Deke in the Den

Deke's Note: Hello again, this time from our new home! It took this aging goof a while to get the Deke Den set up, specifically this computer, but I'm connected again. So here goes.

For the first time since this almost century-old oak desk and matching office furniture was given to me by my mother, it is not in our living room. Wow! A whole room to myself for writing and related mischief! I'm still hanging pictures/photos and other memorabilia, stocking bookshelves with my old favorites. The most amazing thing about this home? It's the biggest, most beautiful and peaceful spot I've ever lived. Pristine wood floors, hickory cabinets in the kitchen, a (gas) fireplace, vaulted ceilings, a garage and landscaped front and back yards. Even more amazing, it sits directly across the street from where we raised our sons.

Four years I have mourned leaving this neighborhood. My writing has shown the frustration welling within, often giving way to deep depression. Anger, too. My confidence level shot down to record lows. Given this hellish pandemic we are still fighting, passengers can feel an operator's slightest mood shift. Threats, menacing and even an assault visited me over the past few months as I drove one of Portland's rough bus routes.

Rampant riots, public fury... and us just trying to get through it with some sense of normalcy has been challenging. Even so, the media's depiction of "Portland Under Siege" has been largely overblown. Yes, there are protests, demonstrations, clashes with police and members of opposing groups. Downtown looks like a war zone, and the homeless camps multiply in one of the hottest COVID-19 infection zones in the state. I had to get out of there, or I would lose my last bit of sanity.

So I signed myself out of the War Zone, four days a week. I'm back on a run that I've done many times before. It's both comforting and sometimes annoying. The passengers on this line seem to think the bus is their personal trash can, even when they're three feet (or less) from the one on the wheel well.

There were some bright moments driving Line 9 before I left it. One came from a fellow operator. As I trudged into the break room at North Terminal, a blog reader called me "Mark Twain". This was not long after having a water bottle bounce off my hard head. I was grumpy, on edge and feeling particularly depressed. When Terry greeted me by that name, it stopped me in my tracks. Humbled and grateful, I turned to speak with him. He was so kind and complimentary. Even though we rarely see each other and he had to remind me of his name (a transit operator's lament), I have always enjoyed his company. It was music to me, having my writing compared to one of my favorite authors. In the restroom, I had to wipe a tear away. On my way out the door, I hope my gratitude to Terry was adequately expressed. Once my fingers begin dancing merrily on this keyboard with more regularity, I will surely endeavor to live up to his praise.

"Hello Dirty3 passengers," I said into the PA one day, "thanks for riding my bus. Please note that we have none one, but two trash cans up front at your disposal. Also, I appreciate you wearing your mask, even though some of you believe COVID-19 attacks your chin rather than your respiratory system. I know it's a pain to wear these damn things, but please wear them properly. You may only be on this bus 20 minutes or so, but I'm here 10 hours a day, exposed to everything that slithers aboard. My wearing this mask is also for your benefit, so please wear yours for mine and that of everyone else on the bus. Thank you!"

Usually this announcement is met with mixed reactions. Most people are plugged in and tuned out, and regularly try to exit the front door. There's an announcement which plays every few minutes asking people to blah blah blah go out the BACK door. For once, our roles are reversed, as I will bellow "BACK DOOR" to those able-bodied people who make their way forward to find the front door of the bus closed.

"Sorry," I may say, giving the universal hand signal to remove their earbuds, "the front door is disabled. Please exit to the rear." The most stubborn and rude of them will just stand there as if they don't understand their native tongue. Maybe they're angry that a lowly bus operator is telling them what they must do.

"Hey," one of them replied, "it worked when I got on the bus!"

I sighed, tired of blatant stupidity and/or selfishness. So I exercised my mischief muscle.

"It senses whether you're coming or going, or if you have a special need to have the front of the bus lowered for mobility issues," I said. "It alerted me that you are a healthy young 20-something who doesn't need special assistance to exit.So please use the back door. It works fine, if you read the directions on how to open it."

Of course, along with thousands of others who fail to pay attention to successful exits, he had no clue and ran right into it, bouncing off. He wasn't there long enough to trigger the sensor. He kept pushing the handle, looking helplessly at me. As if I would secure the bus and walk back there to open it for him. Maybe hold his hand as he walked across the street so he wouldn't get hit by some phone-stoned motorist. Nope.

A passenger sitting nearby sighed his impatience, rising from his seat, putting his hand just inches from the yellow strips on the door with the words "Touch Here to Open", triggering the door to open.

"Dumbass bus operator," Hapless Horatio yelled as he stepped off, "can't even get the door to work!"

I snorted, looking in the mirror at the helpful passenger. "Thanks for your help, buddy."

"Just drive, dude," he replied. So I did.

Such is the life of a transit "hero". 

* * * * *

On one trip in the middle of my week, I had three passengers who regularly read this blog. It was fun to see them all again, and I thank Jason, Devan and Ian for their comments. It's niceto be appreciated.

The flip side? One bus operator said "No thanks" when I asked her to look up FTDS. "Think I wanna read about this job after doing it 50+ hours a week?" I get it, sister.