Translate

Deacon Who?

My photo
(Note: Ideas and opinions expressed in this blog are not necessarily shared by the transit agency I work for. This is simply an expression of free speech while describing the work bus operators perform.) I have been (and called) many things in this life. Most of all, I'm a writer who happens to drive a bus. In May of '13 I thought it would be fun to write about my job. As a direct result of this blog, I published a book in November of 2017 called "JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane" that is available on Amazon. I write to provide insight as to what it's like on a bus... From The Driver Side. Thank you for reading!

Thursday, December 31, 2020

Read THIS! Deke STANDS For YOU!



Deke's Note: Ugh. Another week finished. Last week was tough but ended with a blissful Christmas. I chose Thursday/Friday off so I could enjoy the holidays. This week, I finish this horrid '20 with a blistering blast and what could be.

 "The only good employee is a scared one," our HR head told ATU 757 Local President Shirley Block. 

"The only good management is one which thinks about those who work the wheels," is my reply.

It's time for a change, a drastic one. While some in leadership positions are earnest, hard-working and dedicated, I believe they have not a single positive clue. TriMet in Portland needs someone to shift transit's priorities toward better support mechanisms. Those who share the "bottom tier" are those who make the wheels roll. We now suffer a multi-layered management which has no oversight. It expects the impossible with no consequences for its own poor decisions, yet metes out punishment aplenty for those who struggle through miles of disrespect each day. It's a recipe for failure, and that's where 2020 left us. Floundering along darkened streets with nobody to lead or inspire us in our nightmarish existence. No wonder Dougie's leaving us... he's overwhelmed with American insolvency like the Canadian one he fled.

That's Corporata as it runs transit, folks. No imagination, no inspiration, no forward movement. Only reaction and negativity, where positive encouragement is most necessary. It is time for instant, drastic intervention by those who do the dirty work.

Instead of a flow chart, I propose we redefine the wheel. Operations Union employees are the most integral and important in any transit agency. Put us in the middle of the wheel. Each connecting spoke should be supportive departments, with their actions radiating inward towards the core.  As it stands now, we're at the bottom of a corporate hierarchy that supports the upper strata rather than those who need the life-sustaining air at the bottom. The higher you climb, the less oxygen.

Vital employees do not need coddling. Conversely, we are worthy of this (and any) agency's Herculean efforts to ensure the utmost respect. 

We are legally prohibited to strike in Oregon, rendered weaker with each contract negotiation. Why we allowed this to happen confuses us all. What it does illustrate is that management has gradually declined from a Safety First environment to a Discipline First one. Had we the right to strike, our bargaining position would be infinitely stronger. We do not have that powerful tool, so we are rendered insignificant. Instead of garnering respect, we are treated as abused children in a horribly dysfunctional family.

  • An Operator was recently suspended for defending himself too vigorously when attacked. What the fuck is "too vigorously" when Humanity's Fight or Flight Syndrome is in effect? Who the hell decided an Operator's well-being is less important than a passenger's felonious act? Some inept lawyer, I'll bet. An overpaid one, to be sure.
  • Numerous Operators have been suspended for not wearing their masks. Hey, we all have to blow our noses, take a drink, or be understood by someone who reads lips. Of the entire Portland Metropolitan area, save for medical or police or fire personnel, transit operators are "under mask" the entire time we're in uniform. The public has a penchant to complain about us without reservation, let alone common decency for what we go through on a daily basis without COVID hanging over us. To add insult to our many injuries, they have delighted in tattling on us any instant we can be seen without our masks. Conversely, we have not the same power as they when an un-masked passenger boards except for a lame statistical-based computer message "Mask Refusal". 
  • Earlier yesterday, Center Garage had to cancel over a dozen runs due to a lack of operators. Why? Because of unnecessary suspensions, disgusted resignations and retirements related to Mangement's mis-management of transit. We are fed up with their nonsensical support of a whiny public over an over-worked and ill-compensated workforce. Hence, the lack of Extra Board Operators. Additionally, I know I am one of hundreds called by Station Agents to work on our Regular Days Off who say "HELL NAH! FIVE DAYS IS ENOUGH, BRO!"
  • Suspension-Happy Management is screwing itself. With fewer operators to cover shifts they eliminate with their ridiculous edicts, the public suffers along with the maligned operators who have proven themselves many times over by rolling through this pandemic wasteland. Gee thanks for your support, management. 
    Ya
  • Mindless Upper Management Wannabes ride transit for free and secretly call in complaints on Operators with reckless abandon. Given "leadership's" wanton recklessness in encouraging people to complain even when they haven't the slightest clue regarding decades-old transit customs which were once solidified as LAW. Many an Operator has fallen victim to these anonymous/dickless whiners who often lie or stretch their complaints in an all-too-often ugly light shining on the innocent as their guilt overpowers the most blinding glare.
  • Our Maintenance/Mechanical Workers are truly those who make the wheels roll before we take control of them. Their decades-old, proven Maintenance Apprenticeship Program is on the chopping block of yet another ignorant Corporata-structured management, with no solid evidence to back their downward swing of the axe. When you want things done right, you must train from the bottom up and with an emphasis on long-held traditions of excellence. Hiring from the outside brings in people with their own misguided ideas, without the benefit of transit-based traditions behind them. This is a simply-misguided union-busting plan of a bunch of corporate bobbleheads who rarely get greasy unless they change the oil on their own overpriced luxury cars. Given their bloated salaries, this is more rare than a beaver purchasing flood insurance during an Oregon winter.
These are only a few of our complaints about an increasingly destructive trend of Corporata's takeover of transit. It's not only in Portland, but has reared its grotesque head in most transit agencies worldwide, save for a few bright spots. Given our numbers, it shudders me to think we have yet to rise in our grotesqely-massive numbers to overtake these incompetent master baiters. They have grown too bold, too complacent in their misplaced power, to be checked. Checkmate, ya bastards. We ain't stupid. Hard workers aren't dumb, we're just held down. Time to move aside, suits. We know MORE than you and can do your job with more efficiency and plumb smarts than you could ever imagine no matter how many degrees you throw at us. We're hotter than all of them. Step aside, son, let us show you how it should be done.

Give ME a chance. I will turn it around the first few days after the TriMet Board of Directors does the first progressive thing it ever has by hiring ME as the new General Manager. I will not only shake their heads mad with my flurry of a first week, I will completely shatter the past few decades of destructiveness with hundreds of changes meant to support frontline workers. 

WE have done the work management takes credit for, even through its lame attempts to proclaim our dedication. WE are who management should work FOR, not a self-entitled and spoiled public. Thousands of people would like to ride transit, but whenever they test the waters they're met with those who disrupt the system yet are protected by ridiculous edicts which tie the hands of those who should control it. Thus, the declining numbers of passengers the past decade. People are not encouraged to ride transit when the worst are favored while the responsible are ignored. Fuck you whiners who say minorities are "unfairly treated" in fare inspections. Bullshit. EVERYONE is asked for valid fare, even ME.

Why would any responsible adult WANT to ride transit in Portland when only the trouble-makers are catered to? It confounds one to realize management favors the worst riders over those who fuel the local economy. It's also maddening that the self-righteous groups hoping to enable the least-productive have more power to shape transit policy than those who depend upon our services to move them safely to and from jobs which positively-effect our economy and collective well-being.

It's time for a major, PROGRESSIVE change in transit management. I WILL provide it, guaranteed. It will take pissing off the least productive to promote the most. Yeah, I've been homeless too. However, I busted my ass to earn that roof over my head and provide for those who depended upon me. Save for a few months of public assistance, I have always provided for my loved ones. Anyone with any degree of work ethic has, or would, do the same.


I would work for less than the Corporate Failures who have run our agency into the depths of disgust and despair. My next posts will outline my plan for success. If you read them as I write, I'll bet dollars to Doug's Donuts you'll have to agree. I only hope enough of you will spend the time to read my posts, absorb what I have to say, and climb aboard the Hope Train. Without your support, we're doomed to the same ol' same ol' and the worst of what follows.

The job description for GM will be full of Corporata Wants Minus Transit Necessities. Even so, I will apply with my lifetime of degrees from the College of FuckedOver BLUE Collar U. Along my travels, I have been the dogged employee of Small Business, Large CorporateAmerica and Public Transit. Each of these steps, I've been told to bend over and just take what they give. My butt is sore, and I'm tired of being used. Aren't you too?

It's time Working America took over. We have seen what happens when we allow otherwise. It only leaves us bent over with a sore asshole.

Share this post. Use the hashtag #Deke4GM. I would work for YOU. I AM you. No matter what city you roll your bus wheels through, I am truly the grease within your drive wheel's lug nuts. Just like Thomas Dunn was when his throat was slashed by a passenger. He died in the seat. I don't want to, and neither do you. 

Peace, through whichever deity you love. I wish you happiness whatever religion you praise, no matter who or how you love, or whatever political party you support. Drop everything, and we're all the same. I want to lift you up to the heights your efforts truly deserve. It's about damn time one of US did.

Happy 2021. Hope it beats the hell out of this horrific '20.


With love and respect, I am your

Deke N. Blue


Tuesday, December 29, 2020

Marty MethHead Charges Me


Deke's Note: One thing I have accepted is that life is too fleeting to believe I'll automatically make it home unscathed after a shift. It has taken several counseling sessions over the years to curb the anger which surfaces when someone with mental illness pushes my First Marriage Buttons. Being an abused husband was once sneer-worthy, and 35 years later I still grapple with painful flashbacks. Tonight, I scored a victory only in that I did as trained and calmly so. Still, that moment of fear that I wouldn't be able to hold back, showed its horrid face once more. 

I thought he would punch me. Or, shove the handful of masks he grabbed after storming to the front of the bus. He stood just outside my barrier, un-masked. His eyes were glazed over, high most likely. 

It was GO TIME. If his hand had made toward my face, my body's biological defenses would have taken over. I most likely would have punched the lad. HARD. Fight or flight does not give you an option. When you're trapped in an operator's seat, there IS no flight.

Luckily for me, his eyes showed no malice or intent to harm. He was crazed, confused, befuddled. I met his gaze calmly, and did not wince or cringe.

"Do you need a mask?" he asked.

Taking a deep breath, I replied quietly. "No." I pointed at my own mask, playfully pulling and allowing it to snap back in place. "But you do. Please put one on. And leave it there. Thank you."

Calm, authoritative, non-aggressive. Even though I was poised to defend myself, on full alert, my hackles were raised. I didn't know what to expect, hoping for the best but ready for the worst. 

