always been an outlet. If people enjoy what I write, it's truly appreciated. If they do not, I wish them a trip as they stumble past this humble site. I care not either way. It's merely one transit operator's glimpse from the driver side of a bus.</p><p>When I published "<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Just-Drive-Deke-N-Blue-audiobook/dp/B07JCGGXGH/ref=nodl_?dplnkId=44aadd70-9cbf-4cda-816d-dd951a3cda6e" target="_blank">JUST DRIVE - Life in Bus Lane</a>" in 2017, I did so in recognition of my fellow transit workers. Taking a loan out of my 401k, my hopes were only to present a professionally-attractive description of MY life as a transit operator. The response I received was phenomenal. The book simply broke even, which was an emotional victory.</p><p>My book did not attract the attention of Portland's local media, except for a wonderful few. (Thank you, OPB, ATU757/Northwest Labor Press and the Portland Tribune! You will ALWAYS have first dibs on future project-related interviews while the others can KISS MY ASS). JUST DRIVE did, however, find an audience which made it a labor of love enjoyed. And <i>that</i>, folks, made the effort infinitely more than worthwhile. Having fellow Operators, and beloved passengers, meet me on the road for an autograph, is much more than I sought to achieve.<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ROEPZ_q-rt5ckxWelLGHRRUQQkwp2_9OxbHwvXBL_sizkE8bAzmbZsc5nD1Llq9PH26xmdENqzdVyz9588TR59Y9G5ItDhDxlqjbQPO9Y_mOIWRrqHJ4yOqsLseMwqSSq6CTWULflwrp64l1tGLfsPrAw5iuCa2Rbio6xn4dPhW-lEObMGecnjqvTQ/s640/MilaGramps%200223.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="466" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ROEPZ_q-rt5ckxWelLGHRRUQQkwp2_9OxbHwvXBL_sizkE8bAzmbZsc5nD1Llq9PH26xmdENqzdVyz9588TR59Y9G5ItDhDxlqjbQPO9Y_mOIWRrqHJ4yOqsLseMwqSSq6CTWULflwrp64l1tGLfsPrAw5iuCa2Rbio6xn4dPhW-lEObMGecnjqvTQ/s320/MilaGramps%200223.jpeg" width="233" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Grandpa" cherishes his time<br /> with his wee lass, Mila Rose.</i> </td></tr></tbody></table><br />Today, I'm awash with new ideas to write about. But they can wait. Immediately facing me are precious memories I hope to create and treasure as "Grandpa" to my wee Mila Rose. As Transit Operator and proud elder in this family I remain devoted to, all I can offer are the words which emanate from my soul as the miles on the road multiply each day I'm allowed to serve my fellow Portlanders in this capacity.<p></p><p>To my negative commenter, I accept your opinions, even though your words were meant to insult me. It's okay, I forgive you. It's true that I often contradict myself; it's the daily conundrum of a Libra, as I work to find a balance in the world which often confounds me. I only hope your childishness finds its way to maturity and forgiveness for those to whom you feel superior.</p><p>Meanwhile, I'll keep rolling safe and smoothly, serving my passengers with the most friendly ride I can possibly give. If that's not enough, then too damn bad. I'll keep rolling so regardless.</p><p>Peace out, folks.</p><p><br /></p><p>With love and respect, I am</p><p>Deke N. Blue</p><p>Transit Blogger</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-66960880393958594562023-02-28T03:25:00.006-08:002023-02-28T16:43:38.929-08:00STOP the Freeloading Druggies!<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62tTudGfIFu5fNBI6CMkUoAFhq3twdTN8F-aTZ8m6cgfSuxj97NlmxQ2eY3baDNF4D5Jzs9Yscj4LWi0wZw6-VfBNpOOOUPX756fpVfCSsulD8ivEm3QN4Ok2WogpMy4VQIA6yXuUXOUHGwlN6ndYSyabkBJdA5UCgK1qqAoGS9cJqC4szvprURoWhA/s2592/PaperArtist_2014-09-10_10-02-44.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1944" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62tTudGfIFu5fNBI6CMkUoAFhq3twdTN8F-aTZ8m6cgfSuxj97NlmxQ2eY3baDNF4D5Jzs9Yscj4LWi0wZw6-VfBNpOOOUPX756fpVfCSsulD8ivEm3QN4Ok2WogpMy4VQIA6yXuUXOUHGwlN6ndYSyabkBJdA5UCgK1qqAoGS9cJqC4szvprURoWhA/s320/PaperArtist_2014-09-10_10-02-44.jpeg" width="240" /></a><b></b></div><b>Deke/Patrick's Note: <i>Has my wandering from this blog for other literary goals rendered my once-bellowing voice an echo from the past? I hope not, because there is SO much yet to say. Do NOT, for one instant, believe I have left you. While fewer actually read this nowadays, I'm still fervently attuned to the pulse of Portland transit, and I have much to say. All of it, I must add, from </i>this<i> Bus Operator's viewpoint. </i></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">Why must this metropolis be the testing ground for a horribly-failed policy favoring the whiny lowlifes? Look what this mind-set has done to our city! Our once-vital and booming tourist-destination downtown business district is but a ghost of what it once was, pre-COVID. Before this pandemic struck, we still had plenty of hard-working, decent people streaming to work and supporting a healthy downtown economy. Now, it's instead a mess of discarded tents/blankets/trash and used needles in need of a massive societal shift.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">I have had several tourists on my bus who have been aghast at Portland's downfall the past few years. Each of them have said to me, "I used to come here often, but I'll <i>never</i> return unless this mess gets cleaned up. It's so disgusting compared to what it once was." </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">Are you listening, "concerned" city leaders? I hope so, because I'm doubtful. Your ears are tuned more to the whiners than the doers.</span></p><span style="text-align: center;">D</span>owntown Portland is a shell of what it once was just two years ago. Very few small businesses remain, and even the corporate-driven stores are giving up. Why? Simply because our "leadership" has failed to bolster the masses who held us up during the pandemic. This is our great reward for sticking through it all. Now all Portland supports are those whose only goal is to slay the goat of some alien philosopher's distant cousin. Sounds <i>weird</i>, eh? Try following the one-sided conversation of Needle Ned as he loudly philosophizes such nonsense on my bus. It's not much different from the drivel spouted locally and by most of the Salem Statehouse.<p></p><p>It's true that those who turn to drugs have deep psychological issues with which they need help. In the 1980s, the federal government decided to give up trying to help those with mental health problems, kicking basically-helpless folks onto our city streets with virtually no support. Those who have nowhere to go find comfort in the smoky or needle-pricked haze the lack of a roof over their heads turn them to. Many would rather not use drugs, but their predicament seems so hopeless it may be their only solace. Addiction is a fierce foe. I understand it's an illness, a spreading cancer we're not adequately treating.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vpfpVmxKqg7qFLAqfTgHL3MhVbGF3go30CpuZZOaqkzhbpJAUx78EL7KXPaMbDoNCZWg3OWtz1Y42O_JjxvawL5Fa3i63OD9Im26XdxWxo2ASIgw-BfF_peKJgTqGBByDn3M_I8DXr5FLbCaKp-hDpetV5-Ayn2r2WOWXom2Ck1ehx_X_KaQENdAVQ/s800/Dec08%20100-SNOW.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vpfpVmxKqg7qFLAqfTgHL3MhVbGF3go30CpuZZOaqkzhbpJAUx78EL7KXPaMbDoNCZWg3OWtz1Y42O_JjxvawL5Fa3i63OD9Im26XdxWxo2ASIgw-BfF_peKJgTqGBByDn3M_I8DXr5FLbCaKp-hDpetV5-Ayn2r2WOWXom2Ck1ehx_X_KaQENdAVQ/s320/Dec08%20100-SNOW.gif" width="240" /></a></div><p>I write this as a socially-conscious white liberal/conservative honest American who drives a bus for a living? Because I <i>see</i>, feel and experience on a daily basis, the horribly-negative effects of these ill-conceived policies which elevate the part of a society trashing our downtown. So often, ill-conceived policy sentences addicts to the muck of helplessness. I'm sick of it, folks, and I'm sure many of you agree. It's sad and disgraceful.</p><p>Portland, your policy of turning a blind eye to the problems shadows the shine of those who part the clouds winter with our earnest hard work. When the federal government ended the (albeit cruel) treatment of the mentally-ill, it all went horribly <i>wrong</i>. Federal policies, for all its' "leave nobody behind" sound bites, have done <i>just so</i>. There's all this, and deservedly so, talk about the "middle class" but ZERO about those left behind. Many of whom make OUR lives miserable.</p><p>Miscreants refuse to pay fare even though their pockets are often more full than mine. They cause horrible mischief on transit, becoming even more bold because our court system is overwhelmed and lacking public defenders. Many "minor crimes", which are <i>major</i> to US, are often dismissed because our justice system requires speedy resolution for the accused. If there are no public defenders available, the charges must be dropped. This leaves victims yearning for justice and finding none. Victims without resolution, the accused set free to wreak havoc at will.</p><p>And what do we get in return? Just deal with it, you "overly-paid public servants... JUST DRIVE."</p><p>Even our transit management seems intent on taking the side of drug addicts who cause the most disruption. I've come to realize there's not a lot that can be done, especially given the municipalities' inability to effectively prosecute. How can I offer suggestions when we're bound by the inefficiencies which handcuff our current predicament? It's incredibly frustrating to a bus operator waiting for help that may never come as we sit with spit dripping down our chin. That's an <i><b>assault</b></i>, not likely to be punished. However, we'll suffer punishment alone, our anger seething with each mile.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * * </b></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><u><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdd8vgKfS5YT4HcCYTqiqFL4Jzmv_cLiymSgxlA8E86yKQz6Qpup6xXAFOxvmDdwh2YvgZCsbUc_zEdzOEXJLiQQAY-r5jQWHX3XlhFOKkosQ0Nef8QOqzSWmy8J1jaKgkyHkg05r_jgUwtmjWlPtZykVvt8guva9zWp3I-FYi8FE-DjF1J4s_WuL27w/s320/EA633284-8264-455F-8FC6-5BEA8B4CE0C0.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></u></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Idling at Harrison/4th for 90 minutes</i><br /><i>during Snowmageddon 2023.<br /><br /></i><div style="text-align: left;">One passenger decided to throw a tantrum when asked to leave the bus at the end of the line. He made a mess of the bus, broke windows and threatened the Operator. Now, said Op is up for a disciplinary meeting because he refused to stand down when he made the ultimatum of asshole leaving or him "marking off" disgusted. If transit management cannot take care of its own, instead threatening us with discipline if we refuse to take charge when our personal safety demands it, then we might as well just abandon "public transit". We see drug use and troublemakers on transit vehicles many times a day. Where there is nowhere for the so-challenged to go, our rides seem to them the "safe place" because city leaders need to take responsibility and treat the drug-addled few who cause the most trouble.</div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">There is a simple solution to this "homeless" situation. Stop letting them <i>rule</i>. Stop pandering to the socialistic special interests. Ship the homeless back to their original destination, which likely provided them a one-way ticket to Portland because of its' "drug addicts rule" policies. The others? Put them in facilities designed to treat their addictions. Meanwhile, have the federal government clean up the mess IT created.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><b>RAISE THE FARE!</b> Do not EVER make our transit system "free". (<a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2022/12/washington-dc-free-bus-transit/672407/" target="_blank">Here's a link to an interesting article about current transit trends</a>.) It would only make matters worse. It's still the best deal in town, hands-down. Try hailing a cabbie and asking a ride from one end of the city to the other for $2.50, and they'll leave you choking on their tailpipe.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Insist passengers exit our vehicles at the end of the line, and are not allowed to continue riding the same until they're simply tired of doing so. Allowing constant freeloaders takes seats away from fare-paying, honest, <i>contributors to the local economy</i>. Fare evaders usually offer <i>nothing</i>, except trouble. Elevate the masses who pay every day and are offended so many others who refuse if we hope to increase ridership.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><b>We could DOUBLE the fare and still be the best transit option in town.</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>I'm all in favor of the pro-cannibis laws. Pot smokers are often fun and much less-likely to cause trouble on transit. Unless they light up on our vehicles, which should <i>forever</i> remain prohibited. Drunks or hard-druggies however are usually trouble-makers who need to sober up a bit prior to catching a ride. My vehicle is not a state-, or federally-approved, tavern. You want a drink or buzz? Find one <i>before</i> you ride my bus, not <i>during</i>.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwox3xsNiEGxoir6qt7kLNutFB8TB1ONJLnNhmz4h_wahkhfLD8StHajrkcfYWOuIswN6b3toAH8FfHNjkqhcj_M3nC4YIMmEuAlJP7OXEzal-opFYskSh0rMLeIE7OK3kPTaOXCAyntUvikjdBbhEJupn51tLCtC2UUlfBr3QiBtodPOUKB1LKwW9w/s4032/0BFF37A9-8A8C-47D1-B33B-99E7FD079296.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwox3xsNiEGxoir6qt7kLNutFB8TB1ONJLnNhmz4h_wahkhfLD8StHajrkcfYWOuIswN6b3toAH8FfHNjkqhcj_M3nC4YIMmEuAlJP7OXEzal-opFYskSh0rMLeIE7OK3kPTaOXCAyntUvikjdBbhEJupn51tLCtC2UUlfBr3QiBtodPOUKB1LKwW9w/s320/0BFF37A9-8A8C-47D1-B33B-99E7FD079296.jpeg" width="240" /></a>It's time for Portlanders to take back our city from those who now control it. WE make Portland work, NOT those who cause property damage and disrupt our downtown business district, driving away vital tourism dollars. Make the troublemakers clean up their own mess. Provide the treatment promised which this misguided decriminalization of hard drugs has created. The decent, fare-paying hard-working Portlanders deserve better. Reward positivity and punish poor choices. Only then will Downtown Portland become, once again, a <i>worldwide</i> destination.<span style="text-align: center;"></span></p><p>I'm not liberal or conservative. I'm simply a hard-working American transit operator who has seen enough misery to speak out for the majority left behind. Politicians talk a great game, but they all fail the test. Meanwhile, I'm left driving my bus wondering which passenger will shoot me (like my buddy Dale) while simply doing my job.</p><p>I see several people who suffer homelessness who have jobs or collect cans and bottles to buy food or a hotel room once a week to rest and get clean. They are simply the victims of bad luck this struggling economy often forgets. Braving the frigid weather they forego shelters, show respect and pay their fare. They earn my respect because I believe in rewarding the pain of those who have fallen below the poverty line through no visible fault of their own. I was once among their ranks, some four decades ago. One such fellow is stubborn to refuse my offer of a free pass; he prefers to pay his own way, even though it's obvious those bags of recovered recyclables are possibly his only income.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>All I need to do my job is <i>support</i>. I get a lot of that from passengers on the line I drive, and I'm one of the lucky few. When they thank me as they get off the bus, I'm grateful because that's all I can expect.</p><p>On my weekends this past month, I've been blessed to have my newborn granddaughter awaiting me at home, for my son and his loves find rest and solace in our home after our collective long weeks. Holding this sweet infant through the night while her mommy and daddy sleep is a sweet reward. Such coming bliss dulls the pain of the myriad of problems which swirl through my mind as I drive The Beast.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p><i><b>There</b></i>. I said what needed saying. It drops a heavy load off these pained shoulders. Written expressly for the masses who do our jobs, without hesitation in service to our community. Disagree? <b><i>Oh well.</i></b> I'm tired of paying for your misguided coddling of troublemakers.</p><p><br /></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-56732195746106804542023-02-06T07:44:00.002-08:002023-02-06T07:54:33.978-08:00I Am So Thankful for Mila Rose<p><b><br /></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-LVHg4Cjtg2umHUucdRtwhr_q5xW3dNE86sLNGKGWEE5y6nJZ8GOS4ul9b54e4Gl1hHIF-UqSf_HC2qKbuVHNR0QCBdsAnCDSWTfvLQgH1nmIU1HTfgDp7gQm-2JQD8LFDmBvk0MZq6F1SHcinWaa35uid1yVvirJ9AqzDaPAMb_vKq3vqMiCOUnAA/s2016/IMG_4227.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-LVHg4Cjtg2umHUucdRtwhr_q5xW3dNE86sLNGKGWEE5y6nJZ8GOS4ul9b54e4Gl1hHIF-UqSf_HC2qKbuVHNR0QCBdsAnCDSWTfvLQgH1nmIU1HTfgDp7gQm-2JQD8LFDmBvk0MZq6F1SHcinWaa35uid1yVvirJ9AqzDaPAMb_vKq3vqMiCOUnAA/w400-h300/IMG_4227.jpeg" width="400" /></a></b></div><b><br /><br />Grampy's Note: <i>Oh, our newborn granddaughter is SO adorable. Hardly ever cries, unlike her papa did. Wakes up to look at us with wonder in her eyes, the visual cortex not quite ready to see all the world around her has to offer, but eager to see nonetheless. I am in total bliss... a grandfather once again, some 19+ years hence.