Deke's Note: I recently had my 13th anniversary as a bus operator. It came and went without notice except by my few remaining fellow classmates. For me, just another day behind the wheel of a 20-ton Beast. SOSDD.
Changes my classmates of 10/29/20212 have endured are similar, yet different given our own experiences. We're separate, yet forever entwined within this transit quagmire we have endured. Very few of us remain bus operators. Some moved to rail, others left the career years ago. One very dear classmate passed away a few years ago before I could make it to his deathbed. Just over a handful of our original 22 remain. Like all with whom I serve, the kinship felt with these dear people is tight. We rarely see each other except to wave from the seat.
What has become of us along the way? What kind of people are we now opposed to when we began this odyssey? My trainer William has long since retired. His buddy, another revered brother whom many of us revered, died just as he was about to retire and begin a lifelong dream traveling odyssey with his beloved. My training partner was the father of wee lasses when we started driving a bus. Now, they're off to college and I regret having never met them. A few retired or entered different careers. This gig ain't for everyone who begins it.
I can only answer that my soul has hardened. Softness and empathy has been replaced by the sharp blade of sarcasm and distrust. It takes concerted effort for me to soften the hard edges of what (I believed) was an empathetic self who sought to soothe and comfort. What I've seen from the seat has caused me to become a traumatized and angry man who is severely cynical. Looking into a mirror has become an exercise where trying to find who I thought was "me" is frustrating. In 13 years, the smile lines have been replaced by frowning scars. Even the smile which came easily before is offset by an unwanted grimace. I see shame and sadness where once was comfort. At 65, the grey is finally coming forth. The eyes are dull and too quick to judgment where they once saw the good in everyone they saw. Today, I'm simply surprised to see the positive. It's shocking when I allow myself to notice goodness and light in a world that has darkened considerably over a scant 1.5 decades.
Transit operators constantly face changes over thousands, becoming millions, of miles. Those who came long before I did endured many of the same challenges with different twists. Yet we all share similar circumstances no matter what era we serve. Few emerge from this unscathed by the horrors of feeling every bit of humanity's flaws. Such visions blind me to the rare glimpses of love lights shining where I often cannot see.
It hurts. I don't want to do this anymore. But I have to. Yes, I am in therapy. Deeply committed to the belief that Patrick's soul (and Deke's) are not lost to the tragedies which lurk in the darkness of transit.
Newbies might boast they know better than veterans, but it takes butt leather and thousands of miles of experience to say "Bish, figure it out because I'm going for it. Hold my beer, rook." I so want to mentor those who will continue past my tenure, but refuse to because I'm too dark right now. Don't want it to rub off. Last time I tried to mentor one who wasn't getting it, he blew up at me. That was a sour pill I don't want to taste again.
I once had an interaction as a rookie with a revered veterans, one whose expertise earned him a designation specifically created for his excellence. I met Willie Jack at a very tight intersection on Line 17. We were so close I saw his eyes. He put his hand out the window and mothed "watch me". When the light turned green, he motioned me to proceed. His hand motioning "you're good, just dance, brother." As he went wide and I mimicked him, he smiled as we passed each other. He nodded his approval as we danced through a very tight intersection.
A few days later I saw him at the garage and thanked him for helping me through that turn. "You did great!" he said. "Just always remember to trust your brothers and sisters out there and you'll be fine. Just fine."
Some points on my current route find me meeting a fellow operator at an intersection where we have to "dance" to turn in concert with one another. I can always discern a rookie from a veteran. One will sit still whilst I turn on that transit dime while the vet will dance with me through the turn. The vet gets my wave and smile; the rookie gets a simple nod. I am nowhere near the patient teacher Willie was. I've just become too jaded. Until I find that inner peace I once embraced, there's no way I would attempt to teach another how to dance. Whatever rhythm this white guy had has been mangled by the duals of a 40-foot Gillig. Someday, I'm gonna reverse this rig and find my happy self again. Until then, it's best I roll solo.
If you wonder "Where's Deke these days?" it's simply a writer coping with the soul of the human shrinking deeper into himself. I don't want to drag you down. There's enough bad news out there to do the trick so I figured you didn't need me pulling you further into the abyss. But this blog is my self-therapy. If you're still reading, something in these pecks has drawn you deeper. Cuz you're there too, or have been. If you've figured it out, please let me know. I'm trying, folks. really. Trying keeps me from actively dying, and I'm not ready to go there.