This lad had boarded earlier in the afternoon, full of an addict's boasts that he was high. F-this and everything or everybody else, he was gonna quit! Everything at once. Heroin, crack, meth, booze, and even cigarettes. Anyone who has suffered an addiction know this is unlikely. He made an elderly lady nervous, but she still treated him kindly. As he exited, he kept bounding back aboard and asking me the locations of businesses I was unable to provide. He finally asked me where to buy smokes, and I pointed to the store directly in sight a block away.

Finally, he walked away from the bus and I could shut the door. Marty started walking toward the store then abruptly crossed the street in the opposite direction. The lady he had spoken to was going to exit, but wanted to put some distance between them so she opted for the next stop instead.

* * * * *

When he boarded again some seven hours later, the change in his demeanor was highlighted by agitation. Even though he politely declined to pay fare, by saying "Thank you Operator" as he boarded, he refused to grab a free mask. Several times, I had to ask him to wear one. To stop closing windows. To remain seated, not speak so loudly or profanely. Each time, he complied, only to forget what he had just done and reverse every action. It was plain he could not behave with any normalcy.

I alerted Dispatch after he stormed the front, because he had appeared aggressive. I didn't know if he would explode, but experience told me it was certainly possible. It became a challenge to maintain order on my ride so I could concentrate. I'm a stickler for providing a smooth ride, my stops even more so. That last run to the mall serves a wild mix of passengers. It's a constant game of outwitting nitwits while providing my patented brand of fun interaction and heartfelt goodwill.

When Marty MethHead exited, he charged up front, again. Marty had something in his hand and I tensed once more as I watched the passenger mirror. Gaining the entryway, he thrust a ragged and worn DVD case at me. "Here, this is me, for you."

I didn't want to touch it. His fifth mask of the night hung by a single earlobe, hands were grubby and the case was encased in what appeared to be years of grime. Recognizing it was a peace offering of sorts, I told him "Thank you, just please lay it there." I pointed at the farebox, since 50% of the passengers hadn't paid yet and I didn't expect any more that late in the trip.

After he left, and I safely cruised on, I was surprised at the calm that enveloped me. Our interaction had ended peacefully. My breathing was normal. I could see the few remaining passengers were relieved. So in my normal fashion, I keyed up the PA mic.

"And you too can be bus operators!" I exclaimed. Not a peep.

No cops, no injuries, no "what ifs" or Managerial Monday Morning QBs. This incident needed no reports or medical care. For either of us. There was a moment there where I was poised to vigorously defend myself. I'm happy it didn't come to that.

So it goes on the late night Dirty3. 

Friday, December 25, 2020

Merry Christmas 2020


Bus operators see the devastation of this pandemic. Every shift is a "reality show" that we'd rather not watch. Good people have lost jobs. Wages that are barely enough to sustain even the poorest accommodations have vanished. Those who once labored with honor for the pennies thrown their way now rummage through waste barrels in search of a $0.10 can or bottle to add to their bag of wishes.

I am thankful for many things, least of which is a decent job I have had throughout this horrid and diseased year. Despite it all, my life has actually improved. It's something I am very grateful for. However, it leaves me feeling guilty. As I drive a bus, I serve many whose lives are nowhere as comfortable as mine.

So this Christmas, instead of a post full of complaints toward those who manage my job, I offer thanks for what I have. I'm also most thankful for not only a family who loves and accepts this less-than-perfect-by-miles old cranky bastard, but also for those with whom I share this occupation, and those I serve.

I'm thankful for my fellow operators who likely roll much tougher routes than I do. I appreciate my Road Supervisors, Dispatchers, Service Workers/Cleaners, Station Agents and Maintenance/Mechanics. We are a team, one that sees little true appreciation for all it takes to transport a quietly-appreciative public through all kinds of trauma. Even though I disagree with a great deal management/leadership does, I feel for them too, for they at least say they appreciate what we do "out there". It's not entirely their fault they don't fully understand what we do; many have never done it themselves. Perhaps they do feel sympathetic even though it seems improbable they feel empathy toward us. 

This is Christmas Day, I extend my heartfelt love to the homeless, whose numbers have risen exponentially. I pray you find a way to rise above whatever challenges confront you. To those just barely surviving, may your efforts sustain you in the worst of times and reward you afterward. If you are doing okay right now, my heart is with you because like you, I'm one paycheck away from a tent.

Yes, I have much to be grateful for today. Mostly, for a wife with whom I have shared nearly half my life with, and still marvel in her wisdom and beauty. Also for children who love me more than I deserve. I'm eternally grateful for those who created me, and miss their presence every day. To those with whom I share this profession, I honor and respect each.

It has been a horribly-rough year, but there have been bright stars shining throughout. We all need to  keep an eye out for them. Hold each tender moment dear, and fear not the future; it could likely be the best time of our lives. Hope is a worthy aspiration, and my heartiest goal.

Merry Christmas folks. And may peace reign forever with you and yours.


Respectfully,

Deke N. Blue

Wednesday, December 23, 2020

My Dental Agony for Christmas


Transit agencies worldwide are now a game of chess.
Will the worker reign supreme over King Corporata?

Deke's Note: It's doubtful many of you know what makes me tick. Some, not all, of you have read my words before. You probably have an inkling of the writer who keeps luring you back to this blog. Here, I hope to give you a glimpse of the man behind the keyboard, the one who hopes to change transit in a positive and rewarding way.

The past few days, a recurring theme has played in my mouth: decades of tobacco use doing irreparable damage to tissue, bone, nerves and my equilibrium. Yesterday, I drove my bus in a haze of the worst pain (besides childbirth, which I have been told doubles this type) imaginable: dental infection. Arriving home, I was famished, hungry beyond belief. All I could chew was thankfully what awaited me: soft chicken, mashed potatoes and broccoli. On the left side of my mouth, only. After eating, I spent 40 minutes watching television before my body broadcast BEDTIME, loudly and with intensity.

My alarm was set for nine hours after collapsing. I awoke, took note of my pain level. Not good, about 7/10. Used the toilet and turned my attention to the infection lurking deep within my remaining upper back molar. Brushed. Flossed. Water-picked to find a stinky plethora of infection-based yuck run out of my biological assailant. Rinsed with prescription-strength mouthwash, swallowed my first 800mg tablet of Ibuprofen of the day. Yeah, this is what 50 years of smoking cigarettes did to my once-pristine mouth full of teeth: rampant decay and pain. (While finally in the past, this smoking of cigarettes, it haunts me still.) Thus self-treated, I retreated. To bed. For 12 hours, minus 10 minutes to mark off "sick" and make the bladder gladder. At my age, seven hours of rest is usually sufficient. This time, my body informed me it needed extra time to fight the infection raging within. Contrary to current transit "wisdom", I decided my health was more important than planting this suffering body in the seat. My next call was to the Station Agent, reluctantly marking off work. I'll likely do so again today, as the dentist will have little option other than pulling yet another tooth from my decimated ranks of munchers.

I did not want to risk taking time off this close to a holiday. Doing so involves paperwork, documented proof that I'm not just skating into a four-day Christmas weekend. I fully intended to complete my shifts prior to Christmas Eve. However, the pain and infection dictated that I not put myself, or the safety of my passengers, in danger

When operating a 20-ton bus, I need every ounce of energy and concentration to safely guide The Beast through the 10-hour shift I signed. Driving a bus becomes "automatic" after a few years. The finer points however, demand every ounce of energy and finesse this body can conjure. Dealing with everyday dangers becomes much more difficult when my body is fighting an infection and its resulting pain. (Sorry ladies, I confess dental work does not compare with pain endured during childbirth.) Common body aches are part of the job; anything on top of that involves an inner strength not easily found. Any mid-management dupe with my current malady would not think twice about calling in; a union bus operator has to consider several consequences when doing so. 

Our transit agency espouses a perplexing policy discouraging frontline workers from claiming accumulated sick leave. In order to safely transport hundreds of people each shift, I am expected to be studiously-attuned to the thousands of possible obstacles confronting me. It takes great concentration to see, plan for, and react to each dangerous circumstance. Most are predictable, which is a skill that is second-hat to most veterans. Newbies have yet to acquire those years of experience to not only see at a glance, but to predict in a split second what while likely happen while also knowing how to react appropriately. When an operator is in pain, the mind tends to focus on the personal rather than the professional. This intensifies the possibility of a costly mistake, one I'm not willing to gamble upon.

As my brother Henry reminds us, any such situation puts us in a "diminished capacity". My pain suggested operating a transit vehicle was not a good idea. However, I had no other alternative, except for pushing that "Operator Ill" button on my CAD (Computer-Aided Dispatch). 

"Just take some Tylenol and ride it out, " I told myself. The Station Agent informed me he had no available TDA's (Turn Down Assignments) available that point in my shift. As anyone who has operated a transit vehicle can recall, it came down to whether I had "the balls" to continue. Thinking of those waiting in a horrendous rainstorm for my bus, I committed to them. Even though they would not know my pain or even care; all they wanted to see was my bus rumbling to their rescue.

Rather than being rewarded for being attuned to our own health, we are collectively punished for missing work. Miss more than two sick days in 1,960 hours and you are robbed of that coveted "Master Operator Program" award, which should coincide with that much safe driving rather than ignoring your health. Thousands of us have died dedicated to such a ridiculous notion rewarding risk over self. Our loved ones think nothing of a certificate while mourning over our corpse.

How many transit worker survivors have uttered these words: "If only he/she had thought of his/her health instead of that damn job!"

Instead of recognizing our dedication to professionalism, we are subjected to discipline for preserving our own health, and therefore the safety of those who ride our vehicles. It's a horrific culture begging reversal. Corporata, however, prefers discipline over support. They think we're abusing the Sick Leave system. Any of us who have done the job realize our limitations, and therefore our basic mortality. We understand the vitality of self-care far outweighs Corporata's insistence that we gain that seat no matter what assails us. It's insane, insidious and insipid to expect a person to place their own health second to a career. Yet, here we languish.

2020 has seen too much death due to what too many dismiss as "the flu". We know better, as it has murdered many more than any flu bug since 1918. Most of us have known victims of COVID-19, or have relatives and friends who know those who have succumbed to this invisible mass murderer. We have gained the seat full of fear. Through any type of weather, 100-year firestorms, or the anger a populace has developed while having its "freedoms" curtailed. We have dealt with a year of questions, debates and arguments over whether a mask is effective. Throughout, your transit operator has been there. Without any sort of hazard pay, little or no assurance that our loved ones would be supported if our service to community results in suffering and death. No support, except for empty words which one might expect from, you guessed it, Corporata.