</i></b><p></p><p>Oh Mila Rose, how I have reveled every moment the past day in your exalted presence. Just 10 days old, you have stolen my heart, and that of my Beloved. To think our sweet little prince is now a father seems unfathomable. </p><p>Each of our neighbors has come to pay tribute and pledge their love at your tiny little feet. One has paid homage THRICE today, her adoration so cute it drips with extra sugared-honey. Mila Rose, you are more than a dream come true... you are the perfect culmination of a love which began when I first saw the face of your sweet Grams. It wasn't simply "love at first sight". It was so much more than my humble words are worthy of.</p><p>The past day has been one of pure joy. I held you, as did your Grams, your Aunties Adia and Celestial, while adored by Uncle Corny. Within my joyous arms you took nourishment, snuggles and poops. I watched as my Beloved rocked you. While your Mama left us with a cradle, our arms were sufficient and we had no need of artificial comfort. We took turns giving you nourishment and extreme love. It was, I repeat, one of the highlights of our lives. I will fall into slumber remembering this most happiest of days.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>For eight years I was a soul-wrenched and lonely single father. One who only <i>used</i> a girl for her womanly charms, not interested in relationships. After being horribly torn apart by my first "soulmate", I was distrustful, angry and scornful of my opposite sex. So much so, some mistook me for being gay. I was not, but was comfortable having close friendships with those who are. Mostly, I traveled a lonely path as the devoted father of my incredible daughter, the only positive from a love to which I devoted my entire soul to. Avoiding those who lured me into their lives, I wandered alone except for the closeness of my dearest friends, one of whom recently left this world.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzUOudsk_wJqUfX7SegW7C_-cwFaYqJqoFubqfXUTmnJzhEiYuW7z65qP83zVF9s4xOUwAzH5cDJInJnIpLV6zYz7z6uyOIBNrOWTGw9ww-cagx4Mn9z-DxOC77zdfsK-TNrbRxGf3NyVUtMLa2MphWupD4HeJBO68x3sBnBUl70jEetXsgW8bPm0_A/s640/GrampyMila.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="466" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzUOudsk_wJqUfX7SegW7C_-cwFaYqJqoFubqfXUTmnJzhEiYuW7z65qP83zVF9s4xOUwAzH5cDJInJnIpLV6zYz7z6uyOIBNrOWTGw9ww-cagx4Mn9z-DxOC77zdfsK-TNrbRxGf3NyVUtMLa2MphWupD4HeJBO68x3sBnBUl70jEetXsgW8bPm0_A/s320/GrampyMila.jpeg" width="233" /></a></div>When my first love was severed, I turned my energy solely toward the tiny, adorable lass who still has me entwined between her lovely, sweet, adorable fingers. Even though her 40th birthday will soon be upon us, there is nothing this lass could ask I could easily deny. My Bear has defied all that suggested she would fail and blasted through each challenge she faced. Now, she owns a home and boasts an 800+ credit score, having recently been hired by a law firm which recognized her intelligence combined with a sweet disposition very few can ignore. Only the fierce devotion of my Beloved combined with Daddy's purest desire to sustain her excellence throughout a horribly-challenging childhood of "joint custody" gave her that chance, and I am intensely proud of her. And, I must add, the fierceness of my Beloved, who took Bear as her own, is now called "Mom" because of her calm, sweet devotion to her husband's child.<p></p><p>For 38 years, my Bear has been the sole recipient of my parental adoration, even though she shares this with her two brothers. However, a father's love seems to revolve around the female progeny. Why? Perhaps it's that fatherly protectiveness we come to recognize after courting a lass during our tender years. As testosterone-charged teenagers we strive to fool the dads by feigning respect through our words, while working hard to find what lies beneath those enticing undergarments. As we become fathers of teenage daughters, we KNOW instinctively what those boys are up to when they utter respect via hollow (or even heartfelt) words. They simply want to <i>get laid.</i> Period. Yeah, I was there too. I get it, guys. You never fooled me, not even once. Nor did I.</p><p>This year I will celebrate (God willing and the creek don't rise) my 63rd birthday. We have raised three extremely-gifted children into adulthood, marveling at their individual strengths. Their tender individuality shines as a highlight to our shared souls. Oh, how I despair the very thought of losing any of them before my time here is past. Recently, I felt the searing pain of my sister Jacqui when her son and grandchild met their untimely end via a car accident. It reminded me of Miss Pat, my earliest love, who died with her unborn child at age 25 when I was but 13. Her eight-month-old son was seriously injured, but endured to create a beautiful family of his own, one who was lovingly welcomed by an incredible stepmother who stepped in when Rod-Daddy needed her most. That tragedy was a cruel awakening to the fact that life has no guarantees, that death happens in an instant to those who least expect (or deserve) it, those at the highlight of love and happiness, and that it crushes those who love them most.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAT8Z53YtxP8pyQez9ne8Y0z4OInv1sdG6AUMfU9NDhDvAX5kiynZVsgM9SL5hZ1SeA4Sbu2kRHHEd-Yb2ThkSi4zmsEtu_ytvxYFiRnMp3eghAh98Iat-ce60t45-5femrOtslMETWS7U3JejmBMirncf8mEOUR_LmE52fJvR-iOaQOUIXwzYAfkXFA/s640/ZakBibiMila%20020523.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAT8Z53YtxP8pyQez9ne8Y0z4OInv1sdG6AUMfU9NDhDvAX5kiynZVsgM9SL5hZ1SeA4Sbu2kRHHEd-Yb2ThkSi4zmsEtu_ytvxYFiRnMp3eghAh98Iat-ce60t45-5femrOtslMETWS7U3JejmBMirncf8mEOUR_LmE52fJvR-iOaQOUIXwzYAfkXFA/s320/ZakBibiMila%20020523.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Ever since, I have worked hard to ensure those I love most KNOW it. With luck when I die, there will be many who remember this about me. If they recall anything else, this is the most important gift I hope to leave behind. Because, folks, my love for you knows no boundaries... it is <i>absolute</i>. Whether we agree politically or ideologically, my love for you is profound. Regardless. Each of you has moved me to heights I cannot, here or anywhere else, adequately describe. And I thank you <i>profusely</i> for it. <p></p><p>It is sad that few of you read my words nowadays. I began writing this blog to describe the thoughts and ordeals of a city bus operator. It has since evolved into a more personal, sometimes biting, denunciation fo those who look down upon our ranks as "unskilled labor". If you have read this blog more than once, you hopefully have come to realize we are anything <i>but</i> that. Many of us have been laborers of many a different sort before now. We have since dedicated ourselves to the safety of others, as they make their way towards a myriad of destinations. Each varies in individuality, but every ride is of vital importance to US. We are charged with your safety, and that of everyone else within and surrounding the 40,000lb. Beast we control. Very few recognize the service we provide, as they blithely avoid our greeting under the anonymity of their headphones. It's a heartless way to refuse acknowledgement of ours to them, but it has become the norm. </p><p>Regardless of the disrespect, the violence and horrid insults lobbed against us, this is our <i>job</i>. When you hear how "first responders" are heroes, you rarely count US within that group. Yet we're here to transport you no matter the weather or political tides. Transit works 7/24/365. We trudge onward with the hopes that we complete our shifts as honorably as conditions require. We're rarely afforded kudos or respect for our efforts, but that paycheck is our lonely yet acceptable reward. </p><p>So today, I ask you honor this sole transit operator the wondrous celebration of a new grandchild. I am incredibly smitten and forever devoted to this blessed addition to my Beloved family. The past day has been easily one of the happiest of my 62+ years. Holding this tiny girl-child, feeding and changing diapers while constantly professing my devotion to her, has nearly <i>erased</i> a decade of disrespect. I know her love for me will never waver, and my devotion to her will remain <i>absolute</i>. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCi_5-u2teodseca95prOZ3I24Z8MsFesA2_RhcWXRBx7o05LVYWehxvmjcxHzPZjnhp98HmWgi0KlHp0NkvNQPiRk0w3ZZoTv8ocTFAU3XgxZWtE1bNZSz0qIBe8-UZXVirXSBKAeZTuAVDdj_FYDLhc8OwzQwgR0axkANljBULXjd-hXAincWr0Hg/s640/GrammaStacers.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCi_5-u2teodseca95prOZ3I24Z8MsFesA2_RhcWXRBx7o05LVYWehxvmjcxHzPZjnhp98HmWgi0KlHp0NkvNQPiRk0w3ZZoTv8ocTFAU3XgxZWtE1bNZSz0qIBe8-UZXVirXSBKAeZTuAVDdj_FYDLhc8OwzQwgR0axkANljBULXjd-hXAincWr0Hg/s320/GrammaStacers.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Thank you Beloved, for believing in me, for accepting my fierce devotion to Bear while accepting my many faults, and finding enough love within my formerly-tortured soul to share the past 30 years with me. Thank you Zak and Bibi for giving us the most precious gift besides your own lives, adding a a new love for us to cherish. Thank you Bear and J-Man for affording us the joys of sharing your love. Your mere presence is a gift beyond description.<p></p><p>I am so happy. Two weeks after the loss of a best friend, my tears flow freely. This circle of life keeps on revolving, and I'm thankful to watch it because pain is often followed by exultation. Miss you buddy, and thanks for watching it all happen with a wink and that wonderful smile.</p><p>Thank you for reading.</p><p><br /></p><p>I am, Gratefully,</p><p>The Ghost of Deke N. Blue</p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-17730790212399173022023-02-01T15:25:00.002-08:002023-02-01T15:25:12.997-08:00775,000 HitsDeke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-63332078747943366412023-01-31T06:12:00.002-08:002023-01-31T14:47:07.567-08:00Teach Your Children<p><b></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-KrNje7gBkUCgbzzKpH-NBQWgyyVqYV03Wasr7JMebpiOAW1KBmf4jg30hZ3V_l_hPlsBjjhnZ5rweEO1iYexgJCHE5cPUOJoqPWVvci4VVKKljJnKukzWnSXfBufzAxW2aVMRg_nCBieQRt6_n6t06Tnr1a0tXmbXbJI4T-MdH_dX0EEVJOzHtmYw/s720/324242935_489508856662391_8358151937595496295_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-KrNje7gBkUCgbzzKpH-NBQWgyyVqYV03Wasr7JMebpiOAW1KBmf4jg30hZ3V_l_hPlsBjjhnZ5rweEO1iYexgJCHE5cPUOJoqPWVvci4VVKKljJnKukzWnSXfBufzAxW2aVMRg_nCBieQRt6_n6t06Tnr1a0tXmbXbJI4T-MdH_dX0EEVJOzHtmYw/w400-h400/324242935_489508856662391_8358151937595496295_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>RIP, William Joel Nuttall. My best bud, best man, mentor.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b></b></div><b><br />Patrick's Note:<i> I'm so sad David Crosby died the same week my mentor/friend/best man did. I saw him perform at the Aladdin Theater a few years ago, and it was magical. Crosby would have loved Joel's drums. While my love for my friend eclipsed that of Crosby the prolific stranger, my life is defined by the music of this generation I'm ensconced within. Right now, James Taylor sings Fire and Rain into my headphones as a 20-something wannabe. He became one of the most prolific songwriters of our time. While I cannot claim greatness, I'll continue speaking my truth to transit whilst this job surrounds my life. This time, I describe an incident which truly upset me. </i></b><p></p><p>Maybe I shouldn't even write this post. Times past would have found me waiting for the coming complaint about my "behavior" while driving a bus before addressing the incident. This time it was an occasion which prompted an <i>immediate</i> response, tempered by a few days "cooling my jets". I'm still so pissed off by a passenger's incredibly-disrespectful behavior I cannot remain silent long enough to suffer management's fire. FUCK him, I'm better than his pussed-out whine <i>sans</i> cheese. He didn't even give me the honor of offering him my respectful explanation. Therefore, this angry retort. He doesn't deserve more than a three-day delay.</p><p>In the span of two weeks I have lived through the agonizing death of one of my closest friends, Joel Nuttall, who was my best man at my wedding to the love of my life, Beloved. It took great effort to secure the time off to rush to his wife's side, my equally-close dear friend Debbie. Upon my arrival home from trying to find solace from this horrific reality, I was treated to the miraculous arrival of my second grandchild, the first girl Coomer in nearly four decades. My son and his lady love welcomed a tiny beauty into our loving midst, which lifted my darkened soul out of the tearful trench it had dug deeply into. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-heL-oRjqG1l4dOQpo_aTRpfOZAf7Pt-YDOt0xviXsBCYOTZtbicMGE5Mins5FAIa3tJW_wg7FC-szFj8Z7QIUe0lAA2QdRHcjtc-uvQIP7UEsPD_JQv0_Prz3nDtQQHzqC7oeXqu8Om_NlxfbjAEmz4rDOnVlY_bxJfwNPDSJSpOHhPQHX4fLPJZw/s2016/IMG_4227.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-heL-oRjqG1l4dOQpo_aTRpfOZAf7Pt-YDOt0xviXsBCYOTZtbicMGE5Mins5FAIa3tJW_wg7FC-szFj8Z7QIUe0lAA2QdRHcjtc-uvQIP7UEsPD_JQv0_Prz3nDtQQHzqC7oeXqu8Om_NlxfbjAEmz4rDOnVlY_bxJfwNPDSJSpOHhPQHX4fLPJZw/s320/IMG_4227.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Welcome to this world, sweet Mila Rose.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Dealing with these dueling emotions, I was once again peacefully rolling my run when a regular boarded. We exchanged our usual cordial greetings, even though he boarded with a bicycle at a stop which is truly inconvenient to do so, as it stops traffic behind me on a busy highway. The stop just a few hundred yards prior affords the opportunity for traffic to smoothly pass by as he puts his bike on the rack and picks up his bags in front of the elementary school at which he supposedly "teaches" children. It takes about one minute to board the typical cyclist, which requires about three safety protocols.<p></p><p>As he boarded, I watched traffic pile up behind my bus, keeping a close eye on the most impatient of them, as they will often cross a double-yellow line to pass me rather than wait those extra few seconds to allow me to roll again. No matter the fact there is often opposing traffic, some are in such a hurry to attend their own funeral or cause that of another motorist they cannot bear the delay of a bus boarding intending passengers.</p><p>When we first met a month or so ago, I gently explained the stop just a few hundred yards south was more appropriate to board someone with a bicycle in that it was offset from the busy roadway. He blithely mentioned <i>this</i> stop was convenient, being directly adjacent to his workplace. He ignored my suggestion of slightly inconveniencing himself by rolling to the previous stop so his boarding didn't cause a traffic jam. Even though he blithely ignored me, I forgave this educator of our most precious ones.</p><p>I have great respect for the teaching profession, as my favorite cousin and sister-in-law have done for decades. We came to somewhat make a connection as the weeks became a month or two. It was beyond me to make further mention of my boarding suggestion. If he wanted to board conveniently, then so be it. Nagging him to make the extra effort to roll southbound out of his way was a no-win, as it is his prerogative to board wherever he desires. Still, I found it disrespectful of him to ignore my request. I learned to accept his choice. </p><p>One night last week, his supposed cordiality took a decisive turn for the worst. As I rolled out of a transit center, I made mention over the public address system of a message from Dispatch which warned me of an impending demonstration in downtown Portland in support of a poor soul who was victim of a police brutality down south, of which I was ignorant of due to my disregard for the Dirty Laundry media. In my message to the few riders on my bus, I lamented upon Portland's previous history of a peaceful demonstrations turning violent, wishing my passengers safe travel into possibly-treacherous waters. </p><p>My warning was given due to past encounters with peaceful protests followed by the horribly-violent disasters of previous years past. I stated our First Amendment rights are inherent, but I abhor the violence which had torn apart our downtown during the simultaneous pandemic. I witnessed decades-long businesses close due to the wanton disregard for property, mourning jobs of the working class also lost. It was agonizing to witness peaceful demonstrations advocating for positive change followed by ridiculously-unwarranted destruction of our once-thriving downtown business district. I don't believe this is in any way "political", but a simple statement of my sadness regarding vandalism.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq74z2E-BpKZ1SdR0Q65ZiwifAiyCJXzCGM7HarXXtNzeelcu3euCz09GAyp8_MQgZ-A6_pkL2MNlnmGuQAWaWH6cEzR1PtirRYWCa63fEJfQouyMQjD5rhJCBIqOwpNSWPi4nJ0WqkovYEPzQ3DxV-M7ZUDlFY0iOli5MRfJJ28irxgj2nDPaBFrA7A/s2016/IMG_8574.