Where Will It End?

Hi Readers,

You're still here! Thank you. It means a great deal to me, hidden within the millions of other bloggers with staggeringly-higher stats than this humble tome. It's been 11 years since I began, starry-eyed and in love with a job I would grow to accept, rail against, then simply accept as my vocational fate.

Now, I'm just tired. Newbies are of a breed of transit worker I no longer recognize. They're spoiled rotten, lured by a $7500 bonus which takes three years to realize. In that time they likely fall victim to the rigors of transit, while those of us who have toiled much longer hope to retain our jobs throughout ridiculous edicts meant to glean our numbers to make way for a workforce much more malleable than we veterans. We came up in a gentler time, only to be thrust to the wolves of social unrest, managerial malfeasance and horrific challenges.

Now, many of us are spent. Worn out and fed up. We hang on just because we hope our retirement is met with monetary respect, only to be fooled once again. So we hang on even longer. Hoping we can make ends meet after the grind is done. Will Social Security still be solvent when we hang up our CDL?  Will the stock market help our 401k ease the pain of retirement bills? Will our health, after decades of physical abuse behind the wheel, remain strong beyond our willful employment? Questions which haunt every fleeting dream of that elusive retirement we all dream of.

Many of us die shortly after taking that plunge into the golden pond. It's a realistic fear. The repetitive motions of driving a transit vehicle and enduring the endless abuse from the public and our management gang up upon our collective mental and physical psyche, making our bodies a limp resemblance of what they were upon taking the plunge into transit operations. Some leap into other aspects of this beast. More power to them, but I cannot.

I have been in love with driving since I rode thousands of miles with Dad in his trusty Datsun pickup during our weekly roll 200 miles distant the family abode. When not resting my head on his lap at 5:00am as we left the family home for our temporary quarters when I was a tender lad of 11, I was watching him shift gears. Living on an isolated ranch, I begged him to let me drive those rough dirt roads. He did. Although I could barely see above the dash, Dad patiently taught me the basics of operating a vehicle. The rest came to me over the past 53 years, remembering his wise lessons. Since those tender moments under his gentle guidance, I have driven nearly two million miles on my own. Tractor trailers, personal vehicles, buses. Still, Dad's lessons audibly guide me each roll of the wheels.

Yes, I want to retire. I've worked hard since I was 14. Perhaps 12, mowing lawns, painting Uncle Louis' houses and running errands to digging ditches, writing for newspaper chains, and many jobs in between. I'm fucking tired, folks. My dream is to enjoy another 20-30 years without fear of having enough money to pay the bills. It seems I've earned that right. However, here I remain, working for a living.

Will I enjoy the rest of my life, or end up a drooling sot dependent upon the government to provide more than the meager sustenance my Beloved deserves? I fear working myself to death, like many of you. Where does this bus stop? I cannot fathom the end game, nor do I want to.

Sorry to be so morose. I can't help it. It gets harder every week. Yet I keep at it. 

Safe travels. May they not lead you to an early grave.