Respect the Reaper: He Drives A Bus

Deke's Note: A few small victories popped in here and there as I rolled through 550 miles and 56 hours of service driving my bus this week. It has been very difficult lately, as I've run into another wall (figuratively, of course) operators know all too well. The wall of negativity, which slams into us when we least expect it. 

I can be rolling along smoothly, gently guiding the bus into every service stop with a full load including standees, and it takes only ONE incident of glaring misbehavior to blast my serenity. Envision yourself farting while peeing... it interrupts the smooth flow.

As will sometimes happen, a passenger requested a stop and waited until I had taken all precautionary measures to check the right side mirror for anybody who might have snuck into my path seconds after I passed, gently easing The Beast to a smooth stop, and hitting the door handle.

"Sorry man," a male voice bellowed from the middle of the bus, "I rang it too early. My bad."

Okay, at least the guilty party owned up to it. I sighed and began the tedious task of merging back into traffic. This involves painstaking steps, including a mighty push on the brake pedal to release the door-brake interlock on the newest Gillig model (damn them for making it even harder to drive than ever before), clicking on the largely-ignored Yield light, and picking the right time to accelerate back onto the roadway. Just as I matched the speed of the long line of vehicles ahead during rush hour, I approached the next stop.

DING! The passenger, thinking I had read his mind, pulled the stop request cord just 25 yards prior to the stop. There's no way a bus operator with a full pax load can, or will for that matter, safely pull over without slamming on the brakes. I won't do that unless it's absolutely vital to save someone's life. For decades, this action is code for giving them the now-upcoming stop, further down the road. In other words, not my bad.

"HEY, YOU MISSED MY STOP!" the same voice bellowed.

"No," I replied, "YOU missed your stop. Sorry, but when you pull the cord as I'm about to pass your stop, you get the next one."

"I pulled it in time! STOP THE BUS!" Furry Tongue screamed at me.

"Sorry, but no," I firmly replied. We were rolling into truly treacherous territory at that time. That portion of my route is an ongoing construction zone for God knows how much longer. (Thank God I was able to find a better route for next signup, because spring and summer there are going to be hell as construction amps up with better weather.)

Furry began to berate me, threatening to call in on me and complain because he was too busy looking at his phone to properly alert me prior to his stop. (I personally don't care; he'll likely lie anyway, failing to own up to his part in the event.) This type of passenger thinks that just because he's ridden the bus as long as his driver license has been suspended, he knows my job better than I do. He's never driven anything larger than a beater Dodge, yet he believes I can safely stop a 20-ton bus on a flattened dime. Not gonna happen, Bucko. Spill Granny Walker because of your inattention? No way, José.

About 300 yards past his stop, Furry was still harassing me, insisting I let him off the bus with a turn lane to my right as I approached a busy intersection.

"Nope," I replied, "Not safe here. Next stop is just past this intersection."

The light turned green and I smoothly landed perhaps my 4,235th service stop of the week. He burst out the back door cursing me for making him haul his butt back toward where we had just been a minute earlier. Poor baby. I smiled at the thought of his light punishment, considering the fact he couldn't take responsibility for failure to properly request his stop. Hopefully, he learned his lesson and will pay closer attention next time.

* * * * *

Feeling a bit ornery one evening, I had some fun with a couple who boarded. A bit tipsy from a bit of late-night revelry at a nearby tavern, they both scowled at me as they clumsily stumbled aboard.

Fishing for his wallet and eating up an unnecessary minute of run-time, Freaky Beer Buddy finally fished out a fiver.

"Two adults, please."

"Sorry," I told him, "I had a couple of them on board, but they just got off."

Of course, I had already pressed "2" and "Adult" on the fare screen as soon as I saw the nickel bill, but I wanted to see his response. After over 40 hours seat-time in four days, I was growing increasingly bored from the drunken hordes who treat bus operators with disdain, as if we're their personal chauffeurs, expected to bow down to kiss their mud- and puke-splattered shoes for gracing us with their weaving presence. (Oh God, I hope this guy doesn't upchuck on my bus, I remember thinking.)

"Wha...?" he asked. Shaking my head, I pointed to the ticket printer where his passes awaited. He scowled at me, missing his first attempt to grab the tickets, then snatching them as if it was my fault he was so fucked up there were three printers weaving in and out to trick him out of finding the right one.

"Whatevah, ash... hold," he muttered as he stumbled into the first available seat. Of course, I waited until he was safely seated before moving the bus. Had he stumbled and bashed his sodden head on something, I surely would have been assessed a PA (preventable accident). And as usual, he wasn't worth the trouble of writing a report, even though I get paid extra for it.

* * * * *

Making some right-hand turns takes a bit more of the road than other motorists are willing to make room for. Bus operators wait for that magic moment in traffic when we have a split-second to make our long-awaited move.

One unusually-warm day, my driver side window open to take advantage of a nice breeze negating the stink of several Portland bums, I happened to look down upon a BMW driver scowling up at me. He had stopped when he realized I don't ask permission to swing my steering axle and front corner of the bus into the next lane to clear the unforgiving curb leaving a stop. He glared at me through our shared open windows.

"You goddamn bus drivers!" he yelled at me. "You take up too much room on the road!"

I glared back, in true hardened bus operator fashion. "Yeah?" I replied. "Not as much room as the 30-40 cars I take OFF the road!" Gesturing backward at the full load of passengers on my bus, I eye-rolled the bastard.

* * * * *

One last note, a question, or perhaps a statement not needing a reply. I actually know the answer, but this mind fart randomly popped into my head as I rolled into a late-winter sunset during a very tough run that totally blew my photographer's mind.

Is the plural of 'paradox' paradise? One glimpse into my passenger mirror offered a myriad of answers.