We Gots Favorite Moments Here Too!

Oregon is a panorama of green.
Man, I love it all.

Deke's Note: Hey kids, it's time for another edition of the blog that just won't go away! Are you tired of me yet? Too bad. It seems that every time I'm ready to hang up the keyboard on this nagging habit, it lures me back in. Last week I promised a more humorous roll on my six-wheeled office after the sad tales I told.

Damn, 8.5 years seems a long time. In the operator's seat, that is. Compared to many others, it's a blink of the eye and one full scan. You learn a great deal about your fellow humans in this job. Sometimes, although rare at this stage, something happens that makes you grin or even belly giggle. Often it comes at my own expense, but that's okay. I'm more fallible than an "honest politician". Or half as much maybe. Anyway, I hope you at least find yourself in a half-grin reading this. I'll try my Dekest to be brief.

* * * * *

My bus is the last to reach Clackamas Town Center for the evening. Sometimes, folks fall asleep; I like to think it's because my every effort is to provide a smooth and quiet roll. No cellphone audio, loud conversations encouraged to reduce in volume; people riding home after a long, hard day; no assholian attitudes allowed. 

This time, a passenger was asking how he might connect to a bus running to where he needed to be.

"Sorry bud," I said with honest regret, "that bus stopped running about an hour ago. No more buses in that direction."

He seemed a bit lost at that point. His motel was on the 79 route. My shift was ending. I felt pity. Called Dispatch and asked permission to allow him to ride my deadhead so I could get him closer than he was. About halfway in walking distance. Permission granted, I told him. He thanked me, but refused.

“No I don’t want to walk. I just saw Jeffrey Dahmer’s wife sitting in a car. Don't think it's safe to walk. Been a weird day for me, don't ask.”

I didn't.

* * * * *

One night a few years back, I kept hearing a "click, click, click". Sneaking glances into my passenger mirror, I finally noted the guilty party, hunched forward in his seat but not asleep. He was studying his hands, which I found peculiar because I didn't see the commonly-omnipresent cellphone in his grasp. After a few moments, I realized what the sound was.

"Are you clipping your nails on my bus and dropping them on the floor?!?" I nearly shouted into the PA. All eyes turned toward him. Customer Service would have gasped at my lack of decorum. I cared not a tinker's damn. Of all the crap I pick up after slobs, the least desirable is human debris.

The bus fell silent. Guilty party glanced up. Clicking noise stopped. BUSTED. When the bus rolled into my final stop of the shift, my good buddy Ryan couldn't help himself. As the guilty party slinked out the back door, he said, "Later, Nails."

I choked back a hearty laugh. Ryan ambled up to the front of the bus for our usual farewell. 

"I can't believe you busted that dude for clipping his nails on your bus," Ryan laughed. "Classic."

This story echoed in my mind on a recent roll on my Saturday 35. Having just picked up my route downtown, I had only a cursory glance at my passengers as I prepared the operator's seat for my tenure. The usual clientele, a few more than usual during this pandemic slowdown. Still, my greeting is fleeting because ol' Roy who I relieve is normally right on time rather than early. I gotta get on with it or risk running late out of downtown, and given my route's competition with the streetcar toward the Willamette waterfront. Too late and I'm stuck behind the doddering old rail line as its cleaners stop me at a most inopportune moment. 

As I sighed into my Friday roll, my senses detected an eerily-familiar sound. Click, click, click. Immediately, I tensed up. Yeah, I hearkened back to "Nails" and the disgusting cleanup afterward.

Having just uttered my daily mantra, "Be Patient" echoed within me. Good thing. I decided not to assume because having my ass handed back to me has never been a favorite option. Every few minutes, I kept hearing that sound. 

"Dude either has 15 fingers or he's mighty meticulous," I thought. For once, I allowed patience to rule. Rather than accuse my otherwise quiet passenger of clipping his entire appendages and/or nose/ear hairs on my bus, I wisely altered the previous approach. Something told me this time was different.

"Sir," I said at a stoplight, directing my attention to him in the passenger mirror. "Please tell me, because I'm extremely curious, what exactly is that clicking noise I keep hearing?"

"Oh I'm sorry!" the man replied. "Just my clicker. I'm telling (Fido) my service animal good job for remaining calm on the bus. This is one of his first rides with me and he's still a bit anxious. Sorry if it disturbs you at all."

I will see this view again, in just a few days. 
A well-deserved and anticipated roll into the depths of
this state I love so dearly. Ahh... escape from transit is healthy.

I smiled, then laughed in relief. So happy I chose the path I rarely travel: less accusatory and more inquisitive. 

"Thank you," I replied, "it sounded like you were clipping your nails."

My passenger laughed. "Wow! I never thought it could sound like that, but I guess it does! I assure you, that is not the case."

There you have it, Ryan. This time, the only thing dropping on the floor was my foolishness if I had not stopped myself from stuffing a Size 12 boot into my foolish maw. 

* * * * *

Other things have helped me smile more lately. As I drive the bus, I look more for the good while trying to ignore the bad. My soul has been wounded too many times to dwell much on the sickening. Each shift finds me living for the moment, smiling at people behind the mask and hoping my eyes tell the story within. I truly do love meeting new folks, alternately hesitant to make a connection. I battle sadness as the constant PTSD interferes with peaceful interaction with those I serve.

Run for union office, some tell me. NO. It's not something I would be effective at. Be a trainer, others encourage. NO. I don't want to fake my "professionalism" when I'm still perfecting myself as a bus operator, nor do I aspire to mingle so closely with an upper management that remains so out-of-touch with the professionals who do the work which makes their positions possible. I just cannot do it.

Mingling with the public-at-large is a risky position, but it's a worthwhile challenge. It keeps things "real", even though the poison arrows slung my way are getting more difficult to dodge. Hopefully, my blog's disclaimer ensures my right to self-expression. It's all written for the operator in mind. YOU know what I write, and feel it every moment behind the wheel.

Although the writer within me urges me to quit writing this blog, this Operator cannot abandon my brave, under-appreciated fellows who seek the voice to their feelings. I fear only death will separate me FromTheDriverSide. Or a career in writing, where my lifelong soul has driven me toward.

Until something incredible happens, I'm hopelessly your Deke N. Blue. There's just too much to say. So I'll just write until... then.