As promised, I am working on a series of posts dealing with how I believe transit should be managed, and by whom. It encompasses a wide range of subjects, but the focus is centered upon those who work so hard to ensure this vital public service is accomplished. The current system has proven itself a miserable failure. It's time for a major reversal if transit is to recover and prosper post-pandemic. Unfortunately, those entrusted with this service are deaf to radical change. Preferring their self-imposed status quo, they have successfully convinced the powers-who-be that transit management is best run by the very scoundrels who have ruined it. 

Stay tuned. It's a major task to write such an unprecedented series. Many have already discouraged my goal of becoming General Manager, given my lack of "credentials". Consider how those currently considered "qualified" have so dramatically failed us and our communities. How could such a radical change be any worse? I think my years behind the wheel have given me a perspective severely lacking in those currently running (ruining) it for all involved. I would turn the tree upside down, chop it into firewood for a later bonfire. I would replace it with a Circle of Commitment with those currently at the bottom of this dead tree moved to the center. So it should be, and so it would, under responsible and respectful leadership.

Grave circumstances demand drastic change. Even though I may not attain the lofty goal I seek, remember that my reaching for it is solely meant to lift YOU all to the lofty heights your efforts so mightily deserve.

Meanwhile, may you and yours enjoy a COVID-free and Merriest of Christmases our collective circumstances allow. I offer blessings of health and prosperity as we boot 2020 out of existence. May all your ups-and-downs be in bed. Peace and love to you all.


With that, I remain
Your Transit Blogger
#DEKE4GM
Deke N. Blue

Friday, December 18, 2020

Refreshing Transit Management: Prologue

For years I have written what we experience.
Now, I want to put that to work. For you.

Ha! Dougie-Poo is retiring early next year. It's time the Bored(sicop) of Directors make drastic changes regarding the management of Tri-Mess. 

I am currently working on what is probably my last series of blog posts. Y'all don't read in massive numbers these days, so it seems this ship has sailed. It's all good. I have written just over a million words about this now eight-year career, and I thank you. There are better writers braving the storm of managerial oversight, and my artistic muse is pulling me toward more creative endeavors. Part of me feels bad for leaving this behind, but the practical side of me dictates it be so.

It is time for me to consider a major career change within this agency. Given the disastrous lack of supportive transit leadership, it is time for an Operator to take control of the helm. I have given this much thought, as you will see as my upcoming series explaining my views of transit management is published. A new hashtag began popping into my head earlier this year, and it's far from a nirvana-inspired psychosis. It is my true belief that I have the ability to be General Manager of Portland's transit agency. It's about damn time WE take it back from the failed corporatists who have made a grand mess of things. Get ready. I'm fucking serious, folks.

Knowing FTDS posts have lost luster due to my habitual lack of brevity, I beg you tune in for each coming installment. They will be precise and detailed. My plan is to outline not the failures of the past per se, but more to explain my reasons for reaching so high.

I am not a narcissist, nor am I delusional. My detractors will allude to this and many other reasons why I should not become a major city's transit General Manager. Utmost will be the fact I have never done it before, but that has become a moot point given the horrific failure of the past several who held the position. It is actually why I should be hired to lead.

Having driven a bus for 32 signups, many issues have crossed this writer's mind as the big wheels rolled. Talking with fellow operators, one thing is obvious: we are the least respected and most maligned employees of Portland's transit agency. That's the main problem, because WE are the "lug nuts of transit," as the murdered Operator Thomas Dunn of Florida, MY transit hero, told his local Board of Directors the year before he died in the seat. Like Mr. Dunn, our ranks are composed of a seriously-talented group. Many of us have come from other careers, which are so diverse as to make us a Melting Pot of American Ingenuity and How Things Get Done. 

Millionaires don't do the work, they simply rack in the profits of those who do their bidding. They don't pay taxes, but WE do to the point where we simply won't put up with it any longer.

Join me in my quest to have a no-nonsense, Operations-First blue collar worker at the helm of this metropolitan transit agency. All I ask is two years. If we're not on the rise toward regaining our No. 1 status, I will step down. Given my ability to work with people over 40 years of serving people, it's time to end my career helping the strongest, most-dedicated group of professionals I have ever had the honor of working with, and beside.

Share this, and my next posts, widely. Be sure to add the hashtag #DEKE4GM, and let us move forward into a future which rewards our dedication. Otherwise, sit back and take what we all know is coming. 

As a 17-year-old college freshman, I walked into my local community college's Journalism Department in hopes of landing a spot on the newspaper staff. It was a fortuitous time to do so. Central Arizona College had lost many of its CACtus staffers the previous spring to graduation. Every spot on the staff was open, and The Man asked me which position I wanted. It took all of a few seconds for my response.

"Given the choice," I said, "I'd like to be Editor."

Two years later, The CACtus became the most-awarded newspaper staff in CAC's history, and the Journalism Department was awarded the Rocky Mountain Collegiate Press Association's most prestigious honor: The President's Award.

Therefore, I shall apply for the GM position. I can do this job, but only with YOUR help. It is my solemn vow that every action I take as your GM would be dedicated to those who actually do the work of transit. There will be no empty words, only action on behalf of those who make management's job possible. The soul of Operator Dunn, and the thousands of you and your brothers and sisters who have suffered abuse at the controls of a transit vehicle, demand it.

A lifetime of work as a blue-collar worker has prepared me for a final major hurrah. Each challenge I have not only met, but exceeded expectations. It is a confidence hardened, sharpened, and honed by life's toughest experience: simply earning enough to keep my family fed and housed. Nothing more, no frills or extreme luxuries. Just life as WE know it, man. A life few at the top of transit today can probably remember.

Yeah, I'm reaching for the stars. But y'all, those pinpoints of light are YOU.


Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Main Street Malfunction

Pioneer Courthouse Square is festive yet
quiet on a Sunday afternoon.


Deke's Note: Every three months, Portland transit operators have the option of changing both their runs and days off. Knowing my runs kept me out later than necessary to sign the Time Off book for Christmas and New Year's Eve, I opted for Thursday/Friday as my Regular Days Off for the Winter Signup. The Winter Signup began on what would have been my RDO (Sunday/Monday for the past five years or so), meaning my "weekend" changed and I would work nine days in a row until my new Friday... Wednesday. This blog post deals with the toil such a long week has on this 60-year-old body and soul.

I don't usually work nine days in a row. But when I do, it ends with a series of stiff drinks from a bottle of  12-year-old Glenfiddich. Sheer exhaustion flows with the juices I now consume.

Long ago in this blog, I outlined some Operator Math. Each 10-hour shift, a bus operator will press the air-brake pedal of a bus an average of 800 times. It's a repetitive motion which requires several times more pressure than doing so in a personal vehicle. Worker's Comp often insists our pain stems from "past injury" to management's fiscal delight. To our collective plight, it's pain built up from about 175,000  constant presses of the right foot. A human part that sees more work than any joint of a mouse-pusher's body who oversees our work.

"They find a lot of mistakes in the manual they have never experienced behind the wheel," an operator said to me this week. "Their idea of a 'mistake' is something we see as a necessary tool, to offset the reality that could happen if we don't do it."

The biggest problem in Portland transit, and that of many other municipalities worldwide these days, is that "management" has no working knowledge of what happens on the streets. Their version of transit contrasts drastically with ours. They see our world as they believe it should be. Most have never driven a transit vehicle with the possibly-infected virus carriers breathing down their necks. Some passengers are self-entitled supervisors, telling the driver how to drive a route because they have "ridden transit for 30 years", and know better than the professional behind the wheel. 

* * * * *

My route these days was recently changed. There was no basis in fact for the rationale management described. Even the newest Line 33 operator would agree this route deviation is a horrible idea. It involves a dangerous turn where the former was not; added 30 seconds or more, rather than reducing run time; and negatively-affected an already devastated downtown business community.

Instead of rolling down a back street and avoiding a busy Main Street in Oregon City, the 33 now assaults it. Rather than having a stop sign and two-way intersection at Railroad and 7th, management decided we should be stopped for a ridiculously-long traffic signal. If a large vehicle needs to turn at that intersection while our bus is waiting for the light, it offers a logistical problem for both drivers.

The bus stop was placed at the corner where a struggling restaurant has placed outdoor seating.

Bus Passenger waiting at stop: "I'm sorry lady, that 7-11 burrito I ate for lunch is killing me. I'll try to keep my butt pointed away from your table. My apologies as well for stepping on your feet, but I really gotta catch this bus."

Saddest thing of all is, all management had to do was query bus operators if changing the route was a good idea. They would have heard a resounding NO. But hey, what do we know?



Sunday, November 29, 2020

Managing Bully Teens and Management Replacement


Deke's Note: All day today, for the first time in a while, I had a great desire to write for you. It was so overwhelming as to be annoying. What once was a vice is now a habit. Some have stopped reading over the past several months, but many of you still do. No matter how long I go, you still read. And that's precisely why I keep doing this. Thank you. I'm too pissed off to quit now.

Ahh, my Friday night. Although I enjoyed a Thanksgiving Day off in the middle of my week, it was still long and arduous. People are COVID weary. We all want it to "just disappear" as someone said earlier this year. It has not. In fact, it has grown with abandon. Perhaps because we have lost our collective will to do battle. I'm one of the most stubborn, stick-to-my-guns people you may ever meet. It is my goal to do whatever I can to keep everyone on my bus not only welcome, but safe. Concentration on guiding The Beast is my first goal. To smoothly and professionally guide my passengers safely to their destination is not just my job. It's something I am committed to personally as well.

Each job I have held, whether typographer or fruit picker, truck driver or journalist, I have striven for perfection. This isn't because of some misguided sense of superiority, but rather a personal commitment to be as good as anyone could possibly be. Maybe it's because my mother was so dedicated to ensure my most basic early success, then as my biggest supporter. I have a personal confidence that often falls short of my expectations. No matter what I attain, there's always a nagging voice propelling me further. So now, eight years into this job, every day is a challenge to improve at least one facet of professionalism which fails my sometimes-impossible standards.

Imagine my dismay this week when a young teenaged boy refused to turn his cellphone audio off. As usual when this happens, I keyed up the mic and implored the entire bus to "Please turn your device's audio OFF while riding on the bus. I truly appreciate it, and thank you." The first refusal is but a minor annoyance. After three such announcements, each a bit more insistent than the last, the white noise continued. I wasn't sure of the culprit, but it became evident it was the fare evading teenie child in the very back seat, because he was the only one who responded to my repeated requests.

"I can barley hear it myself, asshole. Just drive the fuckin' bus."