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq74z2E-BpKZ1SdR0Q65ZiwifAiyCJXzCGM7HarXXtNzeelcu3euCz09GAyp8_MQgZ-A6_pkL2MNlnmGuQAWaWH6cEzR1PtirRYWCa63fEJfQouyMQjD5rhJCBIqOwpNSWPi4nJ0WqkovYEPzQ3DxV-M7ZUDlFY0iOli5MRfJJ28irxgj2nDPaBFrA7A/s320/IMG_8574.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Mr. Teacher immediately found it vital to berate me, to label me other than I am, rather than engage in a positively-directed discussion regarding America's First Amendment freedoms. </p><p>This previously-cordial, supposedly-sweet passenger suddenly turned vile. He found it his duty to lecture me on my supposed "conservative views" while loudly talking over my attempts to explain myself. When I mentioned my PTSD which was triggered by the mere mention of downtown protests, he berated me by saying "You don't have the slightest idea about PTSD", citing his friends who had fought in Iraq. While I honor our soldiers who have valiantly served our country, I also know there are many different facets of this mental health dilemma. While a soldier who has seen the horrible reality of combat truly suffers from PTSD, others who have dealt with highly-stressful situations have as well.</p><p>Last year, Portland transit workers reported 227 incidents of violence directed toward us. I am one of those. Over the past 10 years of service to our collective community, I have been victim to several acts of violence directed at me, and five times where I have had to be relieved of duty because I was too shaken to continue <i>safely</i> driving my beloved Portlanders. There are countless others who have sadly failed to report violence directed toward them. To have this passenger refuse to acknowledge my own PTSD was extremely disrespectful at best, given my constant respect for him and safely delivering him to his intended destination. Without, I must add, his slightest acknowledgement of my constant vigilance for his, and others', <i>constant</i> safety. Like 99% of those who ride, he was totally engrossed in his cellphone to pay any attention to my constant vigilance behind the wheel.</p><p>This is a person who is tasked with the education of our youngest generation, the hope of our future as a society. He is simply a <i>bully, </i>given his actions toward me. In my opinion, he failed to live up to his responsibility. If he has any sense of self-respect, the next time he boards he will profusely apologize for his behavior. I hope I'm wrong, but he'll likely admonish me for MY behavior, which had he stopped to listen (as his students are expected to), he would have heard my heartfelt explanation for remarks which were misconstrued by him alone. Instead, he took the path we are too commonly confronted with, that which those assured of their own truth drown out others with the amplified voice of ignorance.</p><p>Americans have lost our ability to <i>listen</i> to one another. We're so engrossed with social media we can no longer discuss issues which divide us, which makes us even more divisive. I love it when my friends feel free to disagree with me, for in the end, our similar values draw us closer than our differences suggest. <i>We are stronger together than apart</i>. Where we disagree on one issue we may totally agree on another.</p><p>I'm sad this educator of our children feels so empowered as to say "Just drive the bus, and spare me your political views". You, sir, haven't a <i>clue</i> as to my views, because you refused to hear my soul. Just because I drive a bus doesn't eliminate my voice.</p><p>If you dared call in a complaint about me without even caring to listen what I have to offer, then perhaps a note to your school district is warranted. Why? Because someone so closed and callous has NO business teaching a new generation how to behave. I truly hope you apologize to me, having had a bad day in which you took your frustrations out on a "lowly" public servant. Those who know me realize I will graciously accept it, with humility and understanding. That's how I roll, folks.</p><p>Meanwhile, peace be with you, dude. Evidently, you need it more than I do. I'm good with who I am and how I act toward others. Perhaps those you "teach" have more valuable lessons for you than you're ready to learn.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNUCxoHQqFsesIK7FNgO9dCDWSbO-rFiZ9WxmC-9Waqse5nZ7ga5e085Q_55J6MpGZfFSo0gjy1opmGOLf7xQH4UHizzwKRro0UvU8oghRl0tVqwvNBQfpX_AuJJ7CaqVF1ymeuhYRz4o5BhZ9Ow8vezrDYH7g82pLK-jro1bjwTBo_6EzTx8P1a4jQ/s1280/MilaRose.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNUCxoHQqFsesIK7FNgO9dCDWSbO-rFiZ9WxmC-9Waqse5nZ7ga5e085Q_55J6MpGZfFSo0gjy1opmGOLf7xQH4UHizzwKRro0UvU8oghRl0tVqwvNBQfpX_AuJJ7CaqVF1ymeuhYRz4o5BhZ9Ow8vezrDYH7g82pLK-jro1bjwTBo_6EzTx8P1a4jQ/w300-h400/MilaRose.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Love my surviving best friend Deb,<br />always remembering our dear Joel.</i></td></tr></tbody></table>\\<p></p><p><br /></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-56511176200691652042023-01-10T04:24:00.004-08:002023-01-10T05:03:29.577-08:00Dear Nuttall<h3 style="text-align: left;"></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><strong style="text-align: center;"><em><br /></em></strong></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><strong style="text-align: center;"><em><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IKRVrUPPXRmT_BN0RQVsyvQFJB3IvpB3TUa-GgNCPIOmazvvn4OahNwAR3dFG3I55e_mIRc8frU3lx5DqAxHMIuTIIOEgbAjCCwuFBf-ZGudP7xTFX-IGhdxgaDzdXgyUrYBOHVxwQP7G8kXrxTIQ53oz-jJKuz7yya0iJLKwB9Oi3lVpaa6OH5fWg/s2619/DebJoel%201992.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1795" data-original-width="2619" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IKRVrUPPXRmT_BN0RQVsyvQFJB3IvpB3TUa-GgNCPIOmazvvn4OahNwAR3dFG3I55e_mIRc8frU3lx5DqAxHMIuTIIOEgbAjCCwuFBf-ZGudP7xTFX-IGhdxgaDzdXgyUrYBOHVxwQP7G8kXrxTIQ53oz-jJKuz7yya0iJLKwB9Oi3lVpaa6OH5fWg/w640-h438/DebJoel%201992.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br />William Joel Nutttall<br /></em></strong>July 12, 1955 - January 9, 2023</h3><p><br /></p><p>You once told me you thought me closer to Deb than you. It was not so then, still not. You both found your entry into my heart and soul from the very start, and remain so now you're gone. I write from this aching heart, as YOU inspired me. It's how I have written many a blog, story and book ever since. You BOTH have guided me through the worst and <em>best</em> of times, and even now my eyes are shut by the tears which flood my cheeks.</p><!--wp:paragraph-->
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<p>I opened my eyes now, only to see that yes, I typed that entire previous paragraph without mistake. It was due to pure <em>love</em>, through the most intense grief. My fingers poured down my respect, despite this immense sadness, due to a man whose art was sacrosanct, just a notch below the love for his wife and children. Best man at our wedding, my Beloved Stacey and I celebrated your life as we both shed tears.</p>
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<p>A simple man, musician, artist and loving soul fraught with self-imposed guilt for faults others forced upon him, which he fought to dispel through his lifelong kindness and devotion. </p>
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<p>So quick to forgive, no matter the sins he mistakenly took upon himself. He simply loved us all so tenderly, Joel just cruised. He drummed. He jammed to his tunes. He loved, he forgave, he forgot as best he could. And those tender natures he so blindly exhibited endeared many to adore him.</p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">Deb and I came to work at JM Typography within two weeks of another. We found Joel a lost soul. An incredible artist, drummer and wonderful man who was drowning and in need of kinship from any direction possible. Yesterday at about 12:45 pm, he left this world with more than he had ever dreamed. We are left befuddled and grief-stricken by this incredible loss. I share this horror with his wife (my fellow best friend and Joel's confidante/beloved) Debbie, and their children, both together and shared. Artie, Jodi, Matthew and Jennifer, know that your dad held great value to many more than you can count.</p>
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<p>He left us all beyond despair. His sweet love of almost 40 years, his children, and one man who loved him more than he could have ever dreamed "back then". </p>
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<p>Sorry. It took a minute for me to clear my tears after writing his name. One that should <em>never</em> be lost to time. One I have claimed so close to my soul since we first met. Joel taught me not only the intense craft of typography, an art which was lost to the dawn of Personal Computers, but also how the love of art became one with how people communicate with one another.</p>
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<p>I was 23 when I met my best friend. I didn't know then we would become so close. Given his gentle nature and nurturing soul, it was bound to be.</p>
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<p>My wife (then) and I had moved to Tucson in early 1983 after spending a year in Phoenix and quickly tiring of the sprawling mess it had become since my family landed there in late December 1967. After a short stint in a group home with severely-handicapped souls, I could not bear the deep sadness which invaded the hearts of those who do such intense work. Having been the sole typesetter for a design firm in Phoenix after moving there from Boulder, CO where I was a typesetter for a publisher, I sought work in Tucson with a private firm called "JM Typography". </p>
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<p>The interview with Joel was magical. He and I related <em>instantly</em>. Surrounded by an entirely-female staff, he yearned for another male who loved typography as he did. At that point, I knew only "typesetting", for nobody had taught me more than the basics. Joel saw in me a student eager to learn, and he was oh so happy to teach. And so, he did. In earnest.</p>
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<p class="has-text-align-left"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcneiZSXgd37on-NujauE5uwBZwkM6eLqdJ6r0DCI8PN3L7IfyXdHm-Yx7slv_kM-boPD09nFTBtLlNTGQGDQF4REuxfuYqAAWh8Y6Onw5FgYByjPn1dZUV3XRZubrRKHmBlq8q7gVr8CoG16HW7RsiC1ohv9A1z5h29FZzzMyOGmcI4qUeQSWSIZwdg/s2715/ArtieJoelJennifer%201992.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1820" data-original-width="2715" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcneiZSXgd37on-NujauE5uwBZwkM6eLqdJ6r0DCI8PN3L7IfyXdHm-Yx7slv_kM-boPD09nFTBtLlNTGQGDQF4REuxfuYqAAWh8Y6Onw5FgYByjPn1dZUV3XRZubrRKHmBlq8q7gVr8CoG16HW7RsiC1ohv9A1z5h29FZzzMyOGmcI4qUeQSWSIZwdg/w400-h269/ArtieJoelJennifer%201992.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Joel with baby Jennifer, and a young Artie at their side.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Joel's customers were a mix of print shops, graphic designers and small publishers. As word of his artistry spread, he became Tucson's premier typographer in the 1980s. At that time, few realized the distinction between "typesetting" and "typography" except those who had been in the biz a long time. Joel's philosophy was simple: "<em>In order for words to sound good, they must LOOK great</em>".<p></p>
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<p>I was quickly entranced by Joel's artistry. He could take a scribbled piece of paper, meant to become the business card of some new entrepeneur into a work of art, just by choosing the perfect font, size and spacing of those few words simply given the name/address/phone number of said customer. While his competitors may have simply set in type what as instructed, Joel jumped it several steps into the ethereal realm of <em>artistry</em>. Down to the 1/72nd of an inch, he spaced letters with a superior flourish, tying simple code on a monitor into an orchestrated weave of perfection nobody else could match. </p>
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<p>Joel was the BEAST of typographical art in Tucson, Arizona, and possibly the entire Southwest back then. As word spread, his business grew. Meanwhile, Debbie and I propelled his art through our dedication to this one man, whose artistic flair whether through his drums or that gifted artist's pen drove many to see the art that was <em>his</em> alone. As many hold many an artist to greatness from that time, it is here I must trumpet Joel's intense typographical artistry now, some 40 years later.</p>
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<p>Typography was an <em>art</em> then; it has now passed into the lack of grace that has become the technological impasse into which we have all since fallen.</p>
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<p>I grew to admire this man as he came to love the lass who also became one of my closest friends ever. They fell in love as I watched them interact from the beginning. Joel and Debbie became ONE as I fondly watched. Now, my tears fall more heavily for Deb's loss than my own.</p>
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<p>Our most endearing terms for each other were borne by the time Debbie, as Joel's new Production Manager, brought galleys to be corrected into the Typography Den and found us deep in fun conversation. </p>
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<p>Deb was never one to be reckoned with. Given her temperament as a no-nonsense individual with a flair for orneriness, she stopped short as she interrupted our reparté. </p>
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<p>"Get to work, Fuckers!" she exclaimed.</p>
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<p>Joel and I looked at each other with matched surprise. Then, we laughed as Debbie did, she perhaps in relief at being so abrupt and not being immediately fired. Until then, we both thought Joel was too straightlaced to even consider such a jest. Joel and I were instantaneously bonded to this straight-talking, bold and extremely cofidently-competent Production Manager. </p>
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<p>From there on, we came to call each other "Fucker". It became an instant term of endearment which lasts to this day. Some of my son Zakary's first words were calling his dad "fooker" to my dismay and Deb/Joel's great hilarity. </p>
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<p>Joel taught me how lowercase letters necessitated the gentle coaxing of the uppercase T, Y, W and V over the protective wings of their accompanying vowels. I had never appreciated type as an art form before meeting WJN. At that point, I never thought typing words into a computer, using subtle yet powerful commands to tweak a simple letter, <em>existed</em> as an art form. Yet, that's how Joel <em>lived</em> it. This was not just a job to him, it was the formulation of decades-long dedication to art. He was accomplished not only as a drummer, but could draw images which touched the toughest of souls. </p>
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<p>Joel instantly taught me how the presentation of words defined their power. I began to see a piece of paper submitted as a challenge, rather than a simple type job. Our task was to make our customers look good to their own. As I grew into the art, I corrected spelling errors and introduced subtle tweaks the customer hadn't called for. These artistic discoveries led to my quest to spread my wings as a typographical artist. When my parents expressed an interest in opening a family type shop, Joel surprised me by not only encouraging me, but giving me pointers as to how to avoid the pitfalls he encountered opening his shop anew. I could not have split from him without such an expression of love and support as he offered me.</p>
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<p>At that point, I was about to become a father for the first time. Joel and Debbie had found themselves desperately in love with each other. They married as my business began. Our friendship not only continued, but flourished. We had agreed to support each other and not court mutual customers. Both our businesses grew and blossomed, and my daughter became their adopted nephew/niece amidst it all.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIWNhimjanCDYy0rIKtwEGUm86kctIW89u_EjEHhMIFv7Us0i-DL5HTnoupxrrMQEbptZacaVctb71XyL-ojrIa2Mp89MAi7-5A4MylRyN1eEErDVso3CW4dmvCzwxpd0txFXXWfTkPkfunHm-qFS4PzxN4rxr2od5Ha3wKOrPWhriViDGfq-QmeocA/s2642/Camping%20RiggsFlatt.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1985" data-original-width="2642" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIWNhimjanCDYy0rIKtwEGUm86kctIW89u_EjEHhMIFv7Us0i-DL5HTnoupxrrMQEbptZacaVctb71XyL-ojrIa2Mp89MAi7-5A4MylRyN1eEErDVso3CW4dmvCzwxpd0txFXXWfTkPkfunHm-qFS4PzxN4rxr2od5Ha3wKOrPWhriViDGfq-QmeocA/s320/Camping%20RiggsFlatt.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
