Just Breathe, Deke

 

Deke's Note: It's very hard to express oneself when dealing with real-world issues of historic proportions. Twice over the past three weeks, I have attempted to write blog posts, but there was too much to write. It was overpowering. The emotions, feelings, thoughts... too much to express. Had I published what these fingers and this mind produced over the past month it would have been a jumble rather than any semblance of coherent thought. I could not finish these posts. There was no logical end. My thoughts kept coming like a locomotive zipping over trestles at 90 mph. I needed time to just... drive... breathe... contemplate. So I did. Each time I felt like writing to you, my Beloved Readers, I resisted. Instead, I rested my mind and soul. Even though I still need time, there are some things this blogger requires of himself. This post is a long time coming. I'll try to keep it brief. But hey, I'm Deke, and brevity has never been my strong suit. But you knew that, and still here you are. Thanks, as always.

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Hey, I "only drive a bus" for a living. I'm not publicly-considered skilled labor. But, hey again. Yes it is skilled labor. Not only are we tasked with guiding a 20-ton bus along city streets originally designed to accommodate horse-and-buggy, but also to babysit an increasingly-pampered passenger load while dealing with a motoring/bicyling/pedestrian public which seems to have obtained its safety skills from parents teaching them to ride tricycles. They have ignored everything since then. 

We are constantly disrespected on the road by motorists who flaunt the law, treating us as obstacles to their destinations even though we are trained to observe safety protocols they have never understood. Our vehicles carry a human payload, each passenger's safety entrusted to our skills no matter their social strata or background. To do so, we must maneuver our vehicles so that we avoid the most ridiculously-dangerous antics presented us. It takes immense skill to do this job, yet we are treated with the utmost disrespect. Still, we do our jobs with pride.

Try arguing with an airline pilot over face masks, and you'll find him likely to turn the plane around, land and have authorities waiting to arrest you for failing to follow air transit law. Try that with a bus operator, then phone in a complaint against the "nasty bad man who told me what to do" and the difference is staggering in its disrespect and consequences. Our management would rather discipline us for insisting passengers follow transit code than standing up for us and doing what's right for transit in general. If people knew there were dire consequences for their misdeeds, perhaps our jobs would be easier because there would actually be incentives to behave. But hey, I'm just a bus driver... what do I know?

What I know is that if I were General Manager of this mess now known as Portland Transit, changes would be immediate and drastic. Gone would be this horribly-flawed management-first/Union employees blamed hypocrisy which has infected this agency the past 15 years. Passengers would be expected to conform to transit code or be excluded. Anyone who threatens or assaults a transit worker would face serious consequences, up to and including exclusion, rather than the onus being upon those providing this service upon which Portland's economy depends upon. In short, no more bullshit. Service would improve and morale would soar within both those who ride and those who provide the ride. Management would be cut by at least half, and those who refused to agree that the Worker comes first would be replaced by someone with an Employee First attitude. It's a sad pipe dream not to come true, but a dream nonetheless.

* * * * *

Last night, I was physically assaulted for the second time in nearly eight years of service. Yes, count me again. Damnit! Why? Because I insisted a passenger follow basic transit code, specifically that mandated by the federal government's Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) regarding Service Animals. Her mutt was certainly not trained to do the job, even though it was non-aggressive. Most pitbulls are sweet and affable if treated with love. This miscreant's dog was simply a pet. We're not allowed to refuse service to someone with a pet they falsely claim to be a service animal unless it is overly aggressive. So, I allowed this fare evader to board with her pet. 

As I rolled past our Downtown Transit Mall, I noted the dog was standing, therefore unstable. I informed the passenger her dog needed to be lying down, out of the aisle. This is a rule designed to keep the animal safe as I roll. If I were forced to brake hard, the forward momentum could force the dog forward and possibly cause it injury. Anyone whose dog is professionally-trained to be a certified Service Animal does not need to be instructed on proper transit behavior. 

I love dogs, being a pet owner myself. So I informed the passenger her dog was required to lie down. She  seemed to have her pet lie down, but she failed to comply. A few moments later, the dog was still standing. Once again, I asked her to have the dog lie down. Her comments were inaudible, but the tone was unmistakably non-compliant. Two minutes later, I glanced back to see the dog in the seat next to her, legs and head in the passenger's lap. Not cool, so I called her on it. Then, shit got real. Fast.

Having previously pulled the stop cord only to wave it off after I stopped and opened the doors, she had then committed five transit code violations. Still, I let it roll off my shoulders, as I'm trained to do. I even slowed at the next stop, wondering if that was her intended destination. She ignored me, even though I had told her by then to make Fido lie down. At this point, I became vocal. I told her to either adhere to transit code or her ride was done. She decided it was so, and blamed me for her constant misbehavior. I didn't care. She was either off the bus voluntarily or by God, the cops would forcefully remove her. She decided to exit. However, she assailed me with a barrage of insults and baseless accusations. I simply encouraged her to leave my hitherto-peaceful ride, and waved bye-bye to her, DameTime style. Was it a passive-aggressive action? In hindsight, yes it was. However, I was beyond giving the least of fucks.

After lugging her two bags off my bus, all the while telling me she was pregnant and asking how I felt about kicking her off in her supposed condition. She called me an inconsiderate asshole "on a power trip", and flung a mostly-full bottle of "Smart Water" over her shoulder. It hit my mostly-useless "barrier" and bounced off my head before falling into the space between my seat and the lefthand control panel. 

I was furious. It's impossible to describe how it feels to be assaulted. After giving an obviously-needy young woman a free ride (I simply pressed "Fare Evasion" on the screen and said nothing about it), enduring her countless transgressions against my late-night peaceful roll, she chose to assail and assault me. If she had simply done as I politely asked, she could have ridden peacefully to the end of my line. Instead, she chose to be a jerk. In reply, I had to insist she exit, stage right.

