CRASH! Immediate Aftermath

The only image I captured from the CRASH.

Deke's Note: I don't know how this post escaped publication. Perhaps I wanted to sleep on it. As I writer who drives a bus for a living, 1.5 years is much more than an "oversleep." Editing it after such elapsed time however, I was able to do so more calmly than possible a year ago. The collision was investigated fully, my report respectfully considered. The Accident Review Board deemed the collision simply an "Incident", which surprised me. No black mark on my record. (Sigh of relief here.) At the very least, I expected their decision would be "Non Preventable Accident", feared a "Preventable" although it was obviously not my fault. It still didn't ease the painful aftermath. Months afterward, even over a year later, I exercise more caution than ever at 6/Burnside. My heart still aches for the other motorist, and I pray he suffers no lingering after-effects. But hey... dude, that was a dumbfuck move.

* * * * *

We're a mix of driving experience out there. Most constant motorists are 20-50 years old, with little wisdom enough to challenge a much-larger vehicle. The 16-29 crowd is too fatally impatient. They're exuberantly reckless. When the traffic signal ahead is about to go red, they must be first to get there. A few more years experience might avail them the value of holding back a scooch, but no. Their minds are addled, brainwaves scattered, not fully wired except to their phone. It is they who make a professional driver's day frightening. Just the thought of a parent's face when the cops knock to inform... ugh. Anyone who hasn't experienced that dreadful notice can only imagine such horrific pain. I have, and likely most of you reading have also known, someone close who experienced that tragedy. 

* * * * * 

On December 29, 2024, after 50 years of diligently avoiding collisions, my oft-recurring nightmare happened. Luckily it wasn't fiery or severely injurious. The mere fact that it happened horrifies me. 

A flash in my peripheral vision signaled immediate danger. As my foot pivoted to the brake pedal, BAM!!! CRASH!!! BANG!!! OH FUCK!!!

* * * * *

This reminds me of the tragic demise of my dear friend Miss Pat 51 years ago. It happened so fast she couldn't react. She met her end as quickly as did my pristine driving record. Why did she die? Because she was too impatient. Miss Pat passed a lumbering truck on a dirt road, dust obliterating her vision of the road ahead, and collided head on with a larger vehicle. Her life ended at 25 years of age, damn near killing her eight-month-old son.

It took me a few decades to accept Miss Pat's death was her own fault. Then I became furious with her. She robbed a devastated husband of her delightful love, leaving him with an injured and equally-traumatized infant. 

His aloofness hurt me for a long time until I realized why. He needed closure, to move forward from that tragedy. It took decades for me to understand this and let him be. I was unable in my youth to understand such an elevated concept from what I felt. That emptiness left me incapable of accepting the wisdom of his pain. Only now, a half-century later, am I able to write about this without tears. Yet Miss Pat's impatience remains within an agonized soul as I drive a 20-ton behemoth with precious others aboard.

* * * * *

Dad's important lesson (the light eventually turns green again) remains as I glide amongst those who haven't patience to safely roll.

The motorist had to be accelerating, 50-100 yards from the intersection I began to cross after my light turned green. I scanned both sides of the street including immediate lanes of travel, prior to starting my roll. Zippy must have sped up as the light went yellow, intending to sweep the intersection long after his light went RED. Wrong move, dude. 

Traffic is legally bound to stop as the light turns red. In our post-Covid world, cops are rare as destitute politicians. They're rarely seen where desperately needed these days. He illegally blasted past those stopped, only to find a 20-ton vehicle legally in his path. As our vehicles collided, it was as if I had hit another life-altering Portland pothole. To him, it was 400,000 lbs. of mass smashing his vehicle. My bus at 10mph creamed that little ant as an elephant would, spinning it some 30 yards distant. How he survived is a Christmas Week miracle.  

So here I sit, muddled and befuddled. Sad, angry and confused. Why did that happen? I constantly remind myself to "BE SAFE" several times each run, dozens each shift. Immediately afterward my mind was awash in self-doubt. Did I do everything I could to avoid the collision? Of course. That's how I was trained to operate a bus. My first thought afterward was for the other motorist's well-being. I prayed he was okay. Tears of fear poured out of me as I fought to do as I have been trained these 12 years.