When he said this, I was already running hot, stopped to burn time. I shut the bus off. For emphasis.

Immediately, a half-dozen sighs of impatience were audible. I was tempted to fake a breakdown, but most of my passengers were fare-paid hard working folks who just wanted to go home. Even so, I had to insist transit code be followed. If I cannot concentrate, I cannot safely operate. White noise in the form of normal conversation is okay. Anything else is contraband. Everyone besides this recently-diaper-clad child realized the necessity to adhere to public bus etiquette by not assaulting others with noise nobody else cared to hear.

Whiny Witless complained he needed to be somewhere. I informed the entire passenger load that we could continue as soon as quiet was restored. Whiny boy threw a tantrum. I was afraid he would drop to the floor and thrash all four in his tirade. Some may believe this a fault of mine: insistence my authority be respected. You're correct. A power play, to be sure. I'm tired of the disrespect of a growing number of people who cannot be bothered to even say hello, as Shift Hour Nine is nigh and my customer service skills are as frayed as Granny's gray undies.

Management's constant support of ne'er-do-wells, while exhibiting a lack of such for those who do the jobs which make theirs possible, is enough to make George Orwell himself succumb to the pressure. Not me. If I can't concentrate, my smooth roll (both inner and professional) is too disturbed to continue. No matter how many times I counsel myself to "Just Drive", it's simply too much to ask. That, and the grating anger of being treated such by a non-paying/less-appreciative child, was enough to tip the scales. Not only do I fight for my brothers and sisters at the keyboard, I refuse to be bullied by a rude crybaby who needs someone to spank his spoiled ass.

Finally, the noise stopped. Immediately, I fired The Beast up and rolled back into service. Dispatch had called me, and I described the situation. My orders were to roll once peace was restored. If it wasn't, then I was to call again and await further instruction.

I desperately wished we were back in a day when I would have been commended for marching to the back of the bus and confronting the child for his horrid behavior. Today, that could land me in jail. Judging by a long history of mankind's abuse of children, I understand that is no longer acceptable. But someone needs to spank this brat. Nothing more, mind you. He just needs a few taps on the behind to remind him respect of his elders is not only necessary, but expected. We have lost our ability as a society to properly instruct children of their upcoming place in this world. While it is greater than it was 50 years ago, there's still a necessity for them to demonstrate proper behavior in public. Each spanking my parents gave me long ago is still remembered, along with the lesson involved. It was not abuse, it was instruction I'll never forget. I was never punished in this manner by anyone but my parents, but the mere hint of disrespect to an elder resulted in a phone conversation with them to result in a punishment I did not want to fathom.

* * * * *

This incident is only one of a growing list of indecencies inflicted upon ATU members worldwide. If not insolent children, it's from adults who act as such. This growing number of insulting incidents has one cause: management borne of Corporata, rather than from within a treasure trove of experience.

For over 100 years, union members have provided exemplary transit service to our communities. Once upon a time, workers rose through the ranks to lead those they once served with. There was mutual respect, and problems were ironed out through respectful debate and reasoned resolution. Now, management is governed by a growing number of corporate nobodies who have no idea what their mistreated prisoners deal with. Those with practical experience are replaced by those with none. Unless our "leadership" have driven a city bus in service, we have no reason to respect their unrealistic "customer servicey" bullshit. They have never been spit upon, punched, threatened with guns or knives or physical violence in their post-graduate experience. White-collar failures have no place in the blue-collar world. Instead, they "work from home during a pandemic" and depend upon pie-in-the-sky corporate bullshit which has no place in real-world transit.

I want to be General Manager. In three years, WE would (once again) become family. My office would be in The Fishbowl at Center Garage. Operations would be restored to The Respected. Mechanics would once again have that time-proven Apprenticeship Program to pull Union trainees from. Troublemakers would be excluded from transit, frontline workers would be regarded as heroes. Complaints would be investigated and fully-vetted before even reaching the accused. End-of-route facilities would be improved. Frontline workers would be the focus, rather than the blame. Instead of a discipline-first reality, ours would become respect-first, discipline last resort.

"The only good employee is a scared one," Laird Cusack, current head of "Human Relations" is quoted as telling ATU757 President Shirley Block.

"The greatest employee is the valued one," future GM Deke N. Blue says.

This is not a pipe dream. It's entirely possible. As a confident 17-year-old, I walked into a collegiate Journalism Department a respectful incoming freshman. I walked out of there as a two-year Editor of their student newspaper, which won more awards than any before, or since. I still have the desire, the dedication and the drive to do my best in every job I've ever held. It's time for my last job rolling into retirement with the same BANG I began with. Don't ever doubt me... I would not fail you.

Deke for GM. I'm currently writing my platform for totally reforming Rose City Transit, as it should be renamed. I encourage you to start the movement and hashtag it #Deke4GM. Just listen to this tune; it's my theme song. And stay tuned...


Wednesday, November 25, 2020

We Autumn Leaves


Although we all suffer from pandemic exhaustion, I am thankful for many things. Mostly people. My family for starters, but also friends and fellow transit workers across the globe. YOU are the wires which hold me up whenever "it" seems too heavy a burden. There have been times when one of them has broken, or frayed, but whenever this happens, another pops out of nowhere and refuses to let me drop.

I am thankful for this beautiful home we now occupy. Millions sleep in tents or worse, with nowhere to wash their hands or even use a toilet. Although I have worked hard all my life and was even homeless myself for a short time long ago, whenever I feel low it is this reality which boosts me back again. We can all list precisely our failures. It is okay to celebrate the victories without need to feel guilt at having attained them. Some revel in their bank balances to gauge success, others some accolade attained through diligence and competence. My success is to have met thousands of people who constantly teach me patience, respect and honor.

As I approach Thanksgiving and Christmas, I am simply thankful to be alive. It's likely all who read this can agree, given the complexities, anguish and fear this year has spawned. Although I have harpooned our management for its many misgivings, I still have a great job which I'm fairly competent in doing. My writing is read by more people than I could have ever hoped... even management. There are wonderful people in this city who remind me on occasion that my efforts, even "bravery" as a few have put it, make a difference. In their lives. And that, most truly, makes up for the countless slights, threats, indignities and indecent acts thrust upon me the past year.


Whenever I think times are tough, I am reminded around many a curve that many others have it much worse. This pandemic has spared no group. Its vicious efficiency as a murderer is not to be taken lightly. It is without a doubt the most dangerous threat of our age. Yet humans have proven countless times to be vigorously successful defenders of our species.

Americans must unite, as in times past, in order to rid ourselves of this pandemic. Plague. "Rona" or whatever you want to call it, is ruthless. We must be more so. In our 244 years we have gained independence from a powerful monarchy, survived a horrific Civil War and countless others. Two of these wars have been worldwide struggles which we, along with our allies, won. As these battles raged, those at home pulled together to lend support to the cause. Today, we are regarded by many as weak, petty and foolish for not being able to collectively do the right thing. It is not a political virus, it is biological and will attack humans no matter our "beliefs" or assertions of individual "freedoms". With freedom comes responsibility. In order to lead, we must first set an example. We cannot expect respect solely due to past triumphs. Respect, like victory, must be constantly earned.

Once again, I'm left with the phrase "divide and conquer". Long a vital tool of the powerful, it has been devastatingly efficient. Give a massive number of individuals the seed of doubt and it grows into an untamed swamp which seemingly has no end. Replace that invasive plant with a series of those toxic to it, and the good eventually overcome the bad no matter how invasive.

We need to find the right seed, and see that it is planted within each of us. Even though individuality is as human as compassion, we are like leaves on a tree. Although separate, we are part of a branch which connects to another and ultimately to the trunk. We may be unique, but we also share what all the other leaves do: a community of one larger being. If one leaf becomes infected, the entire tree may die. In autumn, leaves turn color and fall back into the earth, fertilizing the tree and ensuring it lives longer so other leaves may also bask in the sunshine of spring and summer.

It is my wish that you all come together, learn to ensure the health of others while preserving your own. With any luck, our next spring will dawn brighter than that of 2020. 

Happy Thanksgiving, and many more to you and yours.


With love and respect, 

Deke

Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Sunday, November 15, 2020

COVID and Me and Management





Deke's Note: R-E-S-P-E-C-T. It's expensive, but we have earned it. Inch by rubber-meets-the-road inch, mile by insulting milepost. But our "leadership" has weakly voiced it while knocking us down behind the scenes where the public cannot see. Here is how.

Head of "Human Relations", a vague term which is corporate-speak for "keep 'em down", has told our union president that "scared employees are the best kind". He backs this up by putting forth a contract that takes away decades of hard-fought victories while indicting and convicting US of silly and usually-false charges by a public that is codified, pampered and believed over his own workforce. He is also quoted as saying "public employees don't deserve" retirement security. Even those who devote their entire lives to serving in a body-killing job.

Transit workers everywhere are victim to a corporate takeover of transit. Rarely do you find someone in upper management who has actually operated a city bus in service. They just don't get it. This job is dependent upon our being shepherds of the public's safety, which we do admirably. Those above us have not earned their positions through the blood and sweat we shed each day in poorly-designed seats with little time between runs to stretch, eat or pee. 

Now we're supposed to roll with windows closed. Management insists we are safe because the HVAC filters are changed every 6,000 miles. I did some math today regarding this figure. Given each bus rolls approximately 250 miles a day (conservatively), that's once every THREE months. That leaves a LOT of potential for this deadly virus to pass through dirty filters.

I refuse to leave my windows shut, and loudly protest a passenger walking onto my ride who begins shutting windows. Yeah, it's cold and wet outside. It's a lot warmer and drier inside my bus even with half the windows OPEN. Get used to it, Portland. It's about to get even wetter and colder, but MY office windows will remain open to keep the air flowing in and OUT. Even if the filters were changed each week, I'd still choose airflow over stagnation any day. Given management's lackluster efforts regarding clean air on transit (especially on light rail vehicles, in which open windows are not an option), I'll take my chances and wear a freakin' sweater. Buck up, buttercups... I refuse to budge on this issue.

Our riding public only sees (if they even look at us upon entering our rolling office) a body in the seat. Many appreciate us and at least say hello, but even more refuse to raise their eyes in the slightest of greetings. When someone acts up on our ride, they behave as if they're the boss and we have "no right" to correct their errant behaviors. A quick call to "Customer Service", which these days ought to be renamed "The Whine Line" gives them immediate power to make our lives miserable. Complaints should be screened for truth, the caller's identification recorded, before ANY of them make the trip down the line to our inbox. Instead, this system is so poorly-managed that many operators receive complaints for work they were not operating within. Even easily-disproven lies make their way into our personnel files and are never erased. 