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<p></p>Debbie, Joel and I continued to come together at Happy Hour Fridays, and so eventually did my new customer and soon-to-be "new" best friend Wayne Kyle, a small-business printer/compadre who suffered divorce with me. We all had fun together, sharing stories of our loves, kids and zany customers. It was the 1980s, a drug-fed, speed-induced economy into which we all contributed and thrived.<p></p>
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<p>Back then, we all came together. No matter our political affiliation or religious beliefs. We were close, bonded by life's struggles and beliefs that the harder we worked, the better for all of us. Celebrations melded into friendships, losses brought us even closer together. While sometimes life's twists were often searing, it was more often an incredible moment in time where we shared our losses while celebrating successes. That type of bond is rarely appreciated today, let alone found. It was this brief moment where Joel, Deb and I found ourselves woven together in a mixture of extreme love and mutual respect. We fed each other when times were tough and diapers became even more expensive. One of us found a way to afford either beer or beef, but we always found a way to eat and have fun.</p>
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<p>First, my daughter Anna was born. Shortly thereafter, I was suddenly divorced and all on my own for the first time. Then, Joel and Deb welcomed their son Matthew to this world. We reveled in our babies as life unfolded, often cruelly, amidst our lives. They helped guide me through the deepest of my darkest times having lost she who I believed was the ONE love of my life, and further through her horrible attempts to paint me extremely opposite of who I have always been. Their shoulders absorbed gallons of my tears, their support guided me through the closure of the family business I left them for and welcomed me back to their own.</p>
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<p>We changed diapers of each others' kids. I babysat for Matthew, and then their new addition, the apple of Joel's eye baby Jennifer. They watched Anna too. She taught their son to read. I read baby stories to each as they nodded to sleep as their daddy drummed magic with bands whose music I loved too. We partied together, sometimes but not often argued but never split via harsh words. We listened to one another's woes, shared family sins and basically rolled right through the worst of times. Why? Just because those, as we knew, were the <em>best</em> of times. We had each others' backs. We were the Tres Amigos, Fuckers Forever.</p>
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<p>Finally, I met the lass who would save me from the darkest suffering I feared would never end. She was so much younger than I was, Deb was extremely skeptical Stacey was much more than a passing fancy. As we became quickly close, Deb and Joel embraced her no matter any misgivings. When we married a year later with baby Zakary soon to follow, Joel was my immediate choice as Best Man. And so he has remained, ever since.</p>
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<p class="has-text-align-center" style="text-align: center;">* * * * *</p>
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<p><br />Today I suffered mostly for Deb's sake. And Matthew with his sister Jennifer. His kids Artie and Jodie from his first marriage. Their kids, who will no longer feel their grandfather's intense love. I've known and loved and suffered with this family since 1982. I knew and came to love Debbie before she and Joel found the love they shared 40 years. We have been as tight a friendship threesome as anyone could ever dream. When we moved to Oregon in 2002, it was nearly as agonizing leaving them as I felt watching my daughter Anna and Stacey's parents waving farewell through mutual tears.</p>
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<p>So yeah, Joel. I saw you last when I raced to Arizona last May in hopes of catching a few hours with you one last, wonderful time. You showed me your "man cave", where several mementos of our time as compadres at JM Typography and Intertype graced those walls. You cranked up the tunes out there of several of our mutually-favorite tunes as we quietly relived our favorite times together. I barely maintained my composure, knowing it was the last time I'd see you alive. I wanted to hug you closer than I did when we parted, because it was vital you know how much I have loved you since we first met. All we endured together and as a <em>tres-amigo </em>unit assail me now as I write this, tears streaming down my face.</p>
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<p>Joel's loss is closely equal to that of losing both parents and my baby brother. He has been so closely-intwined with my adult life as anyone could. Where your parents leave off, friends take the lead helping us grow wiser. Joel not only helped, but he nurtured me along a young man's roughest roads, and was there where I emerged.</p>
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<p>Thank you, <em>Nuttallski</em>. You taught me more than your endearingly-modest self could ever admit. I owe you more than my artfully-wandering self could ever know. You grounded me, guiding me through the darkest moments of my life. When I considered ending it all in my deepest despair, you reminded me my Anna Bear needed me more than any horror awaiting my self-demise. You held me up when I couldn't do it myself. Now you're gone, it's up to me to pay back, to take up where you left off.</p>
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<p>Thanks to you, Joel, I'm up to the task. I've lost both parents and my baby brother, but it's you who have taught me the strength necessary to show love where your own need it now. I'm here for you, where you cannot, from here on. Deb, Matthew, and Jennifer, lean on <em>me</em> now. Your husband/dad has passed his loving torch to his surviving "Fucker". And damnit, I <em>promised</em> him. I'm here, guys. And I <em>love</em> you, too... 40 years worth.</p>
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<p>RIP, Nuttall. Thanks for being <em>you</em> throughout it all. I'll honor that until my time here is done. Love you, buddy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKTNio3M2b_1_MLN7_w0OkXWEkoIO3l-E-uxw6uvfnWWFxDOA0_dBbxhTihRdedvrhkluNmLHYiLDPf0wsXBisRrJlB67w2frPaP3XVsZ-4ZzaRGTIWe-30J8bFjo4T2o5KB35RMUo5DZ4Tvh39MKFCVbfERYx-Z17QTEs78BJCkdlkbIGETlWuWJgA/s720/324242935_489508856662391_8358151937595496295_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKTNio3M2b_1_MLN7_w0OkXWEkoIO3l-E-uxw6uvfnWWFxDOA0_dBbxhTihRdedvrhkluNmLHYiLDPf0wsXBisRrJlB67w2frPaP3XVsZ-4ZzaRGTIWe-30J8bFjo4T2o5KB35RMUo5DZ4Tvh39MKFCVbfERYx-Z17QTEs78BJCkdlkbIGETlWuWJgA/w400-h400/324242935_489508856662391_8358151937595496295_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
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<!--/wp:paragraph--><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-8557215864166755872023-01-01T06:43:00.001-08:002023-01-01T06:43:32.224-08:00Icy Unlearned Lessons<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKqWweLyaZKk3HxxJ69OhI9E6OWj7vEmeJkCSJ7OhoXtlbcXlNcRWi8h6CF7c4jL7_Pz0y19rAJL-DU0POk4J8LMDowul095aoU9FKL3KJM-bqh7kEBSz4q-z5R011ONdnX5VKzzRCg1DeSl-y0Bg7puAp0JJ78JWe5E2pw0iA_XdXfmmmS8fMj2YlkA/s2048/IMG_0228-EFFECTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKqWweLyaZKk3HxxJ69OhI9E6OWj7vEmeJkCSJ7OhoXtlbcXlNcRWi8h6CF7c4jL7_Pz0y19rAJL-DU0POk4J8LMDowul095aoU9FKL3KJM-bqh7kEBSz4q-z5R011ONdnX5VKzzRCg1DeSl-y0Bg7puAp0JJ78JWe5E2pw0iA_XdXfmmmS8fMj2YlkA/w480-h640/IMG_0228-EFFECTS.jpg" width="480" /></a></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><b>Patrick's Note: <i>After 10 years driving a bus, it's safe to assume my icy driving skills have evolved accordingly. Still, impending storms make me nervous for many reasons. Here's a snippet of what it was like to guide The Beast through Portland's icy December debacle, plus all the ensuing thoughts all disconnected.</i></b><p></p><p>Transit agency management is fraught with turnover. No matter how they pontificate on how much was learned "from the last time", many lessons are long forgotten along with their ensuing golden gooses. Perhaps those before failed to document suggestions for the "next time" when they left. Whatever the case, each time Portland is hit with winter weather, the connection between common sense and those who deal with the storms are filled with static and confusion. There is no seamless transition of leadership from those who should benefit from past "studies".</p><p>It is a given that Portland weather trends are hard to predict. However, technology has afforded us better tools than just half a decade ago. This storm was true to forecast, arrived as scheduled and behaved as each of the media outlets thought, within minimal deviations. In storms past, we were all wondering just which forecast was the one to believe. Usually, what happened was what we all least expected. It is therefore not fully management's fault in the past how it responded on its heels. What bothers me is how there is no cohesive, decisive and precedent-based line of thought associated with each winter storm. </p><p>Initially, it was business as usual. It was <i>bitter</i> cold. The temperature fell steadily from the 40s to 19 degrees in 36 hours, and the wind roared throughout the Willamette Valley to chills as low as six. Meanwhile, precipitation fell through the coldest reaches of the atmosphere through a warmer layer, then froze again into ice crystals at ground level. It appeared to be snow, but it was just zillions of tiny crystals accumulating, only to be spread here and yon by a relentlessly bitter East wind.</p><p>As it began to accumulate, I tested my bus. <i>Trying</i> to make it slip, knowing how to successfully recover from a skid, I could not achieve a lack of traction. At 20 degrees, there was virtually no humidity, therefore the road was dry. Although I automatically backed off speed to compensate for possibly-wet spot/black ice conditions, there wasn't much need. That first night, we were saved by the thermometer. Still, I mentally compensated for the next day. I watched from my front porch three hours after arriving safely home, as the precipitation became <i>oh so slightly</i> wetter. When I awoke eight hours later, Ma Nature had added a freshly-shiny overcoat. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCa_sbgti72OApWnWiJ_Bbax6pcEJlcvuJh_LwDkonQJANXNUDK6A05ShH68d_qZXjyjfZi4xm-HoPVJ2GisH96zxpCK0HwUfHae474xKIPllowhnWV9wncjSe4hKjTql3Y2cb3gHQz9niKIaPL-rdAOqxgL_OYz03MrYF6ePHnEZEvppT9USBq1ajhA/s839/IMG_31837568391358.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="839" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCa_sbgti72OApWnWiJ_Bbax6pcEJlcvuJh_LwDkonQJANXNUDK6A05ShH68d_qZXjyjfZi4xm-HoPVJ2GisH96zxpCK0HwUfHae474xKIPllowhnWV9wncjSe4hKjTql3Y2cb3gHQz9niKIaPL-rdAOqxgL_OYz03MrYF6ePHnEZEvppT9USBq1ajhA/s320/IMG_31837568391358.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>"Damn," I uttered with a grimace, gazing out the window. "This is gonna be fun."</p><p>Luckily, my front-wheel-drive Hyundai eased out of its warm garage down the driveway and onto the street without the slightest slippage. Instead of rolling down the boulevard at 42mph, the rutted conditions dictated a safer 25-30 all the way to the garage some 9.2 miles distant. No problem, I left earlier than usual. Knowing my maintenance brothers and sisters would have fully-chained my bus already, likely having a say in this administrative decision. Being closer to the real world, they knew it would be easier and more cost-effective to do this chore at the garages rather than laying on the ground in bitter conditions "out there".</p><p>My bus actually arrived at my relief point early, the fairly-new operator I relieved telling me of one point he almost became stuck, but managed to guide it upward and onward. Giving him a nod and kudos for NOT getting stuck, having experienced this before and enduring a two-hour wait, I claimed the seat.</p><p>I took note of that location because I had narrowly avoided rescue there several years prior. It's a slight incline prior to a stop-lighted intersection. Even as a green driver, I chose to hold back below the incline until the light turned green, anticipating and starting to roll just before the light changed. Fishtailed a bit as I hit the precipice, ignoring the yellow-to-red stoplight, I nailed that challenge. At the time, my nervous passengers actually applauded my not getting stuck. Not only can it be embarrassing having to be rescued, but at the <i>beginning</i> of a weather event it's even worse.</p><p>Adorned in five layers (including thermals) over my upper body in addition to a scarf, the frigid air sailed through my pants and boxers to severely curl my balls AWOL abdomen-bound. Coaxing urine to flow outbound was a test of patience not unequal to a Prius's arrogant ignorance of every law of the road. (Longtime FTDS readers might notice my previous disdain for BMW/Mercedes/Audi/Volvo has evolved.)</p><p>Walking back to the bus involved buffeting 30mph-plus gusts which sent icy air deep into my nether regions. Unfortunately, my bus HVAC seemed weaker than the temps, failing to adequately warm me or keep ice from forming on the windshield. It actually seemed to encourage frost to travel from on high ever-lower into my field of vision. At one point I almost had to exit the bus to scrape the encroaching ice field.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Conditions were much more challenging the second day. However, it was more a managerial failure that dictated my work than the actual weather. My regular work was totally cancelled that day, so I reported instead to my garage instead of my regular road relief regimen. I was immediately sent out to a bus on a fairly-close track to pre-trip and await instruction. Three hours later, a maintenance worker told all half-dozen of us still there to go back inside because it was time to move the buses.</p><p>After 90 minutes of munching a tasteless burrito from the "company store", taking several vape breaks, and talking to several folks I hadn't seen in ages, I was given the go-ahead by our incredibly-poised Station Agent to proceed to Oregon City and finish the last round trip of my regular work.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKANtLTng6l3vihSz26auxFsrNE_OzNfkIAQuDr51Q4D9GpAThXgbtBPDdm_DVe4bOtHbeCgMAIStObfMyocmgpdhnxQsBsPe51j6pZ6mEJUWd-x1Mr_H8T_Dt1QHDVuco51aQWl9xrAkHwVBJDNG755stIbVD7nasZkXphrmb04EVCGf99l2CW1H-g/s1280/20140326_102329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKANtLTng6l3vihSz26auxFsrNE_OzNfkIAQuDr51Q4D9GpAThXgbtBPDdm_DVe4bOtHbeCgMAIStObfMyocmgpdhnxQsBsPe51j6pZ6mEJUWd-x1Mr_H8T_Dt1QHDVuco51aQWl9xrAkHwVBJDNG755stIbVD7nasZkXphrmb04EVCGf99l2CW1H-g/s320/20140326_102329.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Um, what the...? Sister was erroneously directed. I knew the hilly terrain of my route was likely FUBAR. Dispatch changed its mind and had me do a different line, one which was one of many cancelled that day. It was less lethal than that which I usually roll so I didn't argue. Of course, nobody was waiting for a bus after few (if any) had arrived all day prior. I found three cold walkers and stopped to offer a ride, which they gratefully accepted. Of course, I could not fairly ask for fare. I am a service worker after all, and taking pity on my fellow blue-collar workers dictates a break hereafter.<p></p><p>After completing this short round trip, Dispatch sent me northward to a transit center it took 45 minutes to reach. I was tasked with being a light rail shuttle bus to the airport, where all flights were long-ago-cancelled. Shaking my head at the ludicrous nature of this folly, it was still better driving a bus than sitting around cell-gazing. My normal quitting time was only an hour distant, so 20 minutes after my arrival, the onsite supervisor calculated the time it would take me to get back to Center garage, then told Dispatch he was sending me homeward-bound. My soul did a happy dance. It was the easiest 9.25 hours of pay I've earned in several years.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">Risking the ire of our already-embarrassed management, several nagging questions beg consideration.</p><p>Why were lessons of the past not documented so future generations would appreciate their benefit? After years of "studying" past events, previous administrations helped current management fail this test. I'm sorry folks "up there", but there is no cohesive, decisive, "lessons learned" directives for you to rely upon. When will this agency find a way to not only grasp the reins during inclement weather, but surge beyond expectations?</p><p>Why wasn't there a clear path of routes defined for the operators available to serve? Management had an entire day to plan, should have known which routes would be cancelled and how to most efficiently use the workforce on hand. Instead, we were sent on strange missions to nowhere after hours of waiting. It was an incredible waste of money and resources.