I'm Just Wandering...

Dear Reader,

For eight years now, I have chronicled my life as a bus operator. It evolved as a simple writing exercise, to pen what I know best. That just happens to be, in any writer's experience, what we do most often. At the beginning, it was exciting to tell you what I was feeling as a brand-new bus operator. Wow, the moments I have shared with you over this near-decade. It even spawned a book! 

Now, nearly four years after publishing JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane (now out of print), I am at a crossroads. My heart strings keep pulling me back here to tell you what I feel behind this unforgiving wheel. The future, however, is nagging me to leave this beloved tome behind and surge forward. Writing my feelings to you has been the most rewarding literary achievement of my life. Truly. Before this blog, I wrote intermittently of memories past, not having any semblance of ambition as I aimlessly pecked away at this lonely keyboard. Today, I look back upon over nearly 600k "hits" on my bus tales. It is enormously gratifying, and extremely humbling. While it fails to excite others with its magnitude given other bloggers' zillions of hits on their own blogs, it is a personal highlight in a life many others would consider humdrum. 

I was born with a brain injury. If not for the fierce determination of an intensely-devoted mother, I would have died long ago in some institution for those given-up and hopefully forgotten by those without Mom's will that her own son stand and deliver. Mom saw the light of determination in my eyes the moment I was born, and worked tirelessly to ensure I had the tools to excel. If this blog hasn't delivered, then it's my own damn fault. Mom gave me the gifts; it was up to me to strengthen them. Here, if nowhere else upon this jerky 60-plus-year journey, I hope to have reached the souls of even a few of you.

I have both excelled and failed. Here. In this bus operator's journal. While so far I have failed in this post to describe to you what it was like to drive a bus 150 miles in 10 hours today, it has become an alternate goal over most of this decade to share my inner thoughts. At this point, my mind has become numb. Pandemic, protest/violent Portland riots, isolation from beloved friends and excruciating passenger moments... all have dulled my senses to the point where I JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane, like my job insists. Meanwhile, my soul has suffered too much to adequately describe the incomprehensible pain endured the past 15 months.

I have truly lost the ability to describe my life behind the wheel. Terror inhabits my mind and the dreams, both conscious and otherwise, is too intense for words.

Still, the writer within pulls me here. Why? Very few of you read these words any longer. It seems my 15 minutes is about 20 too late. Another writer would have ended this literary sojourn long ago for more promising endeavors. Me? I'm hopelessly hooked to this medium. I'm Wandering, just like James Taylor's song:

Oh, I've been wandering early and late

out of New York City to the Golden Gate

and it don't look like I'll lever stop wandering...

Every time I think it's time to let this ancient exercise fade into yesterday, another one of you enthusiastically pipes in. You tell me that I get where you are, that my words echo your own. That makes it even harder to leave. Thank you. It's for YOU that I write, because WE are one. Driving a bus is the same no matter your locale. Some runs are easier than others, but each city with public transit has its share of ne'er-do-wells who challenge our inner strength to rise above their bullshit just to safely transport them along with the truly appreciative.

Only the small percentage of riders shine enough to make it all worthwhile. Those, even though struggling with the pandemic economy have enough to pay their fare, are the sunshine which pushes us through that excruciating few miles to smoothly drop them at their destinations. They smile as I greet them and thank me on their way out. Their voiced appreciation is just enough to make up for those who won't even look at me, let alone speak, as I greet them with genuine acknowledgement.

Today, I heard the news one of my closest friends has been invaded by cancer throughout his blessed body. We have been, along with his equally-adored wife, inseparable friends since 1983. We grew children together, perfected our collective trade, raised many a drink and grilled tons of beefy flesh together over the years. Suffering the collective pain of a struggling middle-class, we pulled each other up many a time, through the roughest of times but having fun all the while. Now, tears stream from eyes which have seen enough pain the past year to last a lifetime, now dealing with the impending loss of one so dear to me I cannot fully express my indescribable love for him.

Joel not only gave me a job as a typographer; he taught me the craft in its sunset years as a profession before the personal computer craze. His soulmate Deb was hired two weeks after me, and whipped a drowning business into a money-making dynamo in Tucson's intensely-competitive publishing heyday. We crafted intense algebraic equations on a computer which produced mathematic equations for many a collegiate textbook. Back then, it was all typographic code, not WYSIWYG. Imagine charging $100/page for a publisher, at the rate of 50-100 pages per day. Joel crafted magical sequences (macros) in which we simply input the numbers, and commands dictated the typesetting equipment's output of a perfect equation. Every time. Our fingers input dollar signs, and because of it we were able to eke out a wonderfully-memorable moment in time where we raised each others' children and downed many beers in celebration. 

Several states apart and decades of memories later, we remain inseparable. I cannot fathom a day without the ability to call Joel just to "shoot the shit". Given his prognosis however, we surely both realize such days are too short to call numbers. It is agonizing to know that our next conversation could possibly be our last. Recognizing this, I hope to remain strong, give my sweet friend only hope and help him laugh over past exploits. Joel's laughter is contagious: deep, booming and sincere. My dream has been, since I began writing it, that his voice be the dominant player's in the movie I hope this next book offers.

Growing old is fraught with depressing news. Earlier today, my CAD showed a message to be on the lookout for a man suffering from dementia. Doubling down on my already-resident sadness, I learned this man was once a local bus operator whose passion for the job I still emulate. He was constantly on the microphone, pointing out which stops connected with another bus or rail line, or perhaps a nearby destination. He was engaging and fun, full of transit wisdom. I always exalted riding his bus. Now, he suffers from dementia, and I didn't even know he had retired.

Truly, life is fleeting. Fragile. Short. Not just for a blogger, but for all of us. 

Have a favorite bus operator? PLEASE call Customer Service and gush about them. We see far too many ridiculous complaints and far-too-precious commendations. Operators: see a brother/sister you haven't in quite a while? Screw pandemic considerations and give them a hug. It might be your last opportunity. Even if it ends up killing you, those left behind will remember that you cared enough to let your true feelings show. 

There is no sure bet in regards to this bastard COVID. No matter how hard we work to ensure our own safety, it's still a 50/50 wager. Many are throwing caution to the winds because we're tired of fearing our most endearing feature as humans: love for one another. I wish I would have found our brother Anthony tonight. Hopefully, one of us did.

That's it, folks. I'm tired. Instead of working on that ever-elusive novel, I chose to write you instead. It's a habit I don't want to lose, although I probably should. Even if the "hits" dwindle to a dozen per post, those 12 will remain forever precious to me. Like Joel, Aaron, Darius, Jason, Aidan, Brett, "The Three Robs" and nameless others, I truly appreciate those who are extremely kind to me as I ferry them home. 

The public-at-large has a dim view of the transit operator. I'm thankful for those who not only know my name and alter ego, but also for those who simply thank me for the safe ride when they exit. If not for y'all, I would have dumped this gig long ago. 

Thank you for indulging me,

Deke N. Blue