Petty Moments

Driving the past week was adrift with melodic memories. Tom Petty's voice rolling along with me, I hummed his (now) haunting tunes as I drove. It was bittersweet, knowing his body had passed into eternity while his music remains (forever) within me. Instead of tears, it was instead more important to honor him with smiles and good humor.

Cruising into an affluent 'burb, I was treated to a surprisingly profane salute with unknown origins. Driving toward me in an old, beat-up little pickem-up, this fellow looked directly at me as he held up his right birdy finger. Directed solely at me. For whatever reason, only he knew why. I laughed and shook my head. Part of me wanted the comic release of returning the salute, but cameras are everywhere on the bus. I retorted with the hummed chorus of "The Last DJ," knowing Tom would have flipped the motherfucker back. No big, people flip me off every day. Usually, I've given them what they believe to be a reason. Not so, on this particular calendar entry.

It was a beautifully bright and blustery fall day. The reds, yellows and golds of leaves of full autumn greeted my every turn. The kind of day the Northwest refuses to allow one to mourn. Knowing my book is days away from becoming available to masses or less, I turned my sadness inside out. Bus operation is a tough chore, contrary to management or public belief. Why not make it fun, in memory of my favorite mystic rebel? Not even the orneriest passenger could sour my mood as my Friday thumped a rhythmic path on our weather-beaten streets.

My constant goal is to scan widely and constantly. As I rolled toward a stop, I saw a woman basking in the midday sunshine. She lazily raised a hand and slowly rose and ambled 20 yards to where I sat, stopped solely in case she needed a ride. As she boarded, I gently chastised her.

"You know ma'am," I told her, "it's customary to be at the stop when the bus is due. If we don't see you, it's very possible you'll be passed by."

"You all do anyway," she replied curtly. "I never know when you'll be there, you're all always late."

"Not me," I said, a smile settling at the corner of my sarcasm. "I'm right on time, and I stopped just to make sure. Oh, and you're welcome."

Not a word of thanks emerged from her sour tongue. She ambled back to her seat without showing any sign of fare. Mumbling to herself, apparently cursing me and my fellow operators under her poison breath.

I just couldn't let her rude behavior pass. Still smiling, I decided to ride her a bit. Screw customer service, I served her and she gave me nothing but grief. That was an emotion I simply refused to entertain.

"We run on a schedule, which can be procured at grocery stores along the route," I said. "When we're due, you need to be closer to the stop so we can see you're intending to ride."

"I don't have a watch," she said.

"And I don't have clairvoyant tendencies," I replied a bit too icily. "Please be closer to the stop, or you will be passed by. Another driver might have just rolled on past."

Not a word in reply. I shrugged and returned to enjoying the beauty of my beloved Northwest afternoon. I don't allow passengers to rule my mood any longer. They only ride for a brief moment of my time, and are easily ignored. My concentration was already centered back upon providing everyone with a smooth ride.

A few stops later, she got off the bus without any word of thanks. When I picked her up later on my return trip, she didn't acknowledge my rolling right up to the curb and lowering the bus to make her boarding easy. I flipped her off in my mind and smiled. It was my Friday. Tom eased my pain with musical memories. The weekend beckoned, and the rest of my passengers were typically polite. It was all just part of the job.

I just smiled and waved at the inevitable next flipper off. Thanks Tom, yes... it is good to be king, if just for a while.