Put a news camera in front of our management's "leadership team" when the weather is bad, and they'll sing our praises. Meanwhile, they're busily thrusting a knife deep into our souls with ridiculous, morale-assassinating discipline. Still, we show up for work. It could snow a foot overnight, but your transit operator makes it in even if they have to cut their rest hours short to ensure they arrive on time. One second late results in an "oversleep", one of transit's most egregious faults, a most-embarrassing transgression we're rarely guilty of. We're proud of our record of showing up no matter what disaster descends upon the city we serve, while the glorified few sit cozily by their warm hearths, "working from home today due to (whatever conditions WE brave)".

During the heights of this pandemic, our "leadership" has hidden from view, afraid to venture into the hellish storm of viral nightmares we endure each minute in uniform. A uniform, I must mention, that far surpasses ridiculousness in its elemental inadequacy. We toil in clothing that is dark in color, dour in appearance, and utterly less-than-respectful of our position in Working America. The latest form of disrespect is an edict which insists our SHOES be black ONLY, able to be SHINED. Only the military, police and fire have more strict uniform policy than transit's frontline workers. You would think our comfort would reign paramount in a profession that saps the strength out of the heartiest souls, but "leadership" would rather have control than ensure our comfort. It's ridiculousness at the utmost, which is about the ONLY thing management does well. Oh yeah, other than not offering us financial recompense for our heroic efforts they trumpet.

Once again, I say PUT TRANSIT OPERATORS FIRST! Hire someone for General Manager who has parked a bus in the yard after a 10-12 hour shift, slumping under the weight of all one must carry back to the garage. Tired, often dejected after being insulted, threatened, attacked and/or assaulted with no "leadership" backing us up afterward. All we can look forward to is the smile on our similarly-beleaguered Station Agent's face, and their genuine thanks for another job well done. Shit trickles only downhill, and I wonder how much of it my fellow SA's take from their higher-ups. Thankfully, they do their best to see it doesn't roll off of them onto our already-stained uniformed bodies at the end of the line.

We have allowed this to happen. We don't storm the "Bored" of Directors meetings demanding they wake up from their power-induced snooze. Over half our membership can't even be bothered to vote in union elections, let alone come together to send a selfie to union stewards asking for participation in an International-led drive to shame "leadership" back to the negotiation table to eke out a fair contract.

I have made nearly 50 calls to local members pleading with them to join me and others in signing a petition to call "leadership" (I use that term in quotes because of the irony in this term) to its failure to bargain in "good faith", given all the hardships we have endured in serving so proudly the transit agency it is supposed to shepherd in equitable fashion. Many with whom I have a relationship have responded immediately; others have yet to call back. If we fail to fight the monster, it wins. I'm not one who gives up easily, and will likely call another 10-20 this weekend. I refuse to lay down to the monster that has enveloped our professional reality, and I cannot accept apathy from anyone. We have too much to lose, and management acts as if it has already won.

ATU International has stepped in to force TriMess back to the negotiation table rather than have our stalled contract talks settled by a state-appointed arbitrator. TriMeth has stubbornly refused to budge from its ridiculously-insulting stance, much like a meth user who refuses to abide by transit code on a vehicle. It's pathetic how they treat us, and get away with it. In my less-than-humble opinion, the whole lot should be shit-canned so hard they land with a resonating THUMP in the city sewer. Replace them with a team of dedicated professionals who have spent tens of thousands of hours in the seat, who KNOW what it takes to make the wheels roll.

Given the opportunity to serve Portland as transit's General Manager, I would turn the whole thing on its head and shake vigorously for about a month. The crap at the top would fall, and those not-deserving-to-be-bottom-feeders would rise to take their place. We would revitalize the entire system. The passengers would feel more welcome, with troublemakers forever excluded rather than patronized and pampered. Operator facilities would blossom and morale would soar. Capital projects would be shelved until the system was revamped, remodeled and revitalized with the spirit Portland transit once boasted as the finest in the world. No longer would frontline workers feel disrespected; their every need would be amplified and their service glorified, rather than today's atmosphere of utter disrespect and disciplinary exhaustion.

My shoulder aches tonight after a grueling 650 miles in the seat this week. I keep trying to re-adjust my driving style to save whatever part of my body aches the most. In the past month, I have been threatened, abused, ignored and insulted. Still, I wish my riders well into the rainy Portland evening after rolling into another patented smooth Deke stop. I smile at them, compliment their Portlandesque individuality, and genuinely wish them well no matter their countenance. It's not my job... it's just who I am.

* * * * *

On a positive note, it was grand to roll into Downtown Portland last weekend to find a crowd of people dancing joyfully upon Pioneer Courthouse Square. I don't know or care how you voted, but thousands of folks happily demonstrating beats the hell out of the past six months of angry protests. We need to find a way back together again. I'm tired of the divisions, the acrimonious FaceBook arguments. It's time to find  common ground once more. I have friends on both sides of this central point I occupy. Each of you matter to me, especially when we agree to disagree. Life is better with friends who can debate and still laugh together.

* * * * *

We have had the roughest, most sad year of my life. In 60 years, not even the Vietnam protests, Watts riots, 1960s assassinations, economic ups and downs, or natural disasters have topped 2020's horrific wake. It will be written about for decades as being a turning point in world history. How many more must die from a tiny virus before people take it seriously? I've watched videos of people succumb from this miniscule killer, begging us to take precautions. 

Still, the most stubborn say it's their "right" not to protect themselves, or others, from falling victim to the biggest threat since the Spanish Flu of 1918. Have we learned NOTHING from history? Viruses are not political, they are simply biological. Like your heartbeat, breathing, your very being on this plane. Will you fly away from those who love you because you're too stubborn to take precautions? Will you kill your beloved family members in refusal of a worldwide threat? I hope not.

I drive a bus. Thousands of people, some who might have this virus within them, walk and breathe in my space every year. I wear a mask not just to protect myself, but you as well. If I have it, my soul could not bear passing it to you, no matter your political persuasion. I have love enough to share with millions. If I die of COVID, it matters not. If you did because of me, my soul could never rest in peace.

Be safe, be well, be vigilant. I promise the same.


Saturday, October 31, 2020

A Pandemic Tale from March 2020

Deke's Note: I wrote this short story in March, just as COVID-19 was making its ugly head visible. Standing at Powell and Milwaukie waiting for my bus, the intersection was eerily silent; it shook me to the core of my being. Just then, this story rolled through me. I had no idea how prophetic it might be, but it had to be written. So I wrote it. Then, it went through countless edits before I surrendered the art to its final form. I'm submitting it to short story contests in hope it's worth a damn. Hope you enjoy it, even though it might evoke fears borne over the past nine months or so.

* * * * *

Anne didn’t know what led her to the bus stop that Monday morning. Habit, or desperation. The start of a new work week which would never be. Not like a few weeks before, anyway.


Her hose was torn, but the rest of her ensemble was semi-fresh, even though the electricity had shut off two nights earlier during the washer’s rinse cycle. In the span of five days, life had died. Anne didn’t know if her firm was still operating. Death and doom bloomed in the darkness of crepe and grey, but her soul implored her to continue.

But everything had. There was no debate, the facts frozen within her. She just could not accept it.
A week earlier, a rare Silver Thaw blizzard greeted her morning roll. To work. That daily trek to do another’s bidding. For beans, not quite cooked. Anne flashed her pass, pivoting her eyes from the bus driver. No contact desired; no notice of that annoying smile “Gene the too-happy bus driver” beamed her way.

He’s just a bus driver, she thought. Just drive. It’s too damn early to be smiling. She sat next to a curdled Bud Light, having no other choice. Anne had been fondled many times by people who used the roll of a turn to assault her.

Just inches away, Bud’s poster boy was snoozing it off. His week-old stubble poked holes in last decade’s Aerosmith T-shirt, half-pulled over his head so his ample belly assaulted her vision. He snored as the perfectly-dressed legal secretary sat next to him, wearing expensive lavender perfume.

Good thing he’s out of it, she thought, one less pig I’ll have to brush off. Good grief how he reeks!

There was an abnormal amount of coughing and sneezing, but Anne didn’t hear over headphones blasting her favorite Tedeschi Trucks tune. Sweet and Low helped prep her for the onslaught of attorneys demanding perfection. She dreamed of a masculine lover when she needed it most, but was resigned this was but another moist dream.

Anne raised her nose in a condescending snort. Perhaps her father was right, a law degree would elevate her from bottom-feeder hell to the greatness he affirmed she could attain.

“With just a bit of work,” he told her, “you’ll be on top of that heap of nobodies.” Like Gene, the bus driver. She snorted. God help her if he was the definition of “success”.

Gene was annoyingly chipper. Anne considered him unskilled labor, yet his repartee was superb. He always extended her warm greetings each morning, which she routinely ignored but secretly enjoyed. Few mentioned her mahogany hair, pulled into a chignon or ribbon-tied classic pull back. Without being smarmy, he mentioned her immaculate and stylish attire. Curiously, he smiled at her half-moon jewelry. Her side of the moon was left; Daddy wore the right.

To Anne, this was a ploy bent upon catching her attention. Why would a 60-something believe he had any chance with a 23-year-old legal professional? Ha! The very thought of it. Even so, she secretly admired Gene while grooving to her iPhone.

Gene smiled and complimented every passenger who boarded. He knew many. They responded warmly. He acknowledged everyone who boarded, regardless of response. A grandmotherly-type kissed him on his cheek as he spread his arms in greeting. Her husband followed, handing Gene his favorite daily brew. 
Disgusting; unbecoming a gentleman. Anne scoffed at each display of affection. She marveled at how Gene had a kind word for everyone who boarded. Jealous of his ability to relate? She sniffed in disgust, angry at this likely truth. Still, after years witnessing these encounters, she grudgingly began to accept his kindness.

Finally one morning at 6th Avenue and Alder, she exited via the front door.

“Thank you,” she said with a half-smile. Gene was startled, but his grin was true. It was the first time she had spoken to him, and he had been driving this route for two years.

“No,” he replied, “thank you! And don’t forget to sing. Hope you accomplish something memorable today!” He winked at her and flashed his trademark smile.

Anne stopped in her tracks, astounded. She had planned to disarm his supposed fake charm. Catching it open, her mouth clamped into a tight grimace. She nodded curtly and stepped onto the awaiting bricks.
How could he know she loved to sing? Since childhood, she had cultivated a her alto-soprano voice over thousands of hours of practice. Diligently working her way up through the St. Paul’s Youth Choir to become lead soprano at 15, she had hoped to solo instead of suffering underneath the Great Teresa Armas of the Portland Opera. Anne didn’t realize she sang along to her iTunes on the bus, or that anyone may have heard her.

