Dear Oliver, Thank You

Deke's Note: Once in a while, a brother or sister will come up to me and ask if I'm the fella who writes here. It's always a wonderful, bittersweet moment. Once upon a time, this blog was well-known and often read. My posts here were frequent, the connection with thousands of weekly readers was blissful. Nowadays, the gloss has dulled, the writing less frequent, readers much less interested than before. It just happens now in the blogosphere after a decade of constancy. I lost the mojo a while back, and stopped writing for fear of dredging up reruns rather than conjuring that magical moment when this job was something more interesting, vital even. So thanks, dear Brother Oliver, for shaking my hand in respect for what I love best: writing about this incredible job we share.

Yesterday, in a moment of deep despair regarding a brother with whom I'm at odds with, I found myself praying for peace between us. Our disagreements have devolved to a level my connection with you has never before breached: management. Rook's behavior has devolved into a dangerous tier. It tears at my soul. All I want is for my rookie brother to find his way through whatever troubles he is dealing with, to understand how 100 years of solidarity means something, that we are connected beyond our own lifetimes via the blood and tears of those who came long before we did. This is my FIRST, and hopefully ONLY, post angrily-directed at a fellow Operator. I hope he heeds my advice before losing his job, which he probably will if he doesn't drastically change his direction.

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My weekday leader and Saturday follower is a newbie in both transit and life. He's a wee bit older than my grandson. For nearly a year, he has tested my boundless patience. I have tried every trick in my 64 years to guide and counsel him regarding transit procedures and time-honored customs, these past three signups. Bus operators are taught early to honor veterans and seek guidance from them. It makes the transition from rookie to veteran much easier. As the years flow, our skills are enhanced by gleaning knowledge from those who have done this job longer than we have. I always loved hearing stories from those who slid through Portland's annual Silver Thaw, various bus model anomalies and passenger interactions. All learned through their valued experience.

My 9yo bus buddy.

I begged my father to teach me how to drive when I was 11. If I could have reached the pedals, I would have taken the wheel much earlier. He was also a pilot, who allowed me to control his plane for many an hour we flew together. Rolling wheels been one of my earliest loves. My parents were both hill climb racers in their earlier days. They owned identical His and Hers Saab race cars and participated in competitive events until my brothers came along and they lost a dear friend to a fatal collision. They gave up the hobby, but retained their need for speed. Mom gave me my first 100mph experience in her brand-new 1969 Mustang fastback. Dad was much more conservative while I rode with him, but he still holds the record for family speeding citations to this day, five years past his death.

As an 11-year-old who had the wonderful opportunity of living with Dad on a ranch for two years in southeastern Arizona, I was thrilled to drive at that tender age. We lived two miles from our nearest neighbors. Rugged dirt roads separated us. It was a 20-mile bus ride to school. I vividly remember my school bus driver Mrs. Brewster gliding a bus sideways down a muddy, rutted dirt road with a cigarette dangling, assuring her tender passengers "It's alright kiddoes, we'll straighten just up yonder."

Since my Bonita Elementary School days, I've driven Dad's Datsun and Craig Bull's Ford Pickups at 12, stolen Dad's Oldsmobile Delta 88 late night at 14, cruised Main Street in a '76 Buick, Henry's cousin's '75 Duster, spun wheelies in a stolen golf cart on the greens just before sunrise. I've ridden in Moddit's Gremlin (he wouldn't let me drive it), and styled within Dad's '78 Olds Cutlass Supreme graced with my tassel on Graduation Night at 17. Also zoomed here and there on Hawkeye (my '77 Honda 400 Hawk), Dad's Honda 750 Automatic with full faring or Brother John's Yamaha 600 (upon which I was cited for lack of a motorcycle endorsement on my license). Also driven tractors, tractor-trailers coast-to-coast, and racked up over a million (and a half) miles of safe driving since I first took the wheel in 1972. Each of my driving instructors have been top-notch, and learned many life-saving techniques.

One of my favorite moments was driving from Florence, Arizona to Dallas, Texas in 1977 with Hans in one car and our brother Ole (RIP) in another, passing cigars to each other at 85mph somewhere in New Mexico. Another was racing John Mc in his new Camaro vs. Henry's '72 Chevelle down Main Street in Florence, AZ. DiMarco at the wheel at 2am (thank God we didn't die then), we hit 120mph passing the Rexall, where we were forced to call it a race rather than slamming into infinity just two blocks later.

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So yeah, Whiny Baby Brother, I gots lotsa experience driving many more than these 330,000+ miles in a big ass, lumbering Gillig bus the past 12 years. I entered training when you were 10; I was 52. Why you haven't heeded my advice I cannot fathom. It came from my heart, knowing the path you've been on the past year. My only goal has been to guide you past the worst of it. Still, you ignored me. I warned you that management is heartless, but you stubbornly rolled down your own reckless path. Now that your career is on the line, you blame ME. I tried, Baby Carrots.

Now, your career balances upon the precipice of your reckless disregard of time-honored practices which 99% of us honor without hesitation or argument, out of respect of those with whom the road we share. You ignored the love shown by this brother. Now, I no longer care, because you recently screamed at me when I finally lost my patience trying once more to teach you the error of your ways. I still wish you peace.

I no longer wave at you in respect. If you're in trouble and I can, I will still come to your aid because that's the Code O'the Road. Other than that, you're dangling in the wind.

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Yeah, Dear Reader, you came to me at the most perfect time. Thanks for reading my ramblings. I don't often hear from those "hits" who are actual readers. It's really nice that you took the time to introduce yourself. It truly rocked my fucked up soul when I most needed it. I hope this anger-induced post against a fellow Operator doesn't soil your respect for me. Roll safe, brother.

“Just a little pin-prick, there’ll be
no more AAAUUUGGGHHH!”