Peter's Pennance

We roll daily into dangers known or unimagined,
into the shadows of what lies ahead.

Deke's Note: If you're still paying attention, you have noticed over the past year my growing weariness. I waffle, wiggle and squirm, all while wrestling with whether I should continue blogging.

Your comments of support have been extremely uplifting. Knowing you are with me either way is inspiring. My writing has always been a catharsis to whatever trials I face. It soothes me like a favorite song, a scene in the wilderness of my many traipsings, or the soothing touch of my beloved. Having a writer's dual personality is a horrible way to treat myself... always struggling with weighing reality versus fantasy. What it all boils down to is that I cannot stop blogging. My initial goal was simply to exercise my "chops" while describing the life of a bus operator. It has evolved from surprise and wonder, to weariness and frustration. I must grate on your nerves at times. This is evident by the lower numbers of you who read. I call this Deke Fatigue. "Oh God," you say so loudly I can hear you in my dreams, "Deke is bitching again. Next..."

Readership has evolved along with my tenure. Some of you have read since I was born (wherefore art thou, Nedwell?) into this identity; others have come and gone, and there are still newcomers to my brand of bloggery. I make no apologies or promises now, except that I offer myself and thoughts to you as the muse calls me back. Lately, it has been sporadic, yet a bit predictable. You know that on Sundays, Deke has assaulted the internet with yet another prose on transit. I sit here at the end of another 50+ hour week behind the wheel and continually blast you with what blows up my mind in the five-day aftermath of being... Deke N. Blue, Portland transit operator. Thanks for putting up with my ramblings.

Henry Beasley preaches as Dr. King did;
for passage of laws protecting
the very well-being
of public servants.

It's not fair of me to ask you whether I should continue. Only I can answer that. The words will keep coming no matter who reads them. As this writing exercise began, little did either of us know it would evolve into a habit I am powerless to overcome. Maybe when I retire, these fingers will stop chronicling my transit-related thoughts. Meanwhile, I veer away from this six-wheel tome to revel within the freedom of fiction-writing. My new book will be a fantastic departure from this style. I'm really digging the relief I feel while pulling dreams from the whispers drawing my soul out of the doldrums of reality. It's so freakin' fun!

Back to you, Dear Reader. This one is for you. I've heard your desire for the Deke which initially drew you here. Hopefully, I can inspire your intellectual side, inspire a chuckle or tickle your humanity while also digging into the common thread which inspired this experiment. Thanks for everything... it is not only for me I do this... but mostly for the thousands of my brothers and sisters who share the wheel with me. My hat is doffed to you in respect.

It was a good week, except for the horrifying wrinkle which began it all. My dear son Aaron (all my children are dear to me, so I refer to each thusly) was a passenger in a car which was rear-ended. Buckled in the back seat (thanks for taking Dad's advice on seatbelts buddy!) of his roommate's car, he was playfully goofing off with her 3-year-old daughter when they were hit. Long story short, my son was turned when the impact happened. He suffered a severe whiplash and concussion. Contacted a day later by the guilty party's insurance company and told he wouldn't be paid because the resulting crash was an "act of God," my son wisely thought "bullshit" and contacted an attorney.

Aaron is a waiter, and his job requires him to be very active, carrying trays of food to waiting patrons.  He is constantly on the move, and at least once per shift he is verbally assaulted and/or stiffed on tips. At this time, he can barely stand, let alone carry anything. He will miss at least five days of work, if not more. In today's reality, that's about $500-$1000 he cannot earn. His mother and I anxiously monitor his recovery, ready to help him with some money so he doesn't end up homeless. Early in his childhood, we were dangerously close to the despair of homelessness, which befalls many in today's economy. We are fiercely devoted to each of our kids, as our own parents were for us when we were newlyweds. Family comes first. We're very grateful he wasn't injured worse than this, but we would do whatever necessary to ensure his health and well-being, and he is aware and grateful. We all share a common love no matter how desperate circumstances become. Please join me in hoping Aaron's speedy and full recovery, along with that of his roommate and her dear sweet child. In my deep gratitude for his painful yet fortunate escape from death, a chance meeting with a complete stranger reminded me of the extreme possibilities life sometimes deals some a harsh blow.

Driving my weekly route, I was more attentive to those who rode than the problems operators face. I was treated to a few stars within the hordes of humanity who stomp into my ride. One day, a pleasantly-worn face beaming from underneath a Festus-type slouch hat smiled at me as he boarded. My habit is to look into the eyes of those who board, always wary for the crazed. Having become seasoned over several years, I can usually tell who is likely to cause trouble with simple eye contact. Peter's eyes shone with gentle scrutiny. His smile was easy, and the face-wrinkles beamed friendliness. His story, however, once again gave me pause as I constantly ponder the wonders of humanity.