Gene heard everything on his bus. He politely asked people to silence their cellphones several times a shift. Harmoniously attuned to the mechanical sounds of his rolling office, he needed to hear street noises, passenger dilemmas or any other sounds related to safe operation of his vehicle. He marveled hearing the winsome lass singing along to her music. Gene’s father had been a gifted tenor; he knew vocal excellence. Anne’s ability to effortlessly shift octaves tickled his auditory ecstasy.

His aloof young passenger was actually the niece of someone he had known for years. Anne’s Uncle Dan was Gene's drinking partner at Kell's Pub who also regularly rode his route. 

“She’s always been a cute lil’ songbird,” Dan told him. “Since she was about three or so.’Lil Annie (that’s what I call her even she hates it now), has sung her way along. It’s always been hard for her to have conversations because she’d rather sing to herself. I don’t know how she suffers those lawyer assholes. Must drive her absolutely ratshit. Only person she actually talks to is her papa. They’re inseparable, those two.” 

Gene immediately made the connection. Dan’s description of his early-morning passenger confirmed it was the lovely lass who softly sang her tunes into his daily routine.

From that point, Gene was determined to crack Anne’s hard shell. This day, a cruel moment in time intervened. 

* * * * *

Gene walked into a mostly-silent garage. The Station Agent was surprised to see him. 

“Gene!” Alvin shouted in joy at seeing the veteran operator. “You’re a welcome sight! Wassup?”

“Alvin, you young stud pup,” he said, gratefully shaking his friend’s hand. He and Alvin were classmates, rising together through years of the gradual corporate takeover of transit. “God, it’s good to see you, lad. How’s the family?”

Alvin bowed his head, but immediately looked back up. “Better than most. Lost Mom and Dad a few weeks back, but the wife and kids are still healthy, thank God.”

“That’s wonderful news, in spite of your folks’ passing,” Gene said. He bowed his head to hide the tears which came in remembrance to everyone who had died amongst them in such a short few weeks.

“Your parents were very dear to me,” he said in reverence. “They were both my Line Trainers." He paused respectfully. "Their lessons will remain with me. My condolences to you, brother.”

Alvin smiled, a tear sliding down his cheek. Neither wanted to see the other’s pain. 

“Seems we fared better than most,” Gene said, searching for anything good in a tearful river of terror. 

Alvin sniffed, wiping his eyes with his fingers. “Yeah, but we’re not alone. Al Beneloga 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 257 call-ins and the other garages are about the same. Forty-three operators died over the past 36 hours. We might salvage a few hundred ops out of all this. But the calls… they’re so damn sad. Wives, children... calling in to report...”

At this, Alvin choked. Tears poured from his eyes. He was unable to speak. He turned away and walked back to snatch a tissue from a hidden alcove behind the counter. Too many lives lost, those he dealt with daily, many of them well known and cherished. He was overwhelmed with grief.

Both silently contemplated their shared reality. Almost 1,250 of their co-workers had perished. The grief was too heavy for either to comprehend. Of the Portland metropolitan area encompassing 2.5 million souls, only 142,552 remained. Stores had been ransacked, food supplies were virtually exhausted. Trash remained uncollected, the wind flitting it about amongst the few vehicles venturing out into a world punctuated with automatic rifle fire between groups of militia wannabes. Survivors locked themselves in their homes. Neighborhoods consolidated whatever stores they had to form collectives. 

Still, transit survived. Buses rolled along empty streets. Through this devastating pandemic, a few dedicated souls rolled wheels. Every department was down to just a few souls, but they remained dedicated to what was "normal". They didn’t know if they would be paid, or how. Banks were closed; there was no longer an economy. Still, a few people felt it necessary to go places, even if there was nobody to serve them at whatever destinations they sought.

“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.

“Nobody needs to pay now,” Gene said. “I haven’t accepted fare for two months.”

“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.

“Fuck him,” Gene said, laughing. “What’s he gonna do, fire me?”

Alvin chuckled. “He might try, but I say we both kick his ass.”

Gene smiled, and slapped Alvin’s five.

“Hey bud, you all set for food?” Gene asked. “I just shot a deer on my street a few days ago, so my freezer’s stocked. Until the electricity goes away.”

Alvin sighed. “We may have to take you up on that. Thanks. Where you holed up?”

“I just took possession of an old Victorian three blocks away,” he replied. “Had to bury the former occupants in the schoolyard, but I don’t think they mind. 1420 Center Street. Come over later, I’ll throw some steaks on the barbie. Got some potatoes and veggies from their garden too. It’ll be good to have some sense of normalcy. Say, around 6?”

“We’re there, bro,” Alvin replied. “Hey I found a whole shelf of Scotch at a liquor store. Want me to bring a bottle?”

“Bring three,” Gene chuckled. “We’ll put them to good use. We can always call in sick tomorrow.”
They both laughed.

“I don’t want a 4000-series bus,” Gene said, glancing at the run sheet. “Can I have a 3500? They’re a lot easier to drive and my back hurts like fuck.”

“Hey bro,” Alvin sighed, “but 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.”

“Oh well,” Gene said, “this may be the last week I have to do this anyway. Guess I can suffer through another shift in those new shit buckets.”

“Be safe out there man,” Alvin said. “Lots of gunshots out on Powell lately. We’re on 135th and I can’t sleep well at night because of the mayhem out there. Even my 11-year-old sleeps with a loaded 12-gauge by his bed.”

“I hear ya, bud. Why don’t you move closer in? There’s a whole shitload of empty homes in the Brooklyn ’hood you could take over. Safety in numbers, eh? It would be a lot closer commute anyway.”

“Good idea, bud. But you’d better get out to your bus,” Alvin said with mock severity. It’s way past 902’s pull out time and you know how Norm wants to see On-Time Performance stats at optimum levels.”

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.”

“Have a full Thermos to go,” Alvin said, swinging open the door separating the bullpen from his previously restricted area. “Just be sure to brew another pot for me.”

“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 heterosexual norms allowed. They separated without looking at each other. Their love for one another thusly stated, nothing more was necessary.

Gene poured the entire pot’s content into his Thermos, then set another pot brewing. Sliding the steaming cauldron of caffeine into his backpack, he strode out the door.

Ten minutes later, he guided his bus out of the yard, onto 17th Avenue and the Center Garage stop, where he paused to steel himself. Then, he eased the bus northbound. He didn't even look for traffic; there was none.

* * * * *

Waiting for Gene’s bus, Anne dreamily re-living a moment with her parents from just a few months earlier. It seemed years ago. Now, today, Gene was the only person she desperately wanted to see. Everyone else was dead.

Daddy! No, no no no no! Please let this be a nightmare! I want to WAKE UP!!! PLEASE GOD LET ME WAKE UP! DADDY!?! Why aren’t you answering me? FUCK FUCK FUCK!!! PLEASE… make it ALL… just… go away.

The too-fresh set of facts sent her into spasms of grief. She collapsed onto the sidewalk. Grunting sobs, fist-clenching cries exploded out of one recently believed devoid of emotion. With nobody else to notice, she was free to mourn. For once, she needed someone to lean on. Gone was her self-sustaining snobbery. Also absent, her only support staff, Daddy.

Never having a boyfriend, Anne 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 sex. No thanks, she told them. It wasn’t some old-fashioned need to save her virginity. It was simple disinterest. None of the males she knew had the ability to excite her. They lacked true compassion or interest in her reality. She found them all boorish and unworthy of her tempestuous artist’s soul.

Now Anne wished one of those foolish boys had hit the mark, having survived to find her again during this awful week. She was horrifyingly, completely… alone. In the span of five days, she lost everyone, except one she had never accepted into that horribly-lonely circle.

Not only Dad, but Mom, Sis and her two brothers. Uncle Pete and Aunt Evelyn. Uncle Andy, Aunt Josie and their 10-year-old twins. Dead. Two of her only three friends also gone, the third she could not contact. It was one paralytic short week in which numbness became her constant companion.

The flu. A tiny virus had decimated the world’s population in less than two months. The bug hit Portland like a sledge-hammer in the form of a convention of holy-rollers. Not only did they light up the Convention Center with their devoted gyrations upon the promise of redemption, but had sent missionaries out to infect hundreds of unsuspecting Portlanders with the hyper-deadly King virus. Those infected returned home, and the bug’s unprecedented infection rate quickly became a worldwide and deadly mission. They dutifully knocked on doors, afresh with the holiness bestowed upon them, and infected everyone they met. Their dedication spread the virus so widely nobody knew the danger until the damage was already done. It spread across the globe like a wildfire consuming a midsummer desert. Only the strongest withstood its deadly grip. Most perished within a few days of contracting the King. 


Within the span of three weeks, humanity lost 90 percent of itself. Those who survived wished they had not been spared. Now, they quickly devolved to prehistoric existence. Hunting game, learning to field dress it like their long-distant ancestors, finding wild tubers, vegetables and herbs to help them fend off starvation.

Engineered in hidden laboratories, King escaped upon the simple accident of a broken test tube. Immediately infected, lab techs dismissed the unmarked vial as insignificant. They instructed it be cleaned up by those ill-suited to do so. Ten people took the virus home, long before anyone realized the pending devastation. While one-tenth of the world’s human population survived, the animals began to flourish. Humanity’s death-grip of pollution subsided. The Earth began to heal itself after 200 years of abuse. With money losing all value humans became violently equal. Those who could, survived. Others were murdered for as little as a stash of Lays Potato Chips or month-old hamburger. Gunfire became a signal to find shelter.

Governments were caught unaware and downplayed the virus. Within three days, their leaders became violently ill and died. Only those who unknowingly harbored a simple variation in human DNA were immune. These survivors simply began searching for food and water. They found the best shelter and buried those who had died.

There was no news. No internet activity, no radio, or any other normal means of communication. In some areas, a few had been able to raise voices through the Citizens Band. Sometimes people united only to find each other retaining bitter political divides. Many of these encounters resulted in murder. America decreased its numbers by another 40 million in two weeks of civil war. In Portlandia, it fell to a point where either side gave up any hope of superiority and just... stopped. Meanwhile, people across the globe concentrated upon their collective survival. 

* * * * *

Anne found it impossible to accept reality. She believed it was just a lucid nightmare. Her normally-dismissive behavior toward others was typical amongst her generation, but now everything she knew had become horribly obsolete. She wasn’t ready to be someone her brain hadn’t yet wired itself to achieve: responsible for those weaker than she.

