* * * * *
Willie Jack didn't want a funeral. Modesty could never accurately describe him. His mother likely tamed any beast infesting his innate goodness. He was the epitome of decency cloaked in typical Willie Jack modesty. Every time I saw him, he smiled. When he spoke it was deliberate, kind and often self-deprecating. He seemed incapable of arrogance, and exuded a quiet strength which shone brightly from within. From personal experience as a son of a fiercely-devoted mother, I'm sure he inherited his strength from she who bore and raised him.
My first meeting of my transit hero was as a trainee. My Line Trainer Steve Finney and I boarded Willie's Line 17 at Holgate/Chavez upon our return to Center Garage. Steve told me as we boarded, "This is our most decorated, honored bus operator. He's so good they had to invent a new level for him: GOLD Master Operator."
Willie's half-grin was forced. He was noticeably embarrassed. "Now Steve, you stop," he said. "I'm no better than y'all. Don't go blowing it up like that."
Then, addressing me, he said "Steve's a great guy, you lucky to have him as a Line Trainer. But he's full of shit." Then he laughed and smiled at me in the passenger mirror.
I was instantly impressed by this reaction. At 52, I had already seen many who tried to impress others with how great they thought themselves to be. Here was a man who everyone revered, obviously uncomfortable with such exuberant praise. Humble to a fault, I've heard people describe him. I never found "fault" in such modesty. Willie reminded me immediately of my dad.
Dad was a professionally-trained tenor. He was also a truly classical guitarist. His craft, finely tuned and practiced since age eight, was so delightful each audience was mesmerized. Whenever anyone gushed about how powerfully his performances affected them, he simply smiled and thanked them. He seemed embarrassed. Happy that they enjoyed his art, but unbelieving he was anything but a simple craftsman who constantly worked on perfecting his skills.
And yes, Dad was an amazing musician. But he gave up any hope for fame or glory in his music. He simply played and sang, as he described it, "Because God gave me a gift, and to His glory I owe every note." Dad traded a career in performing music in preference to his wife and four sons. He could have easily traded us for a career, but he chose US. I am so grateful.
Dad was no saint, but close. He taught us all to "have fun every day, no matter how hard it may seem." Looking into Willie's eyes that first day we met, I saw a glint of orneriness in the shadows of a playfully-decent soul. Our subsequent conversations however, revealed he was an incredibly-cool guy. Whenever I saw him early in my career, I pestered him for advice and he always indulged me.
* * * * *
One day as an Extra Board Operator on Line 17, I encountered Willie at opposing ends of a tricky intersection. We were close enough to see one another, and I was happy to realize Willie was there. I was nervous because we would have to work together for both our buses to navigate in concert with each other.
I gestured to him as we waited at the red light, both palms turned upward in a "what should I do?" gesture. He smiled, giving me one hand palm turned down. It was Operator Sign Language for "calm yourself rookie, you'll be fine." Then his hands told me exactly what to do: "Turn wide in unison with me. Slowly."
The light turned green. I did as he said. As