My Transition Between Routes

Deke's Note: Oh, the rigors of driving a bus begin to show signs of a biological breaking down. It's not only tough on the body, but the soul as well. My last post was a true testament to both. This time, after a few long drinks of Scottish nectar, I wax philosophical and nostalgic as the holidays come upon us.

This has been the toughest first week of a new route since I was a rookie. Thank God I have a leader and follower who are well-versed in transit reality. Although I've driven a bus for several years now, experience wasn't enough to prepare me for the rigors of this oft-traveled path I chose for the next three months. Part of me longed to re-connect with former passengers. Another, more-dormant of late side of my transit personality wanted to feel the comfort of a run I once knew to be a mellow roll. One thing I've learned over these years is that every route changes from one signup to the next, especially if years get in the way.

On my last route, I was amazed by the respect and professionalism of my passengers. They had their fare/passes ready upon boarding no matter how long they waited. Many of these folks have been riding transit to work and home again for many years. Their transit reality is part of their daily lives. One bus operator takes them to work, another ferries them home or to their next connection that way. I was but one of many they have come to know along the way. Every three months, they silently welcome a new face behind the wheel of the communal vessel they face after another long day of super-human toils. It was a great honor serving their kind again. I miss their quiet respect, how they always seemed to find the trash can when litter needed disposal. If they failed to greet me upon boarding, they almost always thanked me as they exited my bus. Even when I did not respond in kind, I felt their kindness. It helped me through many a dark day.

My new route is a different class of clientele. I've had to adjust from a hatrd-working class to that of a pampered and younger generation. Where my former passengers would profusely apologize if they forgot their pass or had no money to ride, the new bunch saunters aboard without the slightest need to even acknowledge my existence. Still, I consider it my duty to provide each with a safe and courteous experience. It matters not to me whether they pay or not. This might rankle those who struggle to provide fare every time they ride, but it's not my money so it matters not. I just drive, man.

As I reach the near-outer limits of our service area, I'm met with the frigid east winds of the Columbia Gorge. I'll roll into my stop a few minutes early and leave the bus running at least the two minutes legally-allowed so they can escape the elements. After welcoming them to my warm office, I'll hop off to do my biological necessities. Meanwhile, they're safe and warm within my bus. Management has its own ideas as to what constitutes "standard," but I have my own. Until they are actually vested in what happens "out there," I could give a damn what they think I "should" do. Their minutes are on a different timeframe than my own. As long as I have a few minutes to decompress from the run I just endured, I'm good with offering the rest of my break to those who share my toils as a middle-class American trying to bust out a meager living. They are mostly hard-working folk who for whatever reason need to use transit.

As the years furiously click by, I'm constantly reminded of my position in society. I'm in a service-oriented profession. It demands that I kiss everyone's ass, while virtually nobody attempts to kiss mine. Sometimes, it's a wash... who kisses whose is often a blurry line nobody grasps, but in the end, it's me who is the tenuous and oft-unsupported captain who guides the Beast to its destination. I've learned that compromise and compassion go a long way in keeping peace on my ride. Years before, arrogance ruled my rolls; now, I know it's my inner strength and wisdom that reign supreme. Given the volatility of ridership which knows no bounds of reason, it's up to me to provide the link of peace which guides us along life's often unforgiving rolls.

If I feel someone having a hard time with this nightmare we call "life", my life's lessons dictate the need to be the one person in their day who might provide a moment of kindness overshadow their struggles. When I'm successful in my efforts, perhaps a transit "friendship" develops. With regular riders, this relationship is vital. Some people can only relate to those who offer a friendly smile, or a word of understanding and compassion. That's where I hope to excel in this job. Where our management likes to think it feels our pain, the people I serve matter much more. Whether homeless or working poor, I've been there and I do feel what they often express to me.

Transit operators are an amalgamation of those they serve. We're either products of former employment disappointments or even worse. Those who have never suffered the pain of being evicted from their homes because of a missed paycheck could never empathize with those who have. That makes it easy for me to forgive the honest passenger who apologizes for being "five cents short" of proper fare. They are often surprised to find a day pass printed in lieu of some unwanted lecture on having that extra five cents. It's because I have lived what they now do that their apologies are instead met with my "it's okay, I've been there myself, and your change in that farebox is more than others drop into it without even a hello."

When you board my bus without a hello, failing to even acknowledge my mere existence, I am rendered the invisible value who works tirelessly to provide you and those who at least nod as they walk past the same safe and smooth ride as those who say hello and pay their full fare.

You see, all I'm thinking about when you enter that doorway is what time it is. Am I on time or running behind schedule? If I'm early, I might tarry a bit longer than usual to burn time. If I'm too early arriving at a stop, someone who's running a few seconds late might miss this bus. People have deadlines too. If I see you running toward my bus, frantically waving your arms hoping I'll see your panic, I will gladly await you even if I'm late. When I'm downtown on the transit mall, that's the only time you're shit outta luck. Once my doors are closed, that means it's "go time" and you're early for the next bus. That's transit, folks: be ready to board when we're in the first position with doors open; once they shut, you're too late. This is something you should understand rather than complain to our management about.

As I write this, I'm sad that I could not muster the creative energy to write more of my new and exciting novel. That's okay. I'm currently more committed to my transit reality these days than outwardly-reaching personal goals. This is disconcerting to this writer's soul, but oddly-comforting to the transit slave I have become. It's a struggle to serve one master over more-pressing needs.

When I began writing this blog, my promise was to chronicle what it feels "from the seat" of an operator's reality. Hopefully, these words remain true to that promise. Few tend to herald the rigors we roll through. Even less of you commend us for our vigilance. Often assailed, complained about and disrespected, we remain true to what we were trained to do: safely haul our precious cargo to their destination. The vast majority of you are treated to this promise, and you're either unaware or overly-engrossed by what your tethered electronic device tells you is most important. It fails to remind you of your shared humanity.

So climb aboard and have a seat. Keep those phones on silent, respect your operator and fellow passengers. Enjoy the ride. That's the simple credo of transit. And me? I'm happy to provide the service. Oh and by the way, you're welcome.