Operator Attack: Infinitely Furious

Deke's Note: I should have started writing this soon afterward. My soul was absorbing all the love and support from friends, family and fellow transit workers. But my eyes kept leaking. Couldn't see straight. Kept telling myself I was over-reacting. Been here, done it before. What's the big deal? Then it hit me. After all the voices screaming "NOToneMORE!" I was that ONE. Again. Several have happened since and too many others afterward. So here I go, once again documenting something I have only experienced as a transit operator.

* * * * *

"Do you want to be stabbed right now?"

"Cops on the way now you said THAT," I replied. Outwardly calm, inwardly fuming, I scanned this drug-addled lowlife from head to foot, making a mental description in my mind for later recall to Dispatch.

When it hit me that he had threatened my life, the fury within me erupted.

"Get... the... FUCK... off... MY... BUS!" I bellowed.

Fight or flight, instantly took over. Was this drugged out punk serious about his threat on my life? I had to believe he was. Given his behavior over the past 1.5 rides he rode without proof of fare, his disposition had repeatedly diverted my attention from the road. This, coupled with his attitude when I informed him about fare as he boarded, automatically identified him as a problem passenger. The kind upper management insists we're trained to deal with, but not. 

White male, 30s, 6-foot, 160 pounds, short-cropped blond hair covered by the ridiculous backward-cap, "wife beater" dark Nike shirt, grey pants, sandals sans socks. Mental state somewhere between lame and unconscious. A wannabe tough dude with no respect for basic human decency.

Yeah, that guy. We all get him at least once a week. Feel lucky when he behaves and exits before the end of the line. Gets on the bus then blames the operator when he arrives at the wrong destination. Incapable of reading the destination sign, or too stupid to realize there is one. Spends my break getting high with the degenerates at Oregon City Transient Center and hops on again without even a thanks for not shutting the door in his worthless face. (I could not leave him to board my follower's bus.) Rides the entire trip blasted into the cloudless summer sky above my safely-driven sanctuary. 

* * * * *

"Do you want to be stabbed right now?

Gotta keep cool, I thought briefly. Not something easily done. How many bus operators have thought the same thing, when fear, then fury replace what our transit agency insists? 

It is MY bus from the moment I drive off the lot until I lock it up there again at 12:50am. The title has my transit agency's name on it, but for 10 hours that vehicle is MY responsibility, office, sanctuary. And I guard it literally with my life. I keep it clean, comfortable and safe. Until I relinquish control as my shift ends, that vehicle is Deke's Fucking Bus. Don't you DARE defile it and not expect me to give you hellfire.

At this point, I was in full biological Fight or Flight Syndrome. I had nowhere to flee, so my body prepared to fight. He threatened to stab me, attempt to end my life, Just because he had to exit. I was preparing to fuck him up if he attacked me.

Hey, I'm not a fearless combatant. Didn't serve in our military, never had self defense training. But I wear steel-toe boots and I sorely wanted to forever prevent this bottom feeder from ever breeding (again, perhaps). After nearly 13 years of abuse, I was seriously ready for a fight. All the pent-up fury after nearly 13 years of countless insults, threats and attacks, my tormented soul ached for payback.

However, I need to not get fired. This requires intense control of emotions coupled with a biological refusal to die. 

The only thing separating that ugly addict or me from debilitating injury was a quarter-inch plastic barrier. It kept us somewhat physically safe, but it did nothing to kill my fear.

* * * * *

Aftermath, five days later. My body was not assaulted, although the fight-or-flight syndrome depleted my adrenaline. Left me in a constant panic attack which continues to assault me. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in classic form. Brings back memories of past attacks, leaves me dreading getting into the seat again. Surely, once I do, I will steel myself for the shift ahead. It's just what we do, no matter how many times we have endured the bottom feeders attacking us. 

Aftermath, addendum. My manager has been conspicuously supportive. She called immediately after hearing of my latest ordeal and was truly sympathetic. That helped greatly, given my years of pummeling managers for not supporting us. She offered exactly what our union contract guarantees, plus heartfelt words of love and support. I took great solace in this, deeply touched by her personal touch.

ATU757 has been especially supportive. We have worked together for over a decade to push awareness about the dangers of transit work. Thank you brothers and sisters, and I hope #BANDTOGETHER2025 results in more wearing the bandage on your cheeks in solidarity.

I'm pissed about a few points. My initial contact to Dispatch was to request POLICE, That fucker threatened my life. No cops. Were they called? Maybe so, I dunno. Perhaps they were too busy to come. I'm also angry that the bill before the Oregon Legislature making attacks on bus operators a felony, has not passed after I testified in support of it with my brothers Mike Perrault and Henry Beasley, and others failed in our efforts to push it through this March.

My heartfelt thanks to the University of Portland Security Team. After my assailant was gone, I immediately walked into their office and described my assailant. Josie immediately typed in my description of the asshat while simultaneously offering solace and an officer escort. One shadowed my return to the bus where I saw another patrolling the area. After years of driving this route, I am so thankful for the relationship we have. Besides using their restroom, I have developed great friendships and respect for the people who keep their property safe for all. Thank you Josie, Robert, Christina, Megan, AJ and everyone else for being my first personal response when transit life turns upside down in your presence. 

* * * * *

I spent five days recovering from that drug-addled bastard's attack upon my soul. The love and support of family and friends has been overwhelming. While I was not physically harmed, I am shaken to the core. This has only happened to me while doing this job. There have been physical attacks, stalking, verbal abuse thrown at me. Hit on the head with a water bottle, slammed into my seat, spit at and threatened too damn many times. Not sure how much more I can take, but I have to. Getting too old to find a job that pays as much, or an employer who will hire someone my age.

Truly, I feel the love of my fellow operators and many others. Beloved has remained my best friend and calm presence throughout. She held me close, reminded me I'm still here and have much to be thankful for. My granddaughter's constant love and need for attention buoyed my soul once again and always. I cannot ever properly describe the support I have. 

Tired of attacks. Don't want to write about this again. But it's bound to happen. Hopefully, I remain  uninjured. Until then, I'll just keep giving safe rides to my fellow Portlanders.

Please join me in September for #BANDTOGETHER2025 as we collectively protest attacks on transit workers worldwide.