</p><p>Why doesn't management study transit systems in the Midwest/Northeast, where icy weather is the norm during winter months? Aren't there systems which warm the catenary wires of light rail to keep ice from forming on them? Surely, our ice storms pale in comparison to that of other locales. Hell, when it snows half an inch here, schools panic and close. Businesses shutter early and send panicked employees home before "it hits". Good for transit numbers, bad for the bottom line.</p><p>Why does Portland refuse to adequately prepare for winter weather? Major streets remain un-plowed, while state and federal authorities are busily clearing major highways/interstates. Meanwhile, Portland's aging transit mall becomes an unruly mess. Even in good weather, the city fails miserably in keeping the lines painted, does not install adequate signs informing (or citing stubborn/lazy) motorists what is legal there. It creates a dangerous mix of foolishness to abound, a downtown showdown between common sense and pure ridiculousness. It's a wonder people aren't killed there every day, but you can credit bus/light rail operators for constant vigilance.</p><p>Since Portland refuses to get its head unstuck from its nether regions, I implore Sam the Man to take matters into his eager-to-change-the-past transit hands.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yBsIFgpDBWyKDyXBTcHIfKtX3VjZfI1j4pnwQNP-kzsT7uoUwif_HjR2FVSAlXmuUiT0ZZcV93Cwe_kCN2Pf7qPTTlqQwikJo_r8yiV2jc5_ncccoGYJOxgH-DPuP5ffc8O0Bg-RTFYLaqM7t6DDlJwhtKYruOE_h1T4cQ60uDFATEZGHxqWya4K1w/s1807/20140217_143120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1807" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yBsIFgpDBWyKDyXBTcHIfKtX3VjZfI1j4pnwQNP-kzsT7uoUwif_HjR2FVSAlXmuUiT0ZZcV93Cwe_kCN2Pf7qPTTlqQwikJo_r8yiV2jc5_ncccoGYJOxgH-DPuP5ffc8O0Bg-RTFYLaqM7t6DDlJwhtKYruOE_h1T4cQ60uDFATEZGHxqWya4K1w/w501-h307/20140217_143120.jpg" width="501" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>AT the risk of being labeled a "transit apologist" or worse, I can only say there have been major changes in management's attitude over the past year. Bullshit policies of yore have been replaced with (cautiously) more lenient/frontline-friendly overtures. While our wage increase should have been 12-15% more given what Operations personnel have been through the past two years, we <i>are</i> seeing signs of improvement. Where we are leery, more distrustful, Sam's Regime has given us reason to hope. A wonderful change has been that management is giving us more leeway with intending passengers. They have become much more challenging to see out there, and this change has put the onus back on them, in that they have the responsibility to signal their intention to ride, especially given their propensity to be extremely difficult to see in their dark choice of fashion.</p><p>Management's easing of SIPs (Service Improvement Program) is slowly evolving into what the acronym implies. When a passenger complains about being passed up, it is incumbent on management to investigate first the conditions which led up to the alleged incident to ascertain who actually was at fault. People not trained as we are are oblivious to what we are constantly trained to see. Dark is something we <i>cannot</i> see, so we often <i>do not</i>. When we're operating a bus, our eyes are constantly scanning 180 degrees, plus whatever we can see at the 360 mark. A bus stop accounts for mere seconds of our attention. If a passenger is bent down in an unlit shelter staring at their technological ball and chain, chances are 90% we cannot see them there. It is incumbent upon them therefore to be aware of our impending arrival (given several app options which can alert them we're close by) and stand at the stop pole (which our eyes automatically gravitate to while scanning), preferably waving a light or otherwise trying to catch our attention. Believe it or not, our attention is not always focused on that dark stop where you're fixated upon your social media apps. We're busily guiding 20+ tons of metal and glass among much smaller vehicles whose drivers are not nearly as focused as we are.</p><p>It is a major victory for us, therefore, for management to recognize the cell phone's intrusion upon civilian common sense and offer some forgiveness for our mere human ability to see in the darkest of the dark, heavy rain further shielding our vision from the inattentiveness of the riding public. And, equally important, to insist upon the public's awareness they have an equal responsibility in that it is their responsibility to make themselves visible to us.</p><p>No, your cellphone does not take precedence over your intent to ride our vehicles. Your attention is therefore warranted to direct our attention to your intentions. Learn it, people. Otherwise, your complaint is simply a whining of a child yet to find attention.</p><p>In my 10 years, I've seen Portland's transit through some very tumultuous times. I was trained by the old school, but soon found immediate reason to adapt to quickly-evolving social modes. When I arrived on the scene, cellphones were new. So was Stephen King's novel "Cell". Social media was mostly accessed via home computers. People spoke to each other on transit. Troublemakers were often dealt with internally, without the operator becoming intensely-involved. Portlanders bantered about, discussed issues and found ways to disagree without using fists, knives, guns, or physical violence. Transit workers were respected for the most part. Reading books and enjoying healthy conversation with fellow passengers were more common than... total... fucking... techno-silence.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>I could go on and on. <i>Ad nauseum</i>. But I know this missive has held you a good 10 minutes or so. These days, you're trained to only read a few sentences before moving on. Yet my fingers/mind/bus driver's soul yearns to hold you even longer. There is so much <i>more</i> to say as my hands relive the rigors of the road. I'm grateful you've lasted this long. </p><p>Often whilst I drive The Beast, I think of snippets to share with you. But once I arrive upon my beloved home, my soul melts into the couch and this aging body sinks ever deeper into the couch. This night being New Year's Day, I could not bear to leave my writer's angst further wallowing into the ether. Some of you faithfully read each post, and my love for you is intensely-appreciated. Others have left me for shorter themes. But the Operator of each bus has many tales to tell. This blog simply tells the story of <i>this</i> one.</p><p>Thanks for being here. Nearly 10 years now, I have written my feelings here. Five years ago, I published "JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane", which many of you now own. It has been a lifelong dream to publish a book. Now that I <i>have</i>, and the First Edition is done, it's evident a Second Edition is due. First, or concurrently, to finishing my novel about a troll who preys upon wicked cyclists who dare cross the Tilikum Crossing.</p><p>Thanks for reading this blog, for your patience while my writer mojo takes unscheduled breaks. Thank you for always being there, over 750,000 times. It's all this writer <i>needs to find a reason to write</i>. Mostly, thank you Beloved, for supporting me no matter where this jumbled mind resides.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvs9ystqgrv_f1Dt5y6nuKLNjeTJA9t_z250lL_9--19uKUT2xRE_7p-sszGIGGIONC_InRJ6gD5H1p7jX9GA8owqE_jSPlbdNClEgCAiT24cbxV_3p2hweVmNeYz73MhiGBvjB1FLJHkfLwmu6G9QEJklIe0MYtRJDu36AAMw_sHEkVL7HhOQt1J5nQ/s1280/20140721_130431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvs9ystqgrv_f1Dt5y6nuKLNjeTJA9t_z250lL_9--19uKUT2xRE_7p-sszGIGGIONC_InRJ6gD5H1p7jX9GA8owqE_jSPlbdNClEgCAiT24cbxV_3p2hweVmNeYz73MhiGBvjB1FLJHkfLwmu6G9QEJklIe0MYtRJDu36AAMw_sHEkVL7HhOQt1J5nQ/s320/20140721_130431.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Oh, and Happy New Year, ya filthy animals! (See the movie <i>Home Alone</i> for reference.) May 2023 find us coming together for a greater good rather adhering to some ancient political philosophy. We need to find good in one another, rather than focusing on our differences. I love you all, no matter what you believe. Peace be with you.</p><p>With great love, I am</p><p>COOMER (aka Deke)</p><p><br /></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-25231095010615929062022-11-27T07:35:00.003-08:002022-11-27T07:43:16.796-08:00Another Tragedy Closely Avoided<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-jT7cQ0oPlZOdF-_FCdGG6Q10I4njiQzhDSwkZ1bIq4B0FPN2G2iJz7v0FYmjt8T-Wj6NralN_F3xPch10A6dBObFyuvzT87h3WSdj1k22xZZjNeP0iU5lJJiLM1nw_xDsPo4kkLrIMZ95CSSkCCUK0oM48Sy0ZOm5BRCs4RIsFyAXfckWWi3RQoXQ/s4032/9B17132B-66F6-4F7E-A135-61615574DD3B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-jT7cQ0oPlZOdF-_FCdGG6Q10I4njiQzhDSwkZ1bIq4B0FPN2G2iJz7v0FYmjt8T-Wj6NralN_F3xPch10A6dBObFyuvzT87h3WSdj1k22xZZjNeP0iU5lJJiLM1nw_xDsPo4kkLrIMZ95CSSkCCUK0oM48Sy0ZOm5BRCs4RIsFyAXfckWWi3RQoXQ/w300-h400/9B17132B-66F6-4F7E-A135-61615574DD3B.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><b style="text-align: left;">Patrick's Note:<i> Well here I am. Again. No matter how much I try to staunch the need to write, I keep coming back. As I have said many a time, this is my self-therapy. This job is not simply just driving a bus, as that insipid local radio personality once lauded as "easy". It's a ride through the best and worst of times, a carriage of deep sadness with a spark of happiness we are so lucky to occasionally witness. Sure, it's fun for me to drive The Beast, to feel the power, its' mighty presence on the street. Yet it's a monstrous responsibility, knowing the damage potential it rolls with. This constant knowledge bears down, commits me to be hyper-vigilant 10+ hours a day from the time I awaken to the moment consciousness is lost to dreams. Bless you, dear passengers. It's for you, five days a week... not for my employer. And for you, anyone who exists anywhere </i>near<i> this enormous responsibility.</i></b></div></b><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">Two times this month I've seen the carnage of human vs. transit vehicle. It's incredibly horrifying. More than you see on TV, in shows or on the news. Neither of my witnessed tragedies have even been mentioned by the snooze media. It's unfathomable. Usually, any contact between our vehicles and the public is ultra-scrutinized by those whose job it is to bring you the "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=44Z_Wr9IIOU" target="_blank">Dirty Laundry</a>"</p><div style="text-align: left;">I have tried everything I know to force the news media's hand where it comes to transit management's own tarnished self-proclaimed "image". From transit worker assaults (on the RISE every year) to the many issues we face on the front lines, I have been met with total silence. It's so loud in my ears, their collective dissonance (defined as "psychological conflict resulting from incongruous beliefs and attitudes held simultaneously").</div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><h3><b><i>"I make my living off the evening news. Just gimme somethin', somethin' I can use.</i></b> <b><i>People love it when you lose, give us Dirty Laundry."</i></b> <b>-- Don Henley, The Eagles</b></h3></blockquote><p>Let's pick this definition apart, for discussion's sake. <i>Incongruous</i> means lacking <i>harmony</i>. Therefore, most media reports regarding transit tragedy are one-sided, largely because our own transit agencies are so afraid of negative public opinion that they actually perpetuate it through its own negligence to insulate US from it. It has been self-taught to insulate itself from public scrutiny so much, it is seemingly eager to throw US under the bus whenever something tragic happens. To support this belief, I ask you how often is the headline "Pedestrian looking at cell phone walks in front of train/bus"? What you'll likely see is "Pedestrian struck by bus/train". The transit agency's response, lacking ANY support for its' workers, is commonly "this incident, while tragic, is currently under investigation." Not a word of support for the operator, even if that man or woman has a flawless safety record or has never been "involved" in any such incident in their many years of service.</p><p>After the "investigation" has likely found us free of any blame, you won't find such a proclamation forthcoming from them, or the media. Therefore, initial "news" leaves us hanging in the public opinion that if ANY incident occurs where someone makes contact with one of our vehicles, WE are to blame. So much for "innocent until proven guilty". In our case, it's usually "guilty unless proven innocent", and that is up to speculation... forever.</p><p>Management's refusal to have our backs when tragedy strikes only perpetuates the myths that we are "unsafe" or "not adequately trained", which are common quotes from the afflicted following a tragedy. Given their empty grief following a transit death, one can feel their need to blame anybody except their loved one. Without official acceptance or proclamation of wrongdoing except for omitting the innocence of the Transit Operator, the public is left to believe WE are at fault. Therefore, the myths become "attitudes" toward those who daily traverse <i>thousands </i>of SAFE miles regardless of the foolishness we automatically avoid.</p><p>Over a decade ago, one of our sisters suffered an incident in which two pedestrians died underneath her bus. It was a momentary lack of sight, when she failed to see around a fundamental flaw of the "new" bus design which placed a physical barrier to our peripheral vision. This barrier was the major cause of the disaster, yet our sister was fired, humiliated, sued and made to suffer far beyond her own feelings of guilt and shame. She suffers still, forever tainted by this horrific accident EVERY trainee is taught to avoid.</p><p>Our union has long cried foul over this vision barrier as a safety hazard, yet our sister paid the debt that was never corrected. Not only did those poor folks lose their lives in a horrendous tragedy, but the Operator's name is forever-connected with this devastating reminder of transit management's failure to safeguard the public by correcting the "A-Frame Anomaly", over a decade later.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8addQVnWje-f2bJ1EJUTlYrJK38h_DMr6dCalRX0avyaOq9vMUm7u4yu6IafEtNyzUuDDQmWRWXAZ1EzYufLBBowWbuFlcK-zMVPfiTjAOV1Wk6HtBJRXfrLHhyJK6JMGgdeUDvhwL63rV6tH7WB5uiPhFK6CPPzpoONBaAf2XIBTA3uJQkaPTZHaQ/s4032/A2010002-9600-428B-9E7A-38485888CC8B.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8addQVnWje-f2bJ1EJUTlYrJK38h_DMr6dCalRX0avyaOq9vMUm7u4yu6IafEtNyzUuDDQmWRWXAZ1EzYufLBBowWbuFlcK-zMVPfiTjAOV1Wk6HtBJRXfrLHhyJK6JMGgdeUDvhwL63rV6tH7WB5uiPhFK6CPPzpoONBaAf2XIBTA3uJQkaPTZHaQ/s320/A2010002-9600-428B-9E7A-38485888CC8B.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>So much for the "Safety First" signs which once adorned our garage bullpens. They've been replaced with snarky reminders about "pulling out on time" while praising us for "On Time Performance" rather than placing an appropriate emphasis on how many lives we save every shift.</p><p>Not much has changed since this disaster happened, except management's own refusal to insist upon <b><i>Safety First</i></b>. It has a decade-long history of ordering new buses with the same safety flaw, if only to meet the former GM McFarlane's vision of buses looking eerily similar to light rail vehicles. Aesthetics are evidently more important than the public's safety, or the integrity of an Operator who must increase our risk of Repetitive Motion injuries from having to "rock and roll" more than AC/DC fans on amphetamines and meth. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Fast forward to three days ago. I'm sliding out of my stop at 6/Salmon, approaching Pioneer Courthouse Square. As I guide my bus 14mph down the transitway, I see two buses stopped ahead of me at Morrison. No biggie, this happens daily as several buses professionally share the road with other buses, private motorists and MAX trains. I glide through the intersection at Yamhill, a train approaching behind. As I roll to a stop behind C-TRAN Line 105, I see the Operator deploy his four-way flashers. There's a bus ahead of him, one of ours I find out a few moments later.</p><p>As I'm stopped, I flip on my own four-ways to warn the bus behind me that we're stopped for some reason. I'm not sure what it is, but from where I sit, a tour bus is visible ahead, stopped half-turn from Morrison onto our 6th. My first thought is that an inexperienced operator has mis-judged the curb and is stuck there, because there's a safety-vested man up ahead on my left in the intersection. When nothing happens, I lock it up and step out to see what's up. Glancing out my open door, all I can see is the rear portion of the stuck tour bus. Telling my passengers to stay put while I investigate the situation, I step our and see my C-TRAN brother to my left on the Pioneer Courthouse Square sidewalk speaking with a security guard. Walking over to him, he catches my glance and shakes his head.</p><p>"Tour bus vs. pedestrian," he says, shaking his head.</p><p>I glance up at the scene, devoid of any emergency vehicles. It had just happened moments prior. A human's lower extremities stuck out from underneath the bus just ahead of the duals. My breath caught, extreme anxiety overcame me as my brother explained the situation.