I Saw Mom, Plus One Who Needed Her

Once upon a faraway time, I became what I was to become.

I saw Mom while I drove today. She's been gone nearly 14 years now, and was the one person to whom I owe my everything. Mom and Dad were determined that I succeed. Hopefully, I have at least met their minimum expectations, but I'm constantly striving to not only meet their lofty standards, but to propel my achievements much higher than they ever hoped.

Mom appeared in my vision as I lapsed into semi-consciousness as a bus operator. Dangerous, you say? Nah. Once you have learned the "ropes," your mind wanders constantly while the body is in auto-pilot. Perhaps that's one thing I shouldn't divulge, given management's desire to replace us with automation, but I have to be true here. You expect that from me. It's our momentary fear, but I speak truth to our fears. We can only win if we stick together. Otherwise, we're doomed.

Anyway, I saw Mom floating in my mind's eye. She was dressed in her wollen wrap, her hair done in that 60s "do," her hair free of the silver she left us with. And... that... smile. I felt so warm when I saw her. It was the smile she gave me when she was pleased with me. It was her "I'm proud of you" grin. Full, loving and warm. Given that she was an ornery and fiery individual, it was truly comforting to see her so happy. My soul was comforted.

She appeared as I thought of the direction this blog is turning back toward. I'm feeling the pull once again of what led me to write this in the first place: to describe what it feels to be ME, guiding The Beast through Portland's gentle forested rolls, with all its good and bad, the sweet and sour. My new book was also coursing through the veins and arteries of my main control center. It's happening as we live here, underneath our many bridges and throughout the adjacent forested lands which hold us in their hypnotic sway.

A recent vacation and some deep soul-searching have given birth to epiphanies I was blind to while under the spell of a grinding push toward freedom. This blog has actually become an obstacle to new projects. I'm addicted to it. Many of you have told me directly and through back channels that you value these words.

It's like a drug, folks. If I give in to it too much, I lose sight of the bigger picture. My ultimate goal is to retire as a "novelist who once drove a bus for a living." This has been incredible practice, allowing my soul to preach the words which resonate within. However, it also holds me back from a goal I set for myself long ago, when Mom lived and urged me to write. I didn't know how to listen then. Stubborn as she was, she was possessive of a knowledge granted through a lifetime of unfulfilled dreams; she was insistent that I pursue and achieve my one true love: communicating with you via the words which stream from my conscious soul. She somehow knew I had a gift whose value was but a tickle of an inkling. Now, it roars through me like a storm surge on the shores of Netarts Bay. The gulls scream to me, the wind roars "WRITE" and it echoes all the way to Portland. The resulting waves spread outward toward wherever you read this. Hopefully, we'll continue to have this connection as long as my hands grip the wheel of a city bus.

So here I sit writing to YOU again, beloved readers, instead of where I should be exploring new paths as a writer. Now, I'm off to continue on a tangent that pulls me away from this blog, even though I feel guilty for doing so. As if I betray you to stray into the realms of fantastical fiction. My posts here MUST return toward the goals of my original offerings.

I drive a bus for a municipal corporation that seems to value stats over the humanity of its most valuable employees. While my words have often strayed from my promises, it's only because I feel a great love for those with whom I share this work. For over 100 years, we have given millions of safe rides to our fellow Portlanders, rarely celebrated yet betrayed whenever something goes tragically awry.

You all have endured my rants while living them. If I don't say what I feel, perhaps you are betrayed by FTDS. It's my solemn vow not to leave you behind. My butt cheeks roll in the seat with every sway, and my feet beat a rhythm between accelerator and brake while the other clicks signals to tell those ahead and behind me what my next move will be. This blog is more a part of me than you could ever know. Your kind words, comments and book purchases warm my heart to a point where it feels it will burst with reciprocated love for you.