STOP AND LOCK. MAKE SURE MY PASSENGERS ARE OKAY. CALL DISPATCH IMMEDIATELY.

Somehow, I managed to calmly relay pertinent information to Dispatch. My soul and body, however, were in deepshock.

Nobody seemed to pay close attention to me. A passenger replied to my query as to their wellbeing, worried about me. Thank you Mr. Passenger. Then, my transit sister Alli driving Line 20 who witnessed the crash, ran to my door. I was despondent but lucid. She wanted to make sure I was okay before anyone else came to check on me. A supe next arrived and asked if I was "okay".

How the fuck did I know?!? It was my FIRST collision in 50 years! Of COURSE I was anything but!

I was collectively shaken, angry, alone, upset, sad, confused. I craved my Beloved above all else. You cannot expect a faultless victim of a collision to adequately describe their state. Everyone's attention on the street was focused on the motorist who caused that needless collision.

It happened so fast there was no time to tense up, prepare for CRUNCH. That spared me lasting injury. Although the impact severed the bike rack and windshield wipers and spider-webbed both sides of the windshield, the impact was minimal. Twenty tons versus 3,000 pounds resulted in not much more than a hard brake. Nobody tumbled out of their seats, merely glanced up from their phones. A collective "Huh?".

There I sat, in extreme shock. Terrified the other motorist was mortally wounded. Worried about my passengers. Embarrassed I was blocking all traffic, private and transit, in a major intersection at 6:05 p.m. on a pre-holiday Friday night. Asked Dispatch if I should move the bus out of the way, which was immediately, emphatically forbidden. Shock will move one to abandon any semblance of common sense. The situation in that instant became an investigative scene. One that was cleared within minutes which became hours in my understanding of time. From the moment of impact to when I was ushered into a Supervisor's vehicle for my drug test trip could not have been more than 15 minutes. The cops hadn't even arrived before I was whisked off to ensure my transit agency wasn't at fault due to the Operator's alleged impairment. Yet those minutes ticked off as weeks in the life of this human being who was now to be examined from every angle imaginable.

My supervisors seemed more intent on fulfilling the transit agency's protocol rather than focusing on my trauma. I understand they have a job to do, but once upon a time they were me.

I felt abandoned, part of the scene. Once I was released from the seat, Alli returned to my side on the sidewalk where I felt so isolated. Hand on my arm, speaking calming words I wish to remember. I was feeling guilty without reason. Blinded by the shock. Alli was the only one who understood my plight. So kind and understanding she was, my dear sister. Everyone else seemed intent on "clearing the scene" so traffic could proceed in its overly-impatient state, to resume that constant race to their own holi-dazed weekend funeral. 

The supervisor informed me we only had minutes before the agency's medical affiliate closed. His mission was to see me tested for illicit substances. It was the only test I proudly scored a strong ZERO.

* * * * *

Our management insists we are "family". Yet today I felt only the support of a few wonderful union brother/sisters and just a few non-union supporters. Management is intent upon remaining "professional" investigating a traffic collision. I understand this. Still, it's hard to feel supported when odds are stacked against those actually driving the bus in question. We feel immediately guilty until proven innocent. That fucking hurts. 

Except from within OUR ranks, I felt isolated, up for intricate inspection. My fellow operators were incredibly kind and supportive. My Assistant Manager rang me up, seemingly in an obligatory manner, to "discuss" how Operator and Management move forward in this weird dance we tango. Protected time vs. time loss. That ridiculousness which shouldn't be there to begin with. Any "involved Operator" should be automatically given time (not "loss") to deal with our emotional, physical, well being. It's imperative to allow us to recover from such a shock without fearing a disciplinary moment in the most terrifying times of our career. It can take months before confidence is restored. Every time I cross that intersection, the memory haunts me.

Bus Operators are first and foremost human. We're constantly tested each moment behind the wheel of a bus or the controls of a Light Rail Vehicle. We save far more lives than we lose.

I refuse to accept blame for this, and will fight from the deepest recesses of my soul to recover. 

* * * * *

It's now early in the morning of 12/31/23. My deepest and loving wishes to all of you reading this that your New Year brings the greatest happiness of your entire life. I am at peace, and eagerly able to wish my warmest wishes for a wonderful 2024.