</p><p>"Driver hit the guy, he went under the bus, under the fucking duals. Driver had to back up to get the weight off him." </p><p><i>He must be dead</i>. My only thought as he spoke. I couldn't take my eyes off the scene until I forced myself to. At that point, the scene was chaotic. I saw someone kneeling at the edge of the tour bus, trying to speak to the injured person, but at that point I could not watch any longer. It felt like my legs would fall from underneath me, so I concentrated on my fellow operator. Not sure I heard all he said, even though he was right there. With me. Feeling the same fear I did.</p><p><i>What if that had been me</i>?</p><p>We both acknowledged we had been in similarly-dangerous spots, but luckily had avoided them. Both of us felt for the operator, but wondered why they had missed the likely-jaywalking pedestrian coming right at them. In retrospect, I believe it's directly-attributable to the damned vision barrier every bus manufacturer has ignored for a decade now.</p><p>Ever since then, I have asked myself that question countless times. Whenever I make a turn, I do as my trainers bade me. Scan both ways 180-degrees plus as I slow down. Making the turn between 5-10mph, I'm constantly scanning, watching for anything I may have missed on the initial scan, foot on the brake as caution dictates. I have avoided countless disasters practicing this constant lesson from several trainers in my earliest days as a transit operator. Each time this maneuver saves a life, I profusely thank my trainers (and line-trainers too). Especially that they stressed making a sharp turn slowly and deliberately. I thank my Dad, who taught me early and often to expect the unexpected at all times and to be ready when the worst thing happens.</p><p>When I heard the touring coach operator had to reverse over the body he'd struck to relieve the pressure of his duals upon the body, I can only imagine the horror. None of us can, nor could ever, feel that anguish. Unless it happens to US, and we ALL pray it is never an issue. </p><p>Still, four days later, I have not seen any news reports of this tragic happening. As I spoke with my C-TRAN brother adjacent to Pioneer Courthouse Square with the so-far-unlit-Christmas tree behind us, he told me there was a news camera behind us. We had been jiving together as bus operators will, and there was some laughter involved. It was likely nerve-busting banter, sharing experiences to remove our focus from the paramedic activity ahead of us. I became immediately aware that our actions were on film. Instantly changing my face/posture, the scene sobered us.</p><p>Re-focusing, I walked to the front bus, one of ours. The operator was sitting with his head in his hands, but he saw me at the door and opened it. Then he stepped to the doorway.</p><p>"You doing okay?" I asked. He shook his head, for want of words. </p><p>"You saw it happen, didn't you?"</p><p>He nodded. Obviously in shock, I was instantly concerned for him, feeling guilty for shooting the shit with the bus operator behind him rather than seeking my brother first. My TriMet brother should have been my <i>first</i> contact. My immediate brother, not the concerned "involved witness", but the one who shares my uniform. To him, I offer my intense apology.</p><p>Brother Operator was pale, shaken. He told me what he saw.</p><p>"Pedestrian jaywalked right into the coach, who must not have seen him," he said, deeply sighing. I could see the scene playing through his closed eyes. "He went <i>under</i> the bus, then under the... duals. Driver stopped, then had to <i>back up</i> so the duals weren't..." He couldn't go further.<br /></p><p>My eyes clouded. I turned my head so he couldn't see. I was grateful it wasn't me in his place. I doubt my soul could have borne that scene. </p><p>At that point, I was grateful that Supe Wayne came up to talk to my brother.</p><p>"Between you and me," the Operator said to Wayne, but I backed away so I couldn't hear anything more. It was obviously meant to be private, and my thoughts were for Brother Operator rather than my morbid curiosity. It was vital they had <i>privacy</i>, so I walked back to my bus to inform my sole remaining passenger that we would be there a few.</p><p>Meanwhile, I took stock of my personal well-being. I was relatively okay. Thankful I wasn't the Operator I had just left explaining what he saw, sad beyond belief for the inattentive jaywalker. This day prior to Thanksgiving, I felt for the injured man and prayed for his life's safekeeping.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-mWi8-KtUhqvscYOCBk7-61yM-Q8BOJjVXmcyeTg-fuUP8AuFFC0LwrK_jv1kByGG9hWZROFHsu-H6wQHct5COxoiVVgAIFUDb0yCqPzzZkzX1NT2Wib3gVnf44fZWhgMnGPOtRH9nR4OZbo3yTzKFQJybXJwXtulYUQw1j1bQ-riG5wYbLOPWF1Zg/s3471/01B0624D-C3B8-410E-A040-6A278B8009FF.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3471" data-original-width="2473" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-mWi8-KtUhqvscYOCBk7-61yM-Q8BOJjVXmcyeTg-fuUP8AuFFC0LwrK_jv1kByGG9hWZROFHsu-H6wQHct5COxoiVVgAIFUDb0yCqPzzZkzX1NT2Wib3gVnf44fZWhgMnGPOtRH9nR4OZbo3yTzKFQJybXJwXtulYUQw1j1bQ-riG5wYbLOPWF1Zg/s320/01B0624D-C3B8-410E-A040-6A278B8009FF.jpeg" width="228" /></a><b></b>After the scene cleared and I was re-routed around the investigative area, I took immediate stock of my well-being. Surprisingly, I found myself amazingly-calm. Not sure why, because it seemed I had witnessed a fatality. As I replayed the scene, what I found most peaceful was that Supe Wayne assured me he would be driving the lead bus through the re-route. He had personally taken charge of my brother/witness, and would safely deliver him to the garage where I hope he was received warmly and with the most intense support possible that time of night. I doubt there was any management available as they were likely snug in their warm beds. Knowing our immediate support system of Supes and Station Agents, I'm sure they did their best to soothe and insulate him from what had happened. Hopefully, he was given <i>at least one day off</i> to cope. </p><p>As it was, I cried many a tear for him, as well as for the family who held the injured man's hands in the Emergency Room of whatever hospital received him. I also prayed that the dedicated professionals who worked to save his life were successful. Additionally, I felt and prayed for the Operator of the tour bus involved. Such an incident involves not only psychological, but professional and legal implications.</p><p>The man under that bus took a chance and paid the price. The Operator of the bus missed a vital scan and paid a less-physically-painful but morbidly-psychological price he'll likely never outlive. </p><p>PLEASE, let this be a lesson to ALL involved. Jaywalking comes with an-often expensive price: your life. WE can only watch so much. Do not believe your safety is the responsibility of somebody else. Even a bus operator can miss you, even though we vigilantly watch every square inch of vulnerability within our scope of vision. The rest of it falls on YOU.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">I almost left this post as is. Then it struck me that I left out a <i>vital</i> part. Where does it leave me?<br /></p><p>After 10 years, I've seen my share of near-misses and just-after witnesses. Each sears into my reality as a transit operator. What could I do in a similar situation to avoid tragedy. Am I vigilant enough to avoid it? How can I best safeguard the public from its' own lack of awareness and obvious ignorance to avoid the horrid media scrutiny which would focus on ONE fatal incident rather than SEVERAL lifesaving intervals where I persevered? How many near-misses can I safely maneuver through without tragic consequences?</p><p>These questions increase my anxiety. Nobody but another Operator can understand these feelings. It's a pressure most people don't have to experience, but I'm paid to. Never enough, but the paycheck is just enough to keep me out of a tent. One missed scan, however, is enough to result in a lost life and mine in the gutter. Is any wage enough to compensate?</p><p>Yeah, I'm stressed out. Every moment of each day. And you wonder why? Not if you wear my shoes. Given the increasing lack of personal safety, our daily lives are fraught with peril, along with those who think their personal safety is someone else's responsibility. It's a two-way street, people. Get your heads out of your phones and look UP. Your own lives depend upon it.</p><p>Next time your bus operator arrives late, perhaps ask if they're okay. Chances are, we're <i>not</i>. <span style="text-align: center;">I still don't know how the pedestrian fared in all of this gruesomeness. Thanks to the useless local news media, we may <i>never</i> know.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaA18fK7KLrxzwg7bqjZbzbL6QP3v0nmJJ1qLsaCMCV9EyL3Kn4o8kq2iFCC04AgvWhkdBPWXViLbczGDfKPW0ad3AEKJBtPqjqPwY1Nbre_O_Cr4wDO3HkozTM4a-1tJaicmdo3TO7T_FlBLjzohCy_26imP5UEl0NIJSkEHDWtuOT5lbkiWD3xuYA/s4032/221A16B5-FF77-4B0B-8F2F-55ADF467F989.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaA18fK7KLrxzwg7bqjZbzbL6QP3v0nmJJ1qLsaCMCV9EyL3Kn4o8kq2iFCC04AgvWhkdBPWXViLbczGDfKPW0ad3AEKJBtPqjqPwY1Nbre_O_Cr4wDO3HkozTM4a-1tJaicmdo3TO7T_FlBLjzohCy_26imP5UEl0NIJSkEHDWtuOT5lbkiWD3xuYA/w300-h400/221A16B5-FF77-4B0B-8F2F-55ADF467F989.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-40796479836753881472022-11-14T04:02:00.005-08:002022-11-21T04:31:22.690-08:00Fatality Avoided<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgkPl2gOCPq9pA-DRO4LzKElfOdmiIhjwOXs0qcRviHqEcjeEJp_xzwdrsbPOdr0tZ-1cKbu56oSMCBL7yt9MwQznIww5IqY6k-60MYrkg9wQYfjsSfv587NmQv4-X8FHUUr7PBBJPMI_YTHPa0TUnIFsITX6bSHxpEP-wV7E5IHrJitFW2qp3rZ-vw/s4032/FD35FFCF-45F0-4891-BD59-C3988C75EF41.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgkPl2gOCPq9pA-DRO4LzKElfOdmiIhjwOXs0qcRviHqEcjeEJp_xzwdrsbPOdr0tZ-1cKbu56oSMCBL7yt9MwQznIww5IqY6k-60MYrkg9wQYfjsSfv587NmQv4-X8FHUUr7PBBJPMI_YTHPa0TUnIFsITX6bSHxpEP-wV7E5IHrJitFW2qp3rZ-vw/w300-h400/FD35FFCF-45F0-4891-BD59-C3988C75EF41.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Patrick's Note:<i> On my Saturday roll, it's my Friday and I make every attempt to have fun. </i></b><b><i>Yesterday, it was too difficult. I worked hard at it. I failed, and here's why.</i></b><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>First run of my last day of the week, I saw something <i>horrible. </i>Impossible to forget. Rolling northbound on Interstate Avenue, traffic was backed up, which was weird for a late Saturday afternoon. I rounded the bend approaching Tillamook and saw a MAX train stopped, surrounded by cops, firefighters/paramedics and a crowd of bystanders. My heart skipped. This stark scene was the epitome of every transit operator's nightmare.</p><p>Rolling slow past the scene, my rearview revealed something (or some <i>body) </i>underneath the Operator's cabin. My immediate thoughts were for the Operator, and I quickly said a prayer for that poor soul. Just beyond the scene was a bus stop where several displaced rail passengers waited. One gentleman boarded, sadly shaking his head. I asked the obvious question.</p><p>"Some damn fool playing chicken with the train," he said, "and that crowd started in on the Operator as if it was <i>his</i> fault the dumbass got hit. Dumbass motherfucks these days don't look out for themselves and blame them that do."</p><p>Just 20 minutes earlier, this train had passed me as I waited to relieve Roy. I always wave at our Rail Brothers and Sisters. Sometimes they return my salute, others are too riveted on the scene ahead to notice. They're busy watching out for distracted pedestrians, cyclists, motorists running red lights, and those damn scooter shooters. </p><p></p><blockquote><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i>"Dumbass motherfucks these days don't look out for themselves and blame them that </i>do<i>."</i></span></b> </p></blockquote><blockquote><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">-- Bus Passenger</span></b></p></blockquote><p>As I passed the grisly scene, I was intensely sad. That Operator had certainly passed me at 6/Washington. He had no idea what awaited him just a few minutes down the line. I'm sure he did everything possible to save a life. He did this time too, having likely saved several already during his shift and the days/weeks/months and perhaps years, prior.</p><p>The injured party had been having fun with his friends, feeling invincible as youth lies to all of us. By the time I arrived early at the Rose Quarter, this lad had, luckily for him, crawled out from underneath the mega-ton Light Rail Vehicle.</p><p>In the span of two weeks, two of my favorite sisters experienced devastating losses. One lost her son and a granddaughter in a vehicular tragedy; the other, her husband at home. I never met my sisters' loved ones, but I can only imagine the devastation they are living through. Tears of fear mingled with those of sympathy as I imagined the family of today's incident receiving possibly horrible news. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsdh5rLD-YhuE6WGPB5sn9vyZyDZa9vYMoKR8nb6D7TVbRoYkDOqJ22LtDfxYORAEjDB3gYT2FoFs-_4rMFWoo5q-JIigldKsHr57rGxXOSCWOzYerDZ4P1PF6ehb7Gqrh9zHnXmAmWoCDRAzxsEinUalaZUeGgwUhpgmkUERRoAE6pszkC6IG-B4mw/s4032/FE6DBF22-D8FE-4FE7-9316-51F2A488D38C.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsdh5rLD-YhuE6WGPB5sn9vyZyDZa9vYMoKR8nb6D7TVbRoYkDOqJ22LtDfxYORAEjDB3gYT2FoFs-_4rMFWoo5q-JIigldKsHr57rGxXOSCWOzYerDZ4P1PF6ehb7Gqrh9zHnXmAmWoCDRAzxsEinUalaZUeGgwUhpgmkUERRoAE6pszkC6IG-B4mw/s320/FE6DBF22-D8FE-4FE7-9316-51F2A488D38C.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Empathy and sympathy are emotions I feel without any sense of shame. Having lost several dear friends and family members, my tears flow because I <i>know</i>. That pain may dull a bit with time, but the memory never leaves us. Time stops suddenly, then only lulls forward with each, painfully-loud ticktock as we realize our beloved soul has left this world. It's a pain <i>we</i> cannot properly quantify in our own lives, even though we offer our "deepest" sympathy to others when it happens to <i>them</i>. My prayers are with the injured person and his family, that he will fully recover and learn from this to be more careful in his actions. Additionally, I offer the same towards the Rail Operator and Supervisors who responded.<div><p></p><p>It was interesting that no media outlet has reported on this incident that I know of. Usually, any transit mishap seems Top News in any municipality. The headlines are almost always the same, with the Operator evidently to blame. It's never the other way around. No matter how many hundreds of thousands of safe miles we log, that one incident where somebody is hit automatically becomes <i>our</i> fault. Lawsuits are often filed against the agency and our union member with the media jumping on the sympathetic bandwagon. Even our own agency fails to use strong language supporting its' front line, instead lamely proclaiming the incident "is under investigation".</p><p>It's not usually Operator error, folks. As when an airplane crashes... people believe the pilot at fault even as they calmly employed every technique to avoid disaster they had learned through a lifetime of service.</p><p>Unofficial reports of this mishap are that a group of motor scooter riders turned left in front of an oncoming train, ignoring the red arrow traffic signal and flashing warning of an oncoming 100,000-plus pound Beast. The last two were the only ones who didn't make it without being hit. They then reportedly tried to blame the Operator for <i>their</i> failure to obey a simple traffic signal. That’s why there are signals, to warn you of impending danger if you choose to break the law. Perhaps your daring ways were a way to win a Darwin Award. Keep up with that shit, and you're bound to win one.</p><p>Contrary to younger folks’ beliefs, safety is a <i>two-way</i> street. Yes, we are trained to watch for and plan to avoid, silly dipshidiocy. However, it takes time and finesse to stop a heavy vehicle traveling 20 mph. You're damn lucky the Operator likely predicted your lawbreaking recklessness. He should be given a medal for saving your life. </p><p><i>Please</i>, dear readers, <i>be careful</i> out there. Your loved ones need you to return home safely. We work hard to keep you out of the mortuary, and do so several times a day. Sometimes, you stack the odds against it. </p><p>"<b><i>Slow the flock down</i></b>" signs on some of our buses read. Pay attention to all that surrounds you, especially on two wheels. Whether bicycle or motorcycle or those ridiculous "for rent" scooters. Ultimately, your safety is <i>your</i> responsibility. Relying on someone else is bound to end badly. We do our best out there, but if you refuse to obey the rules you're at extreme risk.</p><p>Portland's lame, inept and out-of-touch media has failed to report this, and many other incidents. Information which could keep people safe is sorely lacking in a city where many throw caution to the wind and expect others to be responsible for them. I don't know when it became a "thing" where my safety became solely another's responsibility, but I refuse to accept this prevailing wind when I'm "out there". If this trend continues, expect to see a rise in obituaries, because <i>foolishness is rampant </i>these days.