So I must leave you with one final transit tidbit. As my run ended tonight and I scanned the bus for left-behind items and/or the rare trash I find on this route, my eyes were surprised to find a sleeping young lady in the back of my bus. She was so peaceful, yet frightened even as she dozed. Her hands grasped a bar rising from the seat in front of her as if she held onto some left behind comfort. A flimsy jacket, her only hope against the cool November drizzle chill, had fallen off her shoulders on my warm vehicle. Although clean, she appeared a bit disheveled, like home was a far-away dream or something that may never have been. I paused upon finding her, cuddled into the far corner my passenger mirror failed to reflect. Tenderly, I gave her warning this was the end of the line, my last run of the night.

"Time to wake up, dear lass," I said as gently as possible. I hate to startle sleepers. They are, after all, a compliment. If my driving lulls someone to sleep, the "be smooth" part of The Mantra has been steadily adhered to. She awoke slowly, as if I was part of her dream.

"Where are we?" she asked sleepily, not opening her eyes. She appeared not much over 18, a victim of some nightmare I would not want to be privy to.

"We're at the end of the line," I said as gently as possible. Once upon a time, I might have been more authoritative, insistent and perhaps even a bit rude. Not now. I've seen too much of the horrific bottom rungs of society's ladder to remain the asshole my once-arrogant soul I once was. "It's time to get off the bus, dear."

She moaned. "It's so warm on this bus."

I gazed at her, as if she was my daughter. I knew she was somebody's child. As a father, it's very difficult to leave someone you consider "a little girl" out in the drizzly chill that awaited.

"Where do you need to go?" I asked, checking the seats near but not next to her. I did not want her to feel threatened by my presence, but be warmed by it instead.

"Downtown," she replied.

"Okay," I said. "I'll give you a ride to the MAX, and it will get you there. In the meantime, please move forward, and try not to fall asleep again, okay? I don't want you to get hurt if I have to stop suddenly."

She did not reply. I moved back to the front of the bus and hit "Restroom Delay" on the CAD, my usual ending of this run. Nicotine beckoned, and a good stretch of the 56-hour-week toll on this aging body. I told her to sit tight, and I'd be back in a few minutes. She mumbled some gurgling of appreciation, and I stepped into a drizzly chill which I love and she probably dreads. After a few pulls on my vape machine which cost more than she may have seen in a month, I hopped back into the seat. She dozed in a front-facing Honored seat, and I greeted her once again as I tapped "Ready for Service" into the computer.

"Okay," I said a bit louder than I might to a wakeful human. "Here we go. Make sure you stay awake because it'll only take about five minutes to get to the MAX. You good?"

"Yeah," she mumbled. Then I heard (or perhaps imagined), a soft "thank you."

We rode along in silence. I kept glancing into the mirror to make sure she was okay. Her eyes were open, yet transfixed upon a reality I wasn't sure was one we needed to explore. Sometimes, it's best to leave people to their highs or lows. Unless they offer, it's best not to open the floodgates. She would have shared if the need arose. Meanwhile, I chose to continue as trained: JUST DRIVE, mufugga.

As she exited, I asked if she had fare. She didn't; I gave her a day pass. Fuck it. If that was the best she received for the day, I was glad to give it. And that, my friends, is the human element of transit which automation cannot match. A robotic bus would have kicked her into the cold and cruel elements of those who wander alone with whatever reality they know. A human feels a common connection where a computer knows only what the rules are. Fuck that; this girl needed somewhere safe and warm to simply be. With my ride, she only had to walk 100 yards or less and wait a few minutes for the next warm respite from the nightmare she lived. In lieu of that $5, I refused to time slip the 10 minutes I arrived late. Fair is fare, eh? I'm sure Mom's smile extended to that tiny contribution to humanity.

As promised, I must leave for now. But hey, I'm hooked. I'm an addict. To you. To what we do for those who ride. To our respective unions and all who depend upon them to fight for what is and what needs to be. If you tell me to shut the fuck up, then I must. Until then...

Forever in your collective debt, I am
Deke N. Blue