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Earlier this late night, I was working on bluetoothing this new keyboard and mouse Beloved gifted me for Christmas. The laptop's touchpad and keyboard were frustrating me like a boy trying to undo a bra for the first time. One wrong swipe and paragraphs disappeared like a sweetheart's frustration with her dream boy's fumble fingers. I almost threw the whole works into the abyss of my fragile patience.
Then my ears, usually tuned to a bus's normal functions, isolated a sound which grabbed me. My precious granddaughter was crying out from her crib two rooms away. I threw the whole works to the side and eagerly dived off the couch. Her bedroom adjacent to ours where Beloved was deep in her dreams, I rushed to soothe my precious baby girl before she woke my exhausted Stacers and her visiting parents in the front bedroom. To me, having worked all day whilst they enjoyed Mila Rose's antics, I was thrilled to rush to her rescue. My sweet baby granddaughter, the first girl in my family in 40 years, needed her Papa. She only needed to pee. Afterward, she clung to me. Mila Rose told me she wanted "snuggles", so I carried her to the couch and cradled her as I did the first week of her life. I told her the story of how I snuck into our living room early one Christmas morning as a nine-year-old, intent on finding our what Santa left in my stocking. Thinking I found chocolate, I bit into a cylinder only to find its waxy texture was that of a crayon. Mila softly giggled, but didn't reply.
She said she wanted "milky" so I carried her to the kitchen and warmed her a cup of white gold. Then I carried her back to bed. Rubbed her back while reassuring her she would have happy dreams. I hope she will remember the moment, but I know otherwise. She'll be three in less than a month. I cannot remember my life at that age. Few of us can. I hope she simply remembers Grandpapa was always there when the night was giving way to morning and she found me ready to comfort her.
My happiness lies within these walls I long for while driving a bus. All my life I have worked hard just to provide for my sweet wife and our babies. They're now grown, and Mila Rose is the reward for raising her daddy. We see lots of him in her, as well as bits of ourselves. We dote on her. We spoil her wickedly, sometimes to her parents' dismay. It's our reward, the purest joy available to this once-empty nest.
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This bus operator simply prays for another healthy year for myself and those I hold closest. Thinking such as horribly selfish, I extend this out to my extended family. My fellow transit workers, with whom I share 5/7 of every week, friends and loved ones galore. It reminds me how lucky I am to have so many of you. Thank you for supporting me. Yes, even in my darkest moments I see your sunshine piercing the clouds.
I'm a Libra. Constantly trying to balance the scales. It's been especially difficult this year but in retrospect I can see many of you who have lifted me up when I needed it most. Tony's daddy seeing me walk to the MAX stop in the drenching rain to give me a ride, saving me from the MAX. Sammy Smile bringing me holiday cookies. Sir Lancelot, who teaches me to chill when I think it's fruitless. Bob, with whom we share an affinity for good Scotch. Mr. Nelson, whose brilliance outshines his politics.
Station Agents Kathryn, Ed, Dave and others wishing me a safe day whilst Frank, Julie and others welcome me back at shift's end. Road Supes Russell, Darin, Annie, Dennis, Boo, Bart and others having my back when I need them most. Dispatchers all having a patient and caring ear when I roar my displeasure or angst on my route, sending me help immediately upon request. Even my Assistant Manager Brianna and her co-workers, whose ranks I have castigated cruelly in these posts, rises to support me when I ask for it.
My union brothers, Bruce and Henry, and our longtime sister Mary, all of whom suffer many piercing arrows yet still have our best interests at heart, I thank you from the depths of my soul. It's no easy job to fight management on our behalf while shouldering the harsh criticisms which come with it. I promised you to write a column in Northwest Labor Press, but haven't been able to do so while I deal with the demons which assail me. Thank you for your patience, and know that I remain UNION STRONG.
This Libra knows he has massive support, and that's what buoys me as the transit waves bash the shores of my daily toil. That's part what keeps me going. Mostly, it's the constant love and support of my Beloved. Over half of my life, she's been here for me. Sometimes she lifts me, others, I do the same for her. We're a team, and I draw most of my strength from her. And Mila. My sons and daughter, my brothers, my dear friends. I am lucky. If I died tomorrow, it would lift me because their support is the love I've always needed and appreciated.
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Yes, I'm having a hard time right now. But I'm not one to give up. That's not how I roll. No matter what ails or assails me, I will rise every mile. It may not be evident in my face, but I'm constantly reaching into that grab bag of love which surrounds me. Y'all demand I keep rolling. It's so loud I cannot ignore the loving noise. Thank you all.
I will keep trying.
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