Children roamed the streets in search of someone to mother them. Anne was so consumed by her own grief she felt guilt in her lack of consolation for even the tiniest survivor. These starving cherubs cried from one stunned adult to the next, begging to be picked up, comforted and fed. Only the eldest among them, having already suffered numerous tragedies of their own, had the empathy to care for those comprising the species’ future.


* * * * *

On Monday morning, Anne arrived at her bus stop. It was comforting in its ritual. She rose at 6:00 as her cell phone chime dinged. Allowing herself one blissful snooze setting, Anne’s dream continued. Dad tugging at her hand, urging her forward as she marveled the scent of spring blooms at Washington Park’s International Rose Test Garden. Mom laughing at Daddy’s corny jokes, the sun shining brightly off the 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’s glow, turning pink in a precursor of her evolving into the bronze beauty she became. 

Bleepity-ring-a-doom-bitty-do, her phone blared. The snooze alarm slashed through the clouds, imploring Anne to rise into the depths of today’s fresh despair. Hands moved to eyes, which immediately filled with tears as reality arose. She sobbed a full two minutes, mourning in agony. Those lost filled her mind with eyes squeezed shut against tears. Anne wasn't sure which to be more afraid of: her nightmares of a days-old comforting past, or the horrors of the now.

Grabbing a tissue off the bedside table, she blew her nose and sat up. Senses clearing, she decided this nightmare required a brave face. Daddy would have insisted.

Anne rose and showered. Applied light makeup. She chose a bright-yellow blouse to accent a sky-blue skirt, with a light-green tartan Scottish cashmere scarf (purchased on her 18th birthday trip to Edinburgh with her father). To complete her ensemble, perhaps it was hysteria-induced eccentricity which led her to pick the red Converse high-tops with bright-orange laces.

So endowed, Anne exited, eyes glued to the sidewalk. Her normal quarter-mile trek to the bus stop began as it normally would, save that in her grief-induced haze, she realized her headphones still hung upon the bedside lamp. It didn’t matter. The silence was deafening enough without music to interrupt. 
Each step echoing between the mostly-empty homes along Rhine Street, she trudged toward Milwaukie Avenue and turned right. Instead of her normally-lazy catching Line 19 to the Line 9 stop at Powell/Milwaukie, she walked the few extra blocks. She didn’t know if the 9 was even running, but the early-morning sunshine felt good. All she could hear amidst the nightmare was birds chirping; a weird departure from the normal din of motorists honking at each other as they raced to the next red light, restaurant workers hauling trash to the street, or a freight train obnoxiously slowing and stopping across the Clinton crossing.

Silence assailed her senses as she arrived at Powell and Milwaukie’s bus stop. No conversations from hordes of coffee-sipping bus awaiting folks dreading another workday. Nothing. But. Birds. Every variety. Happily, annoyingly announcing the demise of humanity’s domination.

An empty Line 66 bus roared past as Anne awaited a clearing to cross Powell. It was the only vehicle in either direction, and she walked across the street against the light. Just one block ahead, the rail crossing blared a MAX train’s approach. A few moments later, she reached her stop, only to find that normally-busy intersection silent. Glancing up, she saw no traffic except a Coca-Cola delivery truck lumbering past, its driver lost in his own haze of grief with little to deliver, nowhere.

For three years, she had made the same trek each workday, leaving her flat punctually at 7:11 and arriving at the stop three minutes before Smiley Gene arrived. The soda truck was the only semblance of normalcy.
Where the hell was it going? Its very presence was disturbing, given the glaring absence of thousands who had recently depended on its service. She wondered if she asked the driver would he gladly hand over his entire stock of Diet Coke, given the futility of his delivery route? Instead, she just nodded at him as he drove by, and he returned the gesture in solemn solidarity.

Anne stood at the bus stop, hands clenched tightly at her waist. Hoping to hear the familiar hum of rush hour traffic. Instead, all she heard were seemingly thousands of birds. Chirping more annoyingly-happy than normal. Perhaps  celebrating the final hurrah of humanity’s self-destruction, leaving them to peacefully flit about in their daily search for sustenance. 

A light breeze ruffled the branches of the trees whose blossoms were busy blooming in the May sunshine. The beep of the pedestrian timers were painful reminders that most of humanity was gone.


Portland was dead, like most cities on the planet. The past week had claimed 250 million lives. Most of the bodies lay awaiting a burial many would never have. 

Anne collapsed to her knees and began to laugh. Then just as suddenly, tears flowed down her cheeks as she spiraled into hysterics.

Where’s Gene? She cried, praying out loud he was still alive, driving the bus as usual, even as this moment was as unusual as it could be. It was now 7:28:35, almost a full minute past his normal arrival time. Was he dead, like most of the city? She sobbed, begging God to deliver her last sense of normalcy to that unnaturally-abandoned street corner.

In serendipitous answer, she heard the hum of a diesel engine accelerating up the incline from the rail underpass at 17th Avenue. It was entirely too loud to be true. Anne glanced eastward to make sure her ears and eyes connected. Sure enough, a bus labored toward her, devoid of any accompanying traffic. Its overhead sign read “9 to Portland”. As it drew closer, she saw the small sign in the front window declaring it was indeed “902”.

Anne stared intently, trying to see if Gene was behind the wheel. She couldn’t tell… the operator was obscured by shadow. Anne waved frantically. Shading her eyes, she squinted in desperation. Was it Gene? If you're really there Lord, PLEASE let it be him!

The light turned green, and Anne darted into the street. She was intent upon ensuring the bus stopped. It didn’t matter if anyone occupied her office, or even if she could get in the door. She had to ride this bus at least one more time. Whatever human drove the bus, she needed to greet him or her. To thank them for being there, for their service in the reality they had also lost someone dear to them. To have another human to talk to after the weekend from hell, watching everyone she had ever loved fall into oblivion.
The morning’s early silence was dominated by the diesel engine’s slowing, air brakes hissing, as the 20-ton Gillig eased into the stop. 

Bus No. 3505 landed smoothly, but the doors didn’t open. Anne peeked through the windows, but the operator was looking down, facing left, his back to her. Finally, the bus door opened with an bracing hiss. To Anne’s ecstatic glee, Gene swung his barrier open and walked out, enveloping Anne in a deep, fatherly hug.

Tears dripped from his eyes. Neither having had any meaningful conversation, operator and passenger were equally comforted to see one another. A full minute ensued as they poured out their collective grief.
Gene had lost his beloved wife, two sons and daughter, an infant grandson, brother, sister and his sole nephew and three nieces, one great nephew and scores of cousins and friends, coworkers and passengers. He had run empty from Gresham Transit Center, only boarding two passengers along the way. Only one of them remained.

Gene’s grief was etched into that once-happy, smile-constant face. His sobs enveloped Anne’s slight frame. Her own grief seemed to pale in comparison to this man’s generous soul. He didn’t deserve such pain. Neither did she, but Anne felt genuinely sorry for him despite her own grief.

Enveloped by this bear of a man, Anne began to feel empathy 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 her such affection. Gene’s sobs echoed off the piano store walls across Powell Boulevard. He murmured into her ear how happy he was to see her. Alive.

They held each other close, sobbing in tandem. Each heave brought them closer. Time stood still as their tears formed a deepening pool below. Anne patted Gene’s back, soothing him, as he did her. Finally. For two days, she had hidden within a shroud of denial, stubbornly-clinging to her tough-girl charade. She was no longer alone; her rescuer reigned from the operator’s seat of a 20-ton bus. 

Gene calmed as Anne felt relief in his embrace. He allowed her tears to drench his immaculately-pressed uniform. He caressed her shoulders with one hand, held her head and massaged her scalp with the other, imploring her emotions to spill onto him as he unleashed his own.

The bus was empty save for an 82-year-old man who used a walker. Seated across from the operator's perch, Al watched Gene cradle the young lady who craved solace. Then the balance shifted and the young lass became the elder’s comforter. Their embrace transcended romance. It gave the old man relief that humanity remained amidst this horrid pandemic.

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 lass. He smiled wistfully at the sight.

The morning sun shone brightly upon only those three. Looking down at the sidewalk, Al felt lucky to have nobody left to grieve. He was 92, childless, an only son of parents gone decades ago. He had long since come to grips with loneliness. Surprised the pandemic had spared him, he was sad for those left behind. He believed his survival throughout this tragedy must have some purpose. Not knowing what it was, he knew only to allow events unfold as they must. He knew he could not guess their reality, but knew to simply accept what happened and freely offer himself to that cause.

Al shuffled up to Gene and Anne. He murmured soft words of consolation, placing his hands upon them. Both wrapped their free arm around him. Their sobbing stopped as he drew them close.

Two full minutes passed. Not a word spoken, each absorbed the love felt, remembered and lost. They embraced their shared humanity. Deep sighs ensued. At this point, they were one. Time stopped on that street corner. No cars or pedestrians passed. Only the birds sounded, and their song echoed off the deserted streets.

Anne broke the group hug to reach into her purse. She offered the two men a pack of tissues before taking one for herself. Each wiped their eyes and blew their noses, backs turned to one another in unnecessary embarrassment. As they turned back toward each other, each chuckled.

“Ah, now. We need not feel shame for shedding tears,” Al said. “Nobody but us here to see them.”

“At least we can share our grief,” Anne replied. “I’ve been so alone the past three days, I just showed up here hoping Gene would bring some normalcy to it all.”

Gene sighed. After a moment, he smiled.

There you are, lass” Al said softly. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

“Me too,” Anne said. Her voice brightened Gene’s face. His smile broadened.

“Oh,” Gene sighed, “how I have longed to hear your voice, Annie girl.”

Anne was shocked. “What did you say? That’s what Uncle Dan called me!” She looked up at Gene in awe, not understanding how he could possibly know…

Gene squatted down and gently cupped Anne’s chin in his left hand, lifting it until her eyes met his.
“Dan was my good friend for 22 years,” he said. “He bragged about your voice and determination. When I first saw you, I knew you to be the niece he so lovingly described. I’m truly grateful we connected, especially now. Annie, my dear, I now offer myself where Dan left off.”

Forgetting the agony of the moment, they both smiled. Gene wrapped a fatherly arm around her. Anne’s tears fell anew.

“I’m overjoyed to finally make your acquaintance,” he said. “But do you realize you’re forever stuck with me? Once bonded, I’m hopelessly devoted to my child-… er, I mean, friends. Yeah, you are young enough to be my own child. Still,” he stopped and brushed away a tear in remembrance of love departed. “I hope we can find solace in each other, given all we have lost.”