"I accidentally killed someone," he confessed with a sigh. We had been exchanging the experiences people of like ages are wont to share. His was indeed one which caught my immediate attention. A silence hung after his statement. I knew not how to respond, as it fell during the week of our March on City Hall in support of Oregon House Bill 2677. This bill would make it a felony for those accused of assaulting any transit worker in the scope of employment, rather than the misdemeanor it stands today.

"Oh?" I managed.

Peter sighed, but I knew more was to come. We were talking about life's consequences, and he surprised me with his own story.

"I served eight years for an accident," he told me. This was not the usually-boastful jail time story of the fools I routinely give free rides to as I roll past a local jail. It was a true confession from one I felt an instant connection to. He was kind, mindful of mistakes he had made and not in the least ashamed. He took responsibility, which is more than I can say for many of those who make excuses for not paying fare. This man paid in full, and that inspires respect from me.

"How come?" I asked, wanting to know more.

"That's not important," he told me. "I accidentally took someone's life, and I paid a heavy price."

What he revealed next was truly inspiring.

"I once had a nice home, a family, all that goes with it. In an instant, it was all gone. Now I'm homeless, but there's a sense of freedom in that after the price I paid. I'm free, but I'm not. I paid for it even after I got out of jail."

"Sounds like you may have overpaid," I remember either thinking or verbalizing.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Not eight months after I got out, my own young son died at the hands of a lady in exactly the same way I took the life of another."

I almost had to pull my bus over, the shock of this was so intense. Every parent fears most the loss of a child. A very close friend of mine recently lost a son, a boy I coached 10 years ago. His loss has been very difficult for me... not only because I was fond of him, but also because his parents are extremely dear to me. Joseph's identification remains in my backpack, because I promised to retrieve it from our Lost and Found Department and hold it for his parents.

Karma seemed to have dealt Peter a very unfair blow. What he said next brought me to tears.

"When she went to trial for taking his life," he said softly, not wanting everyone else privy to his revelation, "I asked the judge for leniency. I didn't want her to sit in a jail cell as long as I did for the same mistake I made."

I choked back a sob. Tears blurring the road ahead, I imagined this man's grief, wondering if the Karma Queen had ordained so horrific a payback. There is no way to feel empathy for such a situation: only those who have suffered so could understand its levity. We remained silent a few moments. Although I couldn't see Peter's face, our combined silence spoke chapters.

"That's... very noble of you," was all I could manage.

"Nah, bullshit," he replied. "All I could think of was how I suffered so long over an accident. This lady's fault was the same as mine. How could I ask a judge to meter out the same punishment I went through? I knew how she felt. That accident will play through her mind, as mine does, every day of her life. That's punishment enough for anybody."

"So," I asked, curious. I couldn't find anything within me which negated his stance. "Did the judge agree?"

"I served eight years of my 10-year sentence," he replied. "She got one year."

Immediately, as a bus operator who feels scorn and is under-appreciated on a daily basis, I could only imagine this woman felt overwhelmingly-appreciative for Peter's mercy.

A few nights later, Peter boarded my bus on its final run. We exchanged greetings, but nothing more. Except, that is, for an eye-lock which acknowledged that moment in which we connected. My heart aches for his loss, because I like every parent hope my children live decades past my own demise.

Peter's eyes held only kindness as ours locked. I acknowledged him by name and smiled in return. Nothing more needed saying. I thank him for sharing his story, as it's one that bears repeating for its aching relevance in today's society of heartlessness. I only hope this blog post did it justice.

Newbies take notice: judge not those who board your ride. You will likely learn more from your passengers than from any official training. Treat others with respect. They have lived miles of heartbreak, deceit and pain than most of us will know in a lifetime. Our job is simply to give people a safe and smooth ride. Do they have fare? Do you truly care? Try walking a bit in their shoes... it's worth a stride or two, in order to remind ourselves how lucky we are to have a good job and loved ones who await our return.

In this vein, I feel pity for those involved in my son's accidental injury. I am extremely grateful he is still with us. Joseph's loss fresh upon my soul, Peter's story and Aaron's own escapades as a teenager remind me how lucky I've been not to experience the extreme grief I fear most. Losing a parent is difficult, yet expected. To lose one's child is akin to the death of our own soul, a grief we all never want to live through.

Bless you, Peter. I hope to see you again. Thanks for sharing the grief and joy which propels you through this dream (or nightmare) we know as life. And my dear son Aaron, remember your pain is physical; it will heal. My hopes and prayers are that you live a long, rewarding and blissfully-happy existence long after I have become one with the soil of a tree that outlives our great grandchildren.

Peace be with you all, and I pray you and yours remain safe, happy and blissfully loved.