Another operator might have handled it differently, given their experience and personal operating philosophy. Some may have just let her behavior slide, not wanting to risk a confrontation. Another may have given her grief over not paying fare even though this is frowned upon by our please-everyone-but-those-we-call-heroes management. Me? I can only take so much bullshit before I call it. Then, I become Mr. Bus Operator, and it is time to obey or I'll call upon every bit of support Dispatch can get there in the span of a few minutes. Period. Cops, transit or local or county. Supervisors. The fire fucking department if need be. Whatever. You are now getting OFF my bus.

"FINE!" I yelled, "now you're about to be under arrest for assaulting a transit worker."

"I didn't assault you!" She screamed back, although her bravery fell into the ditch from which she had slithered.

"Let's see what the cops say," I retorted, "because they're on their way." I lied, because I had not pressed the "panic button" at my disposal. Why? Because I just wanted this sleaze-encrusted bottom feeder gone. 

I was amused to see her struggling to restrain her "service animal" while juggling her bags into position as she brazenly walked in front of my bus without looking to see if cars were impatiently passing the implausibly-stopped bus in their path. I wished at that point a thousand fleas would soon infest her under garments as the cops chased her down. Still, I hoped she remain safe in spite of herself. Now that my doors were closed and she had departed, the safety/integrity of my ride was once again assured.

After Brother Dispatch calmed me down, I assured my disinterested/cellphone-dazed remaining three passengers I would still roll to their intended destination. They sadly remained silent and utterly disinterested. This saddened me. None of them stepped up. Too engrossed in their cellphone-induced trance to even offer words of encouragement for the ordeal I had endured. Already late on the clock after adhering to transit code on the downtown stretch, I didn't feel guilty sitting there to collect myself. Henry is shaking his head reading this, wondering why after all these years I didn't "call it" and refuse to roll due to my shock at having been assaulted. All I could think of was getting to the end of the line, and that the remaining passengers had likely had a similar COVID-19 era experience and only wanted to get home. I'm very empathetic in that regard. After driving a city bus for most of a decade, my thoughts automatically are with those who ride my bus with quiet respect. How could I let them down? After all, it was only a flippantly-tossed water bottle. No injury, except to my perhaps over-inflated pride. My assailant gone, all I could do was roll, man. It's my job to get the good folks to their stops. Damn any torpedoes fired my way, full speed onward, lad.

It took a few minutes of distracted driving before I finally regained my composure. Had I suffered an injury, I would have called it a day and asked for medical assistance. However, it was only my pride that had suffered. Giving myself a moment to collect the remnants of wit remaining after another grueling week, I had just enough to finish the run. So I did.

The rest of the trip was punctuated by an even more-determined smooth roll. As I rolled into my line's terminus at Oregon City Transit Center, I took a rare "Restroom Delay" to scour the bus for trash and close the windows. Then, I stepped off to collect my thoughts. Had it been a mid-week run I might have taken the two days off sometimes afforded an assaulted operator. But it was my Friday. I was done, and only needed to guide The Beast back to the garage. I took several deep puffs of vaporous nicotine, shook off the residual anger, and regained the seat. "Ready for Service" on my end was immediately responded to with "Thank you, and a more peaceful night ahead" from my caring Dispatch lifeline. They would have immediately filled my run with an Extra Service Operator had I even hinted that I could no longer drive safely, but I bit the bullet and forged onward. Safely deliberate, I did so.

Settling back into the seat, I wiped one angry tear and took one more deep breath. Interior lights OFF. Released the parking brake, threw the tranny into Drive and rolled back to Center Garage. 

Along my deadhead back to the garage, I let loose a 20-minute barrage of verbal fury about what had happened a half-hour earlier. Microphones recording my every utterance, I unleashed my assaulted soul. It was liberating, and it helped me deal with what had happened. Instead of ruining my weekend, I wanted this incident to roll off my uniform into the floorboard and press downward into the roadway so that it could be crushed by my 20-tons of rolling mass. It worked.

Walking into the garage, I slammed the water bottle Bitchy Boobface had chucked at my head on a table in the bullpen, then gave my report to the calming presence of the Supervisor who awaited me. I burst into the restroom and washed the stench of my assailant off my body and soul. Only at that point could I answer my Beloved's worried texts asking why I hadn't responded my usual "5/5 check, whisky time".

* * * * *

I have many reasons to feel blessed this week. I'm moving back to my favorite neighborhood, where Beloved and I raised our sons, directly across the street from that home we loved within for 13 years. It is hopefully the last move of my mortal being, and it's into a home designed and built by a longtime fixture of that 'hood. I'm finally happy once again, excited to be amongst my dear friends and neighbors. Our kids are grown now, but I'm anticipating a long (and hopefully final) residence there.

It's a house where I plan to finish my first novel, and complete another story I began writing as my youngest son was an infant. I'll look across the street and remember the basketball hoop where my sons and their friends battled fiercely as Beloved and I shouted out the kitchen window "DINNER TIME!" 15 minutes before plating the food. It's where my cat Silas, featured in the first photo of this post, joined our family as a kitten. All is well.

That insane one who assaulted me? I simply wonder who lit the fuse on her tampon, but I'm okay. It's she who needs prayers of healing. I'm once again at peace, yet I'll never let her fuming fuse back onboard my ride. Once you shit on me, I'll wipe you off and keep going.

And that, folks, is how we roll. As long as we return to those who love us, what happened during a shift is but an obnoxious bus fart long forgotten.