My Vacation!

Empty streets in Downtown Portland are surely
to roll into the annals of history as
the fear lifts. I hope to never see them
like this again in our lifetime.

Deke's Note: I'm not sure which feels better: my first earned vacation as a bus operator after over a year of service, or this one after nearly eight years.

As the pandemic began, I forced myself into self-quarantine because my son had been exposed to a positive carrier of the virus. It was a new and daunting time for us all. I didn't know enough about it, but what I did know scared the hell out of me. We didn't know if our son would test positive, having already infected us both. Luckily for us, he's very studious and cognizant of the dangers it posed. I've never liked searching news stories.

Instead, I was afraid. Not for myself, but for my loved ones, co-workers and passengers. So, I stayed home for two weeks and ended up 31 hours short on my next paycheck. Given it was early in the pandemic, I'm not sure my voluntary self-quarantine would be covered. Evidently, it was not. No biggie, our stimulus checks came the same day as my short paycheck. We paid our bills and I was soon back at work. It was only then the real worries actually began.

For eight weeks I have rolled the wheels of transit. Each week, there has been a new edict passed down from management as to how we are supposed to deal with transit life during the Governor's Stay at Home Order. The fare boxes were covered over pretty much right away, as cash has the potential of carrying all sorts of little buggers, especially this one which could ultimately kill us and those who count the cash after each service day. Understandable. However, it gave the con artists more of a license to steal. And that they have, ever since we stopped accepting cash for fare.

As the numbers grew nationwide, Oregon's remained relatively low. Even as our neighbors to the north in Washington saw their stats soar like the eagles on Whidbey Island and California dealt with frightening numbers as well. New York City began reporting a new transit worker's death each day. Portland transit workers kept showing up for work, even though we too worried about what our transit management's weak handle on controlling passenger behavior deteriorated even further than it has the past decade.

When you deal with vast swaths of the public, you are vulnerable to whatever virus or bacterium which slithers past the front doors, remains on your bus for any length of time, and remains onboard the remainder of your shift. I had heard, before the pandemic, that my buddy Robert at bustropical.org works for an agency that regularly cleans its vehicles mid-shift and wondered why our transit management had failed to recognize this.

Then, I remembered that our General Manager didn't even know that a Jacksonville, Florida operator had been murdered in-the-seat the same year he was hired here. Throat slit with a knife by a crazy motherfucker. No wonder, I grimly realized, if he didn't even know about the dangers operators and other transit workers face on the job in other places why would he even be qualified to consider the dangers we face here? That's what happens when a lethargic Bored (sic on purpose) of Directors is too lazy (or instructed "from above") to set realistic guidelines when searching for the ONE who could truly turn its once-top notch agency around. 

Yeah, I've covered all that before. You want a responsibly-administered transit district? Hire someone who has driven a freakin' bus before. Otherwise, you're stuck with another corporate hack who doesn't appreciate the "lugnuts of transit" (thanks, and RIP Thomas Dunn).

The last week before a vacation is one in which an operator must be hyper-vigilant. We cannot look too forward to our looming weeklong freedom, or some danger might bite us on the wrong cheek, leaving someone else bloody or worse. All week I focused on the task at hand: safely delivering my passengers to their destinations. Most wore masks, and only a handful refused to wear a face mask. Not in the mood to argue, I just pushed the required message into my screen and rolled on. My Beloved's homemade mask rubber-banded to my raw-rubbed ears kept my passengers safe from whatever contaminated micro-particles I may have shared with them. I could not be bothered by worry; to participate in fear only breeds an unhealthy hysteria which further adds to the stress already unwittingly shoved onto my shoulders. We're just numbers, ya know. We're expected to do our jobs with ever-changing edicts thrust upon us. All the while, we're supposed to feel "appreciated" by shallow words and backroom deals which further weaken our status as fearless public servants.

Finally, my Friday night deadhead back to the garage beckoned. I felt slightly elated, but having driven this 20-ton beast for nearly eight years and 250,000 miles now, nothing is certain. Even when you stop-and-lock in the yard, you still have the responsibility of parking correctly. Sometimes, the spotter has no choice but to have you place your vehicle at the back of a track. If your rear door-side encroaches on the adjacent track, you could be at fault if another vehicle impacts yours. When faced with this, I'm diligent in making sure my bus is correctly parked even if it means I have to back it up and re-position before logging off.

As I set the brake, threw the tranny into Nite-Nite Neutral and shut the Beast down, only then did I sigh in relief. In years prior, I would take this moment to wolf-howl into the darkened yard that it was "VACATION, BABY!" This time, I just sighed. My shoulders slumped. The exhaustion of COVID-19 weeks of stress escaped into the now-fresh air I breathed when the front door opened for the final time. Sitting there an extra few moments, I wearily contemplated my new-found freedom. It's a shallow victory, given I'll be back there again before I know it. Even so, I took those extra seconds to revel in the fact that I had once again made it back safely. Nine days of freedom. Two regular days off, plus five days of vacation, then two more RDO's. I was finally free.

When I awoke today, I frantically noticed the time was much later than I needed to reach my relief point. Then, reality blissfully reminded me I didn't need to get out of bed. So I slept another two hours. When I awoke, the smile on my face as my head sank back into the pillow was exhilarating. Someone else was already there, my Line Trainer Hubbard, to do that dastardly Line 9 in my absence. I hope it went well for him, and continues throughout the week. Other than that, I'll try not to even think about it for several more days.

Now, I just have to remember to wear a mask in public. I don't know that I'm COVID-free because those who actively deal with the masses are still not regularly-tested in government's fear "the numbers will spike" if an accurate picture of this calamity is painted. It's imperative that I continue washing my hands for 20-30 seconds every 90 minutes to keep up the regimen that my job requires. My health and safety, along with that of my loved ones demands vigilance in this regard. Other than that, I'll just kick back. A few chores a day, then peace. And writing. My fingers on a keyboard constitute my art. 

A sweet passenger gave me this gift
when I signed her copy of
JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane.
It now hangs on my lamp, deskside
as I write. Thanks, Anna.

My book beckons. I have six days left before my butt sits in that seat again. I'll write until sleep beckons. Until then, don't expect another word from the Deke. Mic drop, I'm done for now.

Safety and love to you all. May you and yours escape this bastardly bug. Keep up the great work, stay away from the dangers of life "as normal" in today-speak.

Thank you as always for reading.

Deke