Anne rose and walked a few steps off, lighting a cigarette. She had tried to quit several times, but walking into a deserted Plaid Pantry a day earlier, she grabbed every carton and color of American Spirits she could cram into her backpack. What the fuck? I have no reason to quit now.


Puffing furiously while sobbing and coughing simultaneously, she absorbed Gene’s revelation. No wonder he had reached out to me! He already knew who I was!

She confronted Gene. “How long have you known who I am and failed to call me by name?”

Gene felt accosted, pained. He shrugged. He realized his lack of recognition was because she refused to acknowledge his existence. Stalling for an answer, he boarded the bus and killed the motor. “Transit can wait,” he thought aloud.

He pulled a paper towel out of the dispensary behind the driver's seat and blew his nose, wiping his eyes with the dry corner. Regaining his composure, he stepped off the bus.

“I tried to connect,” he said softly, “but you wouldn’t even look at me. I didn’t call you by name simply because I hoped to see your soul without using my sleeved ace. But you treated me with disdain, like many others I greeted cheerfully every morning.” He gestured aimlessly, emotions rendering him speechless. He shrugged, turning his back to her.

Anne listened, arms crossed at the waist. Her left hand dangled, smoke drifting upward, right index finger crooked against her mouth.

“I wasn’t going to push you, knowing my position required tact,” Gene said. “Years ago I decided my one goal in this job was to inspire people with simple acts of acknowledgement.

“I watched you grow from a gangly kid into a beautiful young lady. Alone yet lovely. What was I supposed to do? Beg? Sorry kid, I stop short of sacrificing my pride for your rudeness!”

Al backed up a step, then guided his walker back to the deserted shelter and sat down. He wanted no part of this spat. Pulling out his pipe, loaded and lit it. The shelter's sign said “NO SMOKING”. Its irony birthed Al's bitter chuckle.

Anne stood a few paces from Gene, staring down at her shoes. Al thought she looked guilty. Gene realized he had allowed his grief to manifest through anger, and felt ashamed. They sighed in unison.
Meanwhile, Al pondered humanity’s abrupt downfall, until a lone Honda sped through the red light at Powell, amplified muffler briefly assaulting the solitude.

Anne and Gene faced each other, identically stubborn. Arms crossed, both dealing with internal pain, searching for common ground. It was up to her, Anne realized, to make things right. She dropped her cigarette and twisted it dead. Gene had made daily attempts to engage her, and she had ignored him until this moment, when she needed him most. She felt suddenly stupid and selfish. Embarrassed, too.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed.

Gene lit a fresh smoke. “Maybe we should step aboard and toke up a joint.” He laughed at the irony.
Anne laughed in surprise while reaching into her purse. She lit a fresh one, inhaling deeply. “These fuckin’ things gonna kill us both.”

Gene chuckled. “Let ‘em try. We beat the hell outta the virus, didn’t we? The fuck a smoke gonna do to us now?”

Anne laughed again, feeling at ease for once. It felt liberating to smoke with someone 40 years her senior without being admonished for doing so. Still, she searched for the right thing to say. Gene beat her to it.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come down so hard on you. I found out from your neighbor how your whole family…” He stopped abruptly, choking back a sob as he saw his words' immediate impact on her.

Anne nodded, her tears returning. “They’re… all…” Unable to finish, she leaned her forehead into Gene’s shoulder. Cigarette smoldering, she quietly sobbed. She had not allowed herself to grieve. Until now. Gene wrapped his arms around her. Both their smokes fell to the ground as they embraced.

“I’m so… very… sorry for all your loved ones leaving you behind,” Gene told her. Alternately hugging and patting her back as if he burped an infant, he continued. “But hey, Annie girl, you’re not alone. I’m here, so is Al over there, and we’re in this shit show together. For better or worse, as they say in horrid matrimony.”

Anne sniffed, and Gene handed her his clean handkerchief plucked from his back pocket.

“How fucking noble you are,” Anne snorted.

“Yeah whatever,” Gene replied. “Just make sure you wash it before I get it back.”

Anne laughed, but again buried her head into his chest. She sobbed there for several minutes. In that time, a pack of teenaged survivors raced each other through the red light, glancing at the middle-aged man embracing an exquisitely-beautiful young lady.

* * * * *

Gene’s clock reminded him he was now 21 minutes late. He could care less. Passenger counts were down to about 1.5 percent of a normal week. He would likely arrive downtown five minutes early. It didn’t matter. Dispatch would likely call him back to the garage after another round trip. The district might give him full pay for the shift, which normally included three hours overtime.

Already exhausted, he dreamed of a good night’s sleep. Any shuteye lately featured galloping demons through pandemic horrors. 

“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 could sure use the company. Nothing untoward in my intentions, of course.”

Anne chuckled. She felt loved again, no longer alone. She melted closer into Gene's embrace. It was a welcome feeling, to be needed. She nodded silently into his chest, seeking a comfort she had only found in her father. Now, she felt safe in this kind bus driver’s embrace. It was more welcome than she could ever have imagined.

“Got room for another?” Al chimed in, rolling his walker up to them.

Gene smiled.”Of course, Al! I’ll even give you the ground floor master bedroom, complete with a full bath all your own. Dinner every night at six, unless I have to work over. Oh hell, who am I kidding. Work? Ba!”

“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.”

Gene laughed. “Um, only when I’m too lazy to cook. My buddy Alvin and a few other drivers are coming over at six tonight for a barbecue. It’s gonna be a fun party!”

“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 embrace after weeks living on the streets was more than he had prayed for.

“Deal,” Anne added, extending her hands to each. “I’ll stop by my place and bring whatever I can fit into my suitcase. I’m there. Believe me, that’s the best offer I’ve had all week!”

All three laughed, coming together once again to form a forever bond. Each was silently grateful for it.
“Great!” Gene said, clasping their hands in his own. His smile returned, bestowing a welcome happiness upon them all.

* * * * *

Gene left the bus there, quitting his now-nowhere job on the spot. Out of a now-misplaced formality, he called Dispatch to inform them. Juli, sounding resigned her ever-sweet manner, accepted his resignation with a note of sadness, being the only one of her team to have survived. Gene invited her to that evening’s barbecue, and she accepted. He could only offer cheer in a world devoid of happiness.

* * * * *

Brooklyn Neighborhood grew back to life with their combined enthusiasm. People moved into abandoned homes, adopting it as the “New Center of Portland”. Within a month, nearly every home had been claimed by survivors. Most had nobody left, and formed new friendships and loves. As months gave way to years, Brooklyn became the center for a growing nucleus of life where death could not overshadow humanit’s stubborn insistence to survive.

Anne was soon swept off her feet by Sam Green, cellist/pianist/vocalist who ambled into the neighborhood a few weeks after the trio made a home together. Anne shyly offered her voice, and their combined music filled a renewed Brooklyn neighborhood with merriment.

Al lived another five years, and was fondly remembered by the rejuvenated city.

Gene lived his remaining 37 years with great joy. A longtime writer, he documented the pandemic’s devastation and what transpired in its wake. He rambled around town, shooting deer and rabbits to sustain them. Sometimes he surprised a deer when he ventured into the western hills. Gene astounded the new community with a huge garden of vegetables and herbs he gladly shared. On his 101st birthday, he enjoyed a rowdy party with hundreds of people at least 50 years or more his junior, and drank every one of them under the table. He also enjoyed several fat joints of the weed he lovingly grew in his back yard.
Two weeks later, he lay in bed during his final moments, holding Anne's hand while tenderly consoling her, saying "I'm gonna join my beloved Stacey again and all is well, dear lass. I love you... keep... singing." With that, he passed.

At Gene’s funeral was broadcast to the world over the restored internet. Anne sang Gene's favorite tunes: James Taylor's "You Can Close Your Eyes” and Jimmy Buffet's "Banana Republic", ending the service with his favorite Lowell George tune, "Willin' ". Each of her songs was secretly recorded by her husband, and they all became #1 Best Sellers across the world. Her voice was widely-regarded as the finest of their time, and she eventually toured the globe as New America's premier vocalist.

Gene’s hundreds of friends recalled how he cared for many who had lost their way after the “Deadly ’20”. His infectious joviality infected all he met. They mourned his ability to inspire fun, his art of distilling fine whiskey from his own barley and barrels from local distilleries, and the many yard parties he hosted. These gatherings became a new standard in the reborn kindness defining 2050’s Stumptown.

* * * * *

Anne’s first son was named Gene, her second Albert, and her youngest she named after her father. Three daughters later (Anna, Michelle and Sara), she and Sam enjoyed 55 years together before they both died in their sleep the same day, holding hands in bed. Victims of healthy longevity, their offspring enjoyed an immunity from the latest virus, a gift of their parents' genetics. 

Portland emerged stronger than before. Its remaining population forged a spirit not previously practiced: togetherness, with nobody needing anything. This became an infection across the globe, and it spread like the planet slowly healed itself from humanity’s previous poisons.

It all stemmed from one bus operator who refused to kneel down to negativity, and treated all with respect and love, no matter their disposition toward him.

New Portland built a memorial to Gene the Friendly Bus Operator in the middle of Powell Boulevard and Milwaukie Avenue: his 12-foot sculpture with arms embracing a lovely lass named Anne. 

* * * * *

A few thousand years later, an alien spacecraft landed upon an overgrown spot on 6th Avenue. Towering pines had sprouted through the pavement. Except for the breeze sweeping down from the Columbia and Willamette Rivers, all the visitors could hear were the thousands of birds celebrating mankind’s demise.
After testing the atmosphere, the human-like beings alighted onto the mossy open space once known as Pioneer Courthouse Square. They marveled at the surrounding ivy-encrusted towers. Birds and animals freely roamed, unafraid of the visitors who gaped at the scene before them.

They came upon a relatively-untouched monument to the south, a statue of a nude female reaching toward the sky.

“What beings dwelled here?” one of them asked, incredulous at the sight. “Surely, some other species created this monument and these structural canyons. It seems to have been inhabited by many, surely long ago.”

Another replied, not specifically to the particular query. “Some species which valued monuments other than its own survival.”

“Truly,” the original speaker replied. Just then, a bird alighted on his shoulder. The being extended his arm and the bird, fascinated, hopped down the seven feet to its hand.

“Whatever it was which dominated here,” the first said, “I hope it appreciated these winged creatures. They are magnificent! Look how they rise!”

“Apparently,” the second said, “those who built this, failed to rise.”

Sadness BusBits

Deke's Note: After the fright, stress and flashbacks of the violent incident on my bus just over a week ago, I have ached to reach back ...