</p><p>Don't automatically blame it on transit Operators. We save thousands of lives each year, simply doing as we were trained. Oh, and <i>you're welcome</i>.</p><p>Peace be with you all. Mostly, take your eyes off that phone long enough to pay attention to what's happening around you. The life you save will likely be your own.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjsYkTqB1yxzTb1QeZZcYpXL3dV2IyfXwdMGd8rYc5V6WWzq8j6MAZagoiLkt-NE5oW8IBbUrhq-1uSnq0RBzFNtoxuHVBz4q57wN6hqH1pySrpEoJC9lE_Xw825ZZPZmjeNrqhG6jwWZ1B0UMMuiPqcIDwGWE1gC1zzu-UJegx00S2QoU4uHRgaKRQ/s4032/9CB4F165-6AF1-4FD7-967F-5102779255B4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjsYkTqB1yxzTb1QeZZcYpXL3dV2IyfXwdMGd8rYc5V6WWzq8j6MAZagoiLkt-NE5oW8IBbUrhq-1uSnq0RBzFNtoxuHVBz4q57wN6hqH1pySrpEoJC9lE_Xw825ZZPZmjeNrqhG6jwWZ1B0UMMuiPqcIDwGWE1gC1zzu-UJegx00S2QoU4uHRgaKRQ/w300-h400/9CB4F165-6AF1-4FD7-967F-5102779255B4.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p><b></b></p></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-25214715201397890382022-11-07T04:16:00.002-08:002022-11-08T19:36:24.105-08:00We're All Only Human<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRLXEp7ATjzfLnP64wkgheSXtpr6dYF6JnVsTp8hn9YLc3OHeXtktCLW8CgFIG_YaApoWQthuI1qDEr4Ojb0at5TGzxHj8wyJWM5PQ8ygUYDA7ZSmdvs2j7T6jU6LdhnYWqhBlBBFtB-sSl0-YE8-0MObY5CREi_tTWYiGtmKvxKHwfVqGhtA9emY1g/s4032/F32F2204-A9C7-4E66-B298-58A1E2B28683.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRLXEp7ATjzfLnP64wkgheSXtpr6dYF6JnVsTp8hn9YLc3OHeXtktCLW8CgFIG_YaApoWQthuI1qDEr4Ojb0at5TGzxHj8wyJWM5PQ8ygUYDA7ZSmdvs2j7T6jU6LdhnYWqhBlBBFtB-sSl0-YE8-0MObY5CREi_tTWYiGtmKvxKHwfVqGhtA9emY1g/w350-h466/F32F2204-A9C7-4E66-B298-58A1E2B28683.jpeg" width="350" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My entry into the <br />Clarendon Street Pumpkin Carving Contest.</i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Deke's Note:<i> I preface this post with the pseudonym "Deke" for one reason only. A few nights ago, a passenger presented me with a copy of "JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane" and asked me to sign it for him. It had been at least a year since that had happened. A few nights later as I turned in my pouch at end-of-shift, an operator greeted me with this name upon seeing me after another shift of my beloved Line 35. It was the first time I've heard someone call me by my former </i>nom de plumme<i>, and it felt good. That meant this operator has read these posts for quite a while, long before I left that name behind. Now that I'm Patrick again, I was bound to write another post here after that kind acknowledgement. Thanks, brother. Meanwhile, safe travels to you and all my brothers and sisters behind the wheel across this blue marble which rotates/accelerates/floats into infinity. We're all spinning down the road together, and I appreciate you all.</i></b><p></p><p>Because our transit agency has had to cut service the past few years, I have to catch a bus in front of our garage <i>one hour prior </i>to my road relief downtown. It used to be 30 or 45 minutes (at the <i>very</i> latest) ahead of my relief time, but now instead the Line 17 runs once every 30 minutes instead of 15. Not wanting to find myself behind the 8-ball catching the 3:00, my sense of duty impels me to ride the 2:30, which drops me off downtown about 40 minutes prior to my road relief at 3:32 p.m. For this dedication, I'm paid less than $7/hour not to be charged with an oversleep. During this time I'm walking downtown streets in uniform, game for any intending passenger with a cellphone in hand, asking me when the next "whatever line" bus is coming, or where to catch the next "whatever line". Because I'm fully in uniform, I'm expected to be in Customer Service mode. Even though these people hold a powerful computer in their hands which is more adept at giving them the information they need than I am, they still ask the obvious.</p><p>It's irritating, but by using the phone I hold in tandem with millions of others at the same time, I patiently look up arrival times when someone asks. It used to be a moment I would shun this thrust-upon responsibility, rudely encouraging people to answer their own questions given the information immediately available. At the 10-year mark, I've found my peaceful, happy-to-help self instead of being impatiently rude. So, even though I'm seeking solace and peace prior to my shift, I've learned to help those who ask my assistance. It's easy for me, eases their anxiety, and it elevates my soul to <i>represent</i>.</p><p>This service to my transit agency is often overlooked. We're paid slave wages for road relief in comparison to our normal hourly wage. This fleeting interruption is replaced by the reason I signed up for this job in the first place, 10 years ago: To be the person people <i>can</i> approach. A <i>smooth</i> operator, one who actually <i>cares</i> about them. And yes, I finally do. Took me a decade to give up my selfishness, but here I am.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>Just looked at my On Time Performance stats for the first time in months. It was astounding that over 30 days, I was <b><i>0% early</i></b> (except <i>twice</i> 1% early... oops, sorry), 92% on time. Given traffic, passenger loads, Rose Quarter events (add 10-20 minutes of late time and missed breaks), re-routes and passenger misconduct, you can depend on ol" Patrick to arrive <b><i>on time</i></b> 9/10 times you await my bus.</p><p>I work <i><b>hard</b></i> to keep my bus on schedule. Knowing when I'm likely to be early so I hold to kill time, efficient boarding passengers, and anticipating their needs upon boarding. I also know what parts of my route will afford me time to make up, and when I might be too early a few minutes ahead so I'll stop and let the clock catch up. The worst thing about being a passenger is running late and hoping their bus is right on time, just to arrive to see it pass on by, a few minutes early. I'd rather run half-a-minute late so they don't helplessly watch me roll past where they <i>almost</i> are. Given Portland's unpredictable rain schedule, I'd rather not make people wait for the next bus.</p><p>It truly irks me to hear folks talk about how transit operators are "unskilled workers" who demand more than we deserve. I humbly resent such ignorant drivel. In my decade of operation, I have worked hard to learn the intricacies which propel my vehicle to my passengers' stops. Every inch of my route I'm keenly-focused. On traffic of all kinds anywhere near my bus. Studying traffic patterns and predicting what the road 10 minutes ahead might look like. Watching for Impatient Ichabod, predicting his childish "me first" road-raging antics, keeping him safe as he sails past me with whiny horn blaring and single-finger salute floating out his window. I forgive him, not that he cares. Because I have, he will arrive safely home rather than crushed underneath my 20-ton Beast. Oh yeah, you're welcome. Peace be with you, <i>Ignoramus</i>.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4c0UTnykbWs0KyEV-joZ1kSTIJSAfVHAo7hkqrPsFpv09BaGzq7sh_PpAtCxE8xAGqpSzRUogttQGUvLWlJFhuTIPbWuvg4zz0LiDazeLiUUXlrb6tUW_aeZeaJMiGcGHHi8PrgbBurZOo-FIhnipVpjB3C1oP-bTiZgt2HA4oZrkzmzSYlUd6LVUA/s3237/FB810A36-C1A9-42B1-B0DD-9DC790E5469D.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3237" data-original-width="2590" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4c0UTnykbWs0KyEV-joZ1kSTIJSAfVHAo7hkqrPsFpv09BaGzq7sh_PpAtCxE8xAGqpSzRUogttQGUvLWlJFhuTIPbWuvg4zz0LiDazeLiUUXlrb6tUW_aeZeaJMiGcGHHi8PrgbBurZOo-FIhnipVpjB3C1oP-bTiZgt2HA4oZrkzmzSYlUd6LVUA/w320-h400/FB810A36-C1A9-42B1-B0DD-9DC790E5469D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>This week marked my 10th year anniversary as a bus operator. I have not wanted to do anything else this past decade. Rail doesn't interest me. Nor does any supervisory position. I'm a <i>Bus</i> <i>Operator</i>. I prefer rubber on the road, thank you. My driving skills have been honed over five decades, first learned as an 11-year-old who begged his Dad to teach him on the dirt roads of my beloved Sunset Valley, Arizona. Dad's lessons pre-dated my bus trainers' steadfast insistence on the <a href="https://www.smith-system.com/" target="_blank">Smith System</a>, which focuses on keeping others safe via watching out for others, and being able to implement Plans B, C and D whenever necessary. We regularly expect other drivers to do the <i>worst</i> possible thing, being ready for anything that might happen two steps ahead of it. <p></p><p>I cannot count the times I have saved lives over a decade of service to Portland. We all see the headlines when someone screws up and is injured or killed in a collision with a transit vehicle: "Pedestrian Killed By Bus" or "Motorist Killed by Light Rail Vehicle". You never hear the <i>true</i> reason for the collisions: the motorist or phone-stoned pedestrian was not paying close enough attention to their immediate task at hand: safely motoring to their destination. They took a foolish chance that horribly failed to succeed.</p><p>It's in the prayers of hundreds of thousands of worldwide bus/rail operators that we're constantly <i>vigilant</i>, able to predict the most dire situations and react accordingly to save somebody's momentarily-ignorant lapse of reason. </p><p>Each day I'm about to take control of my Mega Beast, I have uttered the same mantra each day of my past 9.5 years: <i>"Be Safe, Be Kind, Be Considerate, Be Patient, Be Thoughtful, Be Polite, Be Vigilant, Be Calm, Be Smooth, Be Smart, but most of all, again and always, Be SAFE.</i>"</p><p>Sometimes as I walk to my road relief, I may forget to utter The Mantra. Doesn't matter, because once I'm in the seat, logging in and preparing my workspace for the shift ahead, it always comes to me. Even when this fails and I've rolled a few stops without saying it, you might see me as you await my bus mouthing words you cannot hear: it's <i>The Mantra</i>. Later on, if I find myself failing on any point of it, I'll repeat this 11-point reassurance to my daily pledge to our metropolis.</p><p>Each time I begin a run during my shift, I say "Be Safe" again, even more times along the roll. I take my job <i>more</i> than seriously. It's an intense promise I make to those I serve and maneuver around, one I am incredibly proud to uphold, having avoided thousands of mishaps over the years.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>The gentleman I relieve on Saturday afternoons is one I have enjoyed meeting several signups over the years. He's retiring next month. He always rolls into our stop on time, often a minute early because he understands it takes a few for me to settle into my "office" for the next 10 hours. Roy is a prince, and I will be sad when he arrives at 6/Washington for the final time. He's predictable, knows just what information I need to know when taking over the route. He's about 6-7 years ahead of me. Someday, I'll be in his shoes, rolling my final fun to its last stop.</p><p>Until that point, I'm dedicated to the safety of all who ride or exist anywhere near my Beast. I just wish others shared a <i>transit operator's</i> dedication to <i>their</i> time on the road. If people were more focused on their driving, then many loved ones would not have to hear those officer's sad words none of us should <i>ever</i> hear.</p><p>No, folks. It's not true that "only others" will die in car crashes. They're not "accidents". Just <i>your</i> failure to pay attention while driving. YOU are next, unless you wise up, dumbass. PLEASE, pay attention. Read the <a href="https://www.smith-system.com/" target="_blank">Smith System</a> points for safe travels. Your loved ones deserve your focus. I pray you don't fail to heed this warning. We're all sailing towards death; don't accelerate your own demise by failing to simply be careful behind the wheel. We're all counting on you.</p><p>Meanwhile, bless all of you who have lost loved ones to fatal accidents. Especially my dear Jacqui, whose son and granddaughter were lost last week. My heart is heavy with grief for her, and all of you. Me included, as we have ALL lost people who left us too soon. </p><p>Peace be with y'all. Love you.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9cFlqWIsjOqcAb4EA9s8JKyw1rk78_bzfDik6m7bwF5lUWfSvJouJcEOOeTKRIDeq4JulYjBUjFA5CduoBBS6pAr7GH0sHSVelgX7l2XY5g8aYY_-OekSRYa3S2o4hCJ4icwV60wclOTX2zgU7QiK9CYV-q9eKUX4TLTuiTj6Fjh6B55IIzaZ6KacA/s3280/05B43633-7A54-43E0-8258-74B031FC0AEF.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2464" data-original-width="3280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9cFlqWIsjOqcAb4EA9s8JKyw1rk78_bzfDik6m7bwF5lUWfSvJouJcEOOeTKRIDeq4JulYjBUjFA5CduoBBS6pAr7GH0sHSVelgX7l2XY5g8aYY_-OekSRYa3S2o4hCJ4icwV60wclOTX2zgU7QiK9CYV-q9eKUX4TLTuiTj6Fjh6B55IIzaZ6KacA/w400-h300/05B43633-7A54-43E0-8258-74B031FC0AEF.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Thanks to my passenger/friend Jordan, "A Prince in Disguise."</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /><b></b></p></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-90466134685363807432022-10-18T03:12:00.002-07:002022-10-18T03:12:42.065-07:00My Focus, 10 Years In<p><i><b></b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i></i></div><i><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZYZ3Trs0OF_t3j5O42RyYGYMGNZS2wQeYhsp42roho7DWaYXzVpcaPVlgsvLn2XCGcC78QeCPJHDEyxx1RbWCK_kBBugr-Nr6iqr8UEpRplG1Gpow3O_MPsAsyH6oUliEOeNA94xcEVEMTKo3E-TeytJ771Pg-iPVaOinMtYy3JIZ-atEKa-6YlS-g/s4032/5D783448-56F2-4581-92E9-E61466CCF974.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZYZ3Trs0OF_t3j5O42RyYGYMGNZS2wQeYhsp42roho7DWaYXzVpcaPVlgsvLn2XCGcC78QeCPJHDEyxx1RbWCK_kBBugr-Nr6iqr8UEpRplG1Gpow3O_MPsAsyH6oUliEOeNA94xcEVEMTKo3E-TeytJ771Pg-iPVaOinMtYy3JIZ-atEKa-6YlS-g/w338-h451/5D783448-56F2-4581-92E9-E61466CCF974.jpeg" width="338" /></a></div><br /><br />Patrick's Note:</b> I've had time to re-evaluate this writer's muse, during which I've found myself going through several iterations of my bus-driving self. We're considered "unskilled labor" in the world of "professionals". However, we're more so than those who "work from home", in that we <u>show up</u>. No matter the weather, political climate, presidential visit or any other urban "disaster". Just like the garbage dude, police officer, paramedic, nurse/doctor, fireman, electric utility worker, plumber. Ten years on any job leads a person to stop and realize what's most important. Today, my life consists of just rolling smooth, giving my fellow Portlanders a safe ride. This post deals with the daily rigors of our "unskilled" rolls, a job our management still fails to fully understand.</i><div><i><br /></i><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>* * * * *</b></i></div><p></p><p>Just got my 10-year "pin". It's a mini drop of cheap metal with a miniscule ruby in the middle. No "10" anywhere on it. Kind of a letdown, really. As if 300,000 safe miles warrants nothing but a cheap trinket. To me, it's a much <i>bigger</i> deal. Over a decade, it means I have guided my 20-ton Beast safely through intersections rife with red-light running fools in their logo-enriched vanity machines, 700,000+ times.</p><p>Just avoiding 16+ hours of sick time over a year of safe operation gets you even more useful gadgets, as if driving sick is more valuable than safeguarding your fellow workers and passengers. Hey Management, there's a great reason I haven't made "Master" yet. It's because I value my health over ridiculous edicts regarding sick leave. It's more important to me that I take care of myself, and therefore that of my co-workers and passengers, than any empty kudos for sacrificing said health for some ridiculous transit ideal to "show up no matter what ails ya".</p><p>I'm not sorry if extending my life is more important to me than operating in a condition that puts ALL aboard in danger. My decade of safe driving is ultimately more important than some manager hailing my health sacrifices for some ridiculous ideal. If I die in service, it's worthless in their eyes. They'll just substitute another body in my seat. Therefore, whenever I feel that my body is ill, I will call in sick. Better than possibly infecting others, which costs the agency and public, much more money than my brief absence. Especially if I'm not 100% and accidentally roll over some inattentive dolt.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p>I'm a numbers guy. I like to count the miles of each run, every day. My bus lumbers along nearly 700 miles a week. I'm in awe of "Million Mile Club" operators, who have persevered over <i>30 years</i> behind the wheel. They've endured and endless run of corporate dolts and still managed to keep their heads straight no matter what obstacles some "I know how to do it better" suit put in our way. Figure in the 5-10 times each day some idiot runs a red light or cuts us off only to brake suddenly and make a turn directly in front of our Beast, and you're looking at some possible 50,000 times a year you save a life, given the additional pedestrian, bicyclist or any other fool simply not paying attention, while we <i>are</i>.</p><p>Over 30 years and nearly a million miles, the veteran bus operator conceivably saves over a MILLION lives, just doing this job. You wanna talk "heroes"? It's not just upon that moment in time where the world finds itself in a pickle where the word "hero" pops up in description of anyone who does what most would not. In your life, you cross paths with real-world "heroes" without realizing it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGFBIRMYBN1xXrSuLNTY2l17_-uZr2pGB6qLBxGflGje2XZvYt5VLRQaAwQXgy_lHBZ8jwsgXf-vy13iZyhK8cGOTawN_Xc2fHH-ipqwlbojrgLZDNlPU0h1YstyI4Yp_9IAT98-9xmzFAniGazTGnrO_0-_v9oxZ3dIPR1wC126Hp0lL2a2igw1CGg/s4032/F48943D3-65FB-4955-821B-5726FAF58EE6.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGFBIRMYBN1xXrSuLNTY2l17_-uZr2pGB6qLBxGflGje2XZvYt5VLRQaAwQXgy_lHBZ8jwsgXf-vy13iZyhK8cGOTawN_Xc2fHH-ipqwlbojrgLZDNlPU0h1YstyI4Yp_9IAT98-9xmzFAniGazTGnrO_0-_v9oxZ3dIPR1wC126Hp0lL2a2igw1CGg/s320/F48943D3-65FB-4955-821B-5726FAF58EE6.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Pick any transit operator worldwide, then multiply by the hundred thousands of us on the road at any time. That's why the word "hero" rings hollow in our collective conscience. It's <i>just what we do</i>. We're focused, constantly in tune with our surroundings. That's why I insist people shut off the audio on their phones, so I can <i>concentrate</i>. Society seems okay with allowing a motoring malcontents to disobey the law. Do you think you're so focused on the road as we are? The odds are astronomically against your being so attuned to everyone else's safety. Not just you rolling down the road, but also those riding in our vehicle and anywhere within the <i>vicinity</i> of it. We're watching... even while you're obviously <i>not</i>.<p></p><p>Going to work today is so radically different than a decade ago. Expectations have shifted. The cell phone has rendered individuals simultaneously more informed yet less self-conscious. Look at people as they roam the streets. Millions solely focused on the dinky screen in their hands. Their safety was once <i>their</i> own responsibility. Now, social media has shifted self-awareness to a point where it's expected <i>society at large</i> is somehow responsible for <i>your</i> safety.</p><p>Even though you possess technology infinitely-more powerful than that which guided our astronauts to the moon and back, you fail to realize it has the power to alert you when <i>that</i> bus is about to arrive. And yes, folks, there are apps which track our vehicles' precise location, up to and prior our arrival at <i>your</i> stop. Upon our buses rolling up to where you're busily searching for the ridiculousness of today's imbecilic focus, <i>you</i> risk missing the ride <i>you're</i> waiting upon.</p><p>We're just operating the vehicle, opening and closing the doors and then rolling again. YOU want a ride? Be fucking <i>ready</i>, then. Fare-ready, belongings in hand. We're not gonna stop and lock to help you board. It's all on YOU, pax.</p><p>Transit hasn't changed much since technology changed <i>your</i> focus. OURS is, and always has been no matter our management's strangeness, <i>safety</i>. If you're there and prepared, welcome aboard. Once the doors close, we're ready to catch that green. We've done our jobs, having allowed passengers to leave and board. Now, we're ready to cruise. Your inattentiveness is not OUR fault. A brief break beckons at the end of the line, and if we're late <i>there</i>, those minutes come off the top of it. If you're too busy watching that tiny screen to pay attention, DO NOT call our transit agency to complain when we roll on and leave you behind. We did NOT pass you up; <i><b>you missed the fucking bus</b></i> because you failed to pay attention to your immediate surroundings. Perhaps you'll be ready for the <i>next</i> one, whether it's five or 45 minutes later. YOUR bad, not ours.</p><p>When will common sense catch up to the technological stupidity we have allowed society to fall into? Smart phones have rendered many clueless. At this rate, we're doomed to laws which protect one's inattentiveness in favor of someone else not predicting another's inability to take self-preserving precautions which were once a given. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ld6wMGqpCJVwwqB9BzVlCCWqWbBd8kEbOTKy8AA1VInMW0wvjwIJWq-7zQQ_kGhR7xNgCOb40zVg5ScOr47301hLhVMO0UAElksVzQanEKBjewG_Igb5Cl-8qTSv3ZIg4gLyY1Oph0DAKzY6WDaduJNcFJVNTwi-PFFkjJfauUjke2jpthWdI7KD1w/s4032/DFB7B82F-535C-4578-8BA1-93DDF32D556F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ld6wMGqpCJVwwqB9BzVlCCWqWbBd8kEbOTKy8AA1VInMW0wvjwIJWq-7zQQ_kGhR7xNgCOb40zVg5ScOr47301hLhVMO0UAElksVzQanEKBjewG_Igb5Cl-8qTSv3ZIg4gLyY1Oph0DAKzY6WDaduJNcFJVNTwi-PFFkjJfauUjke2jpthWdI7KD1w/w400-h300/DFB7B82F-535C-4578-8BA1-93DDF32D556F.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Put the phone <i>down</i> and LOOK when you're out there, folks. Or, if you'e at an unlit stop in the middle of a dark road, light up your phone and wave it when you see us approach... not after we've passed the logical threshold for seeing you. NO, it's NOT OUR responsibility to overcome your inattentiveness. YOU are ultimately responsible for looking out for yourself. While a professional bus or rail operator is constantly watching out for your irresponsibility, it is not our fault when you're (God forbid, or any other entity you worship) not <i>paying attention</i> to your immediate environment. </p><p>Don't flip us off when you hear our horn of warning... it's our way of saying "Look out DUMBASS!" If you're so self-absorbed you can't understand that, it's YOU who needs to take a chill pill, not US.</p><p>Duh.<br /></p><p>Every day I take the seat, I pray my mantra to keep everyone safe, and to see all who <i>responsibly</i> await my arrival. For 10 years now, this has been my constant focus. So far, I've thankfully been alert to save, and see the darkest shadows of you, thousands of times. </p><p>You're welcome.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKATiN0r-XSHdemprvNXZqgtbgz7VezL_6a3iTOFKSMdid1H72uWwGBjJ0GAsL-7Ovb9oZLjVdtN4D9_JTVmdD0MQ9BqkTuXTShaP8ENYPGR3V_17uegXVkGY8LxDHStrXMweqe7RNNOWwxlJeqI2_VQD7JxAK756XOZjly-mo164PY3Ey7hKqxH6Ksw/s4032/3BD475FB-8D3A-4302-AE56-DFC7733B9970.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKATiN0r-XSHdemprvNXZqgtbgz7VezL_6a3iTOFKSMdid1H72uWwGBjJ0GAsL-7Ovb9oZLjVdtN4D9_JTVmdD0MQ9BqkTuXTShaP8ENYPGR3V_17uegXVkGY8LxDHStrXMweqe7RNNOWwxlJeqI2_VQD7JxAK756XOZjly-mo164PY3Ey7hKqxH6Ksw/w400-h300/3BD475FB-8D3A-4302-AE56-DFC7733B9970.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p></div></div>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-20769081266208810552022-10-16T04:08:00.003-07:002022-10-16T04:08:27.813-07:00750,000 Hits!!!<p> Let’s go for a million!</p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1653698584448495601.post-62488756096702418192022-09-24T06:24:00.004-07:002022-09-26T05:22:50.868-07:00Who Are WE?<p><b><br /></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_I4OV1yOOuJBGccjerjI6VoUA9y6QDAke13U-pQcsjR4IfYSLFJuESxAdrEfzZTZPDmgbUxlyVoIMpLNqZT9Q3JQeNuZJxfn8ZeD6GuR0EJ6avBc7_h335s4iHRdIXqzg0Y3MGNNLWe6K22YsOe6nU82CC2qR8roT8NCYXK9NRSCP9WyiMe_xB5vRA/s4032/380343A8-1532-4C08-A7F9-11CD114ADDC0.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_I4OV1yOOuJBGccjerjI6VoUA9y6QDAke13U-pQcsjR4IfYSLFJuESxAdrEfzZTZPDmgbUxlyVoIMpLNqZT9Q3JQeNuZJxfn8ZeD6GuR0EJ6avBc7_h335s4iHRdIXqzg0Y3MGNNLWe6K22YsOe6nU82CC2qR8roT8NCYXK9NRSCP9WyiMe_xB5vRA/w300-h400/380343A8-1532-4C08-A7F9-11CD114ADDC0.heic" width="300" /></a></b></div><b><br />Patrick's Note:<i> When I was a child, it was expected the younger generation who would follow in our parents' footsteps; those who fought and lived through World War II and the Great Depression, supporting our country via some type of service greater than which served our own needs. Today, we seem to have devolved into a phone-stoned universe of "me first, to hell with the rest of you". Our parents and grandparents' dreams have all but disappeared into the ether we now know.</i></b><p></p><p>I know you readers are of often differing political views, and I embrace that. My own are subject to change as this soul feels the heartbeat of my city, our beloved nation. Right now, my heart is about to full STOP. We are poised on the precipice of another Civil War. One which knows no borders or intelligently-based set of ideals. And it threatens to tear the very fabric of our nation's soul into tatters none will be able to sew back together. Unless we act NOW to once again embrace a common goal, that of decency and respect toward one another, amongst ALL living humans, we are doomed as a society. Leave religion and previous political beliefs aside; in 2022 we should have grown away from the mistakes of the past. However, we haven't learned and are hell-bent upon making them happen again.</p><p>I just watched a documentary on Ethel Kennedy, the wife of the late Senator Robert Kennedy. While the Kennedy's were either hit-or-miss on your political scale, they were of an era where public service was honored. You could disagree with their politics while also admiring their ideals of an American's responsibility to serve those less fortunate than ourselves. Even though their murders and misfortunes wounded our national psyche, their desire for a better America should become a beacon for future times, rather than a reminiscence of what once was.</p><p>Recently, I read a piece which foretold the downfall of American society by 2035. I fear this will happen much sooner, given the temperature of current scene. As a bus operator, my fingers constantly remain upon the pulse of our commonality. What I see is a bunch of working class people constantly clawing to remain atop an increasingly-slippery slope. Wages have risen, but the cost of living has been double, no TRIPLE that. Rents and housing prices have increased so much very few of us can afford to keep that precious roof above our heads, let alone keep up with the utilities, car payments, student loans, credit cards and FOOD. Good Lord, the price of feeding us alone has skyrocketed along with the COVID-induced labor shortages. </p><p>There is no more "middle class". Only those of us who can work enough hours to keep ahead of foreclosure or other such financial disaster are the lucky. The rest are being made homeless and apparently hopeless by the greed of the upper crust. Compared to the richest of the rich, we have been meant to scratch our way "up" for centuries, and our masters are not likely to allow us much more. </p><p>We pay taxes up the ying-yang. Not just federal or state taxes, but the little ones that add up to a great chunk of our incomes. They squeeze our paychecks just to give us that faint glimmer of hope that we'll get there someday. Get a bonus? Cut it by 40%, because the government knows best what to do with our money. Buy a tank of gas? Yep, a third of it is taxes. Have a small business on the side? Hey, Uncle Sam and Oregon MUST get their cut. Get a new job and a substantial pay hike? Get ready to bend over because you're now in a new "tax bracket" the richest don't have to worry about because they have highly-paid accountants to protect them from such windfall penalties. Reach retirement age and start collecting the Social Security you've paid into your entire working life? Yep, even THAT is taxed, and your Medicare will soak a good chunk of it. </p><p>So much for the "American Dream". It's become a national nightmare. Those of us in or approaching retirement age are faced with even more depressing facts it's a wonder we're able to wake up every morning with meaningful purpose. It's disgusting how we're taxed every waking moment without the benefit of these dollars being spent to our constant benefit.</p><p>Yet still, at least half of us agreeing with the status quo, the other half fighting it. We end up fighting one another, but those at the top simply laugh at our socio-ridiculous tearing each other apart to their benefit. It's a game they created, and it's centuries old. Today's far upper crust have tons of dough they pour into political campaigns to pit us against one another. Still, we're all in the same boat. It's so obvious, yet nearly impossible to change. We're so entrenched in hating "the other guy" that we forget that money-sucking hose is stuck right up our collective ass. And Jesus, folks, has NOTHING to do with it. I'm sure He's sad we haven't figured it all out yet.</p><p><i><b>"If you would be perfect, go and sell what you have, and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven,"</b></i> Jesus is said to have told a rich man asking how he could attain holiness.</p><p>Today, we see the poorest of the poor supporting the richest of the rich, who routinely sell us down the river as commodities rather than the souls God endowed us with. They also evade the myriad of taxes we pay, even when we die. It's a horrendous irony I doubt most people give much thought. And THAT, folks, is what threatens the very fabric of the society our Founding Fathers dreamed of.</p><p>Not <i>guns</i>. Not <i>abortion</i>. Not <i>racial tension</i>. Not <i>Democrat vs. Republican</i>. It's a master race, yes, of MONIED people over the working folks. Ancient yet simple. <i>Not</i> elegant. Something we haven't overcome <i>en masse</i> for centuries. Content to be led to the slaughter rather than RISING UP. We fear the latter, bow to the former.</p><p>They're LAUGHING at us. Uncontrollable glee as they roll in trillions earned in human sex trafficking, hard drugs, money laundering and political bribery on a scale this country was founded upon to render illegal and frowned upon forevermore.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizU4PR7dpYhI3YQkxF9jxudODBJgeWa2p0WY2opEnq_u058lAYqTndhMfuIVjRpKdHIR0ARJ005uPKUkTsWScvrVudLKSLqV2YgaZrWdvbQ_fOjgKmpjtgU2bYPMiiQnacm3wW0s04sSZAgdZn_LEgcUOYlOBDic3eENACqrsz7Cpo8Qcp5uoHZyPveQ/s4032/25D6A604-3801-49AF-A8AF-05F3DC657048.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizU4PR7dpYhI3YQkxF9jxudODBJgeWa2p0WY2opEnq_u058lAYqTndhMfuIVjRpKdHIR0ARJ005uPKUkTsWScvrVudLKSLqV2YgaZrWdvbQ_fOjgKmpjtgU2bYPMiiQnacm3wW0s04sSZAgdZn_LEgcUOYlOBDic3eENACqrsz7Cpo8Qcp5uoHZyPveQ/s320/25D6A604-3801-49AF-A8AF-05F3DC657048.heic" width="240" /></a></div>WE are being rendered <i>obsolete</i>. The workforce as we know it will likely disappear in a few decades, to be replaced by technology. Many of you are embracing it, not knowing you're paying for your own obsolescence. "Smart" cars, bitcoin, robotic factories.<p></p><p>What happens when WE don't have jobs any longer? We become <i>expendable</i>, of course. Those now who glory upon the suffering of the least will ultimately become victims of their own stupidity. All that remains is the method of our extinction: firing squads or gas chambers, or duels with the few lions left alive after the monied elite have killed the rest on "safari". </p><p><b><i>"Please sir, can I have more?"</i></b> was the meek utterance of Charles Dickens' <b>Oliver Twist</b>, an orphan who dared asked for just a dabble more of worm-infested gruel. If we keep supporting the upper crust, there will be no "more" for us to ask for.</p><p>It's time to ask yourself whether "Democrat or Republican" means anything today. Neither party fully honors our constant efforts to pull ourselves UP. It's time we re-think who we vote for. Either you support your life's work, or you continue to enable the few to reign supreme over US. The most gullible tend to follow those who demand YOU to follow THEM or be outcasts from your own party. Do you support those who only seek to enrich themselves and allow their ego to control their destiny, or the people who speak to your working souls? </p><p>This is who we are <i>now</i>. Many don't get it, and it is painful to watch. Some are content to waste our nation's "great experiment" upon that which our ancestors fought the American Revolution to <i>avoid</i>. Please, stop supporting the RICH, and turn it back on US. WE make America WORK, not the rich bastards. You <i>know</i> it's true.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* * * * *</b></p><p><i>Today, my Beloved and I celebrate 28 years of wedded bliss together. Without her, I could not bear the turmoil I face as a transit operator. She brings me unparalleled peace, and the joy of raising three wonderfully successful, beautiful children together. We are soon to welcome a new grandchild. I am so happy with our union these nearly three decades I cannot fathom life without my Beloved. </i></p><p><i>Today, I wax a bit nostalgic while hoping for an equally-happy future. My life has been a constant struggle uphill, but I keep flooring the accelerator. Failure has never been an option, only happiness.</i></p><p><i>If you have read this far, please respond with a note. That way, I'll know you actually READ what I write. Meanwhile, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY STACEY!!! I adore you, and always will, my bestest. </i></p>Deke N Bluehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790077665266657804noreply@blogger.com17