Hero, My Ass

Another mostly-empty bus; thank God for Saturdays.

It's difficult to describe my feelings right now. We're all in a strange place, and everything we know as "normal" has gone awry. Mostly what I feel is pissed off, for a number of reasons. I can't go into them all at the moment or I'll likely have a stroke. It has all been boiling and is often right at the point of blowing through my steam hole.

Here's just three points I'm dealing with right now as a Portland bus operator. There are dozens, but these are topmost in my mind.

1) Yes, we are "heroes" to risk our lives every moment we operate a city bus. No more, no less than many others who have endured to serve the past three months. True, Oregon's COVID-19 numbers are less than many other states' statistics. Mostly because we're trying to keep it at bay by adhering to simple actions set forth by health professionals. However, as the economy has slowly awakened\ we have seen a sharp increase in positive test results for the Coronavirus. The more people interact with others, the likelihood of catching the virus increases. It should scare the hell out of us. Given that under normal conditions, a full-time bus operator comes into contact with approximately 150,000 people each year, our chances of being infected are exponentially-higher than most. Given our transit agency's lax attitude toward our well-being and health versus its pampered "customer base", our infection risk is amplified a hundredfold. No hazard pay. No consequences for those who board and refuse to wear a mask. Of course, the economic conditions have rendered many jobless so no fare enforcement is a temporary economic reality. However, a great deal of people who can pay refuse to do so because they know they won't be penalized. A bus operator can tell the difference between a classic fare evader and an honest citizen who can't even afford to pay attention.

Anguish through art, captured upon the boarded-up Apple Store
 in Downtown Portland.

2) Our "Leadership Team" is anything but concerned for its frontline workers. Sure, it puts up pretty signs and floods us with slogans about how "Heroes Work Here". Its edicts and sanctions tell a much different story. I do give our General Manager kudos for replying to emails, but his wording is largely defensive and his methods reactionary. Am I supposed to feel relieved to know he is doing "everything we can to ensure the safety" of those who do the actual work of transit? I'm not. He was hand-picked by his inept predecessor, so that does little to bolster confidence in the new guy's abilities. Sure, nobody could have predicted the mess this pandemic caused. However, I wonder why there was no plan in place ahead of time. Simply because our "Leadership" doesn't know how to lead. It rolls through the motions like a fly zipping through my window, then stopping to wonder, "What the hell am I doing here and how do I get out?" It considers its union workers annoying speed bumps to its ultimate goal, which is to rid itself of its pesky human liabilities. A glaring example of its unpreparedness its inability to limit boarding/exiting to the rear door. OOPS! Can't do it with the new buses it replaced older, safer ones the past several years. Replace air-controlled doors with electronics, and passengers still can't figure out how to open them. If an emergency required a total shutdown, the newest buses are a death trap because you cannot open an electric door with no electricity. Duh.

3) This brings me to certain members of the GM's "leadership team" (not capitalized for good reason). For the past 10-15 years, our transit agency has morphed into some Orwellian Corporata, created by, and for, the benefit of itself. Its lax oversight by a Governor-appointed "Bored" of Directors means it can pretty much do what it wants, and to hell with the lugnuts of transit. Besides our smiling untouchable "leader", he has an axe man to do the dirty work. That's the current Director of Employee and Labor Relations. This fella is a doozy, folks. He's been quoted as saying "morale doesn't concern me", and flippantly saying he doesn't think public sector employees deserve a pension or retirement income. Great choice, Mr. GM. Perhaps "heroes" deserve a bit more respect than a boot print on our way out the door.

I could go on indefinitely. I've been verbally assaulted and threatened recently, disrespected several times each week. I was called a "white motherfucker" by someone I politely asked to wear a mask. He also threatened to pull me through my window as I refused to acknowledge his misplaced anger. My brother Henry was spit upon. Others have been punched, threatened and harassed, but the guy at the top of the chain doesn't give a damn about morale. My health insurance premium tripled last December, erasing all the previous pay raises our last contract afforded us. If I'm seen not wearing a face mask while on duty, now I'm threatened with suspension or termination, but my passengers fear no recrimination. I can't work from home, and it takes grit of superhuman strength to endure on the job in normal conditions, let alone under pandemic uncertainty.

Waiting to see the light in vast darkness.

We're not respected by "leadership" unless you consider coined slogans and public relations bullshit anything but unfettered pandering. I could die before the end of the year, and the only thing you'd hear is a collective sigh of relief. "At least we won't have to put up with this Deke guy any more." There might be a publicly-declared "moment of silence" in some awkwardly-worded public address system announcement "mourning" my death like the clumsy "white guilt" attempt at political correctness we heard a few days ago in memory of Mr. George Floyd and others needlessly murdered. Sadly, there has been no mention the past year of Thomas Dunn, a Tampa Bay Florida bus operator who was murdered by knife-wielding passenger a year ago this May. He pulled his bus over and secured it before bleeding out in the seat. All Mr. Dunn's "leadership team" could say afterwards was how "safe" its system was as Mr. Dunn lay on a cold slab in the morgue. Our GM had never heard of Mr. Dunn shortly after his death.

So... nah. My demise wouldn't be newsworthy save for the initial blood spill. Blood and gore draw media attention; working class anguish does not. I'd be replaced by some wide-eyed rookie with 10 minutes of experience. Hey, I might even get some mention on the local news. But a day later, it would be business as usual. No mention of my 200,000 safe miles, scores of commendations, or literary anguish via Blogger.

I'm no hero. I'm just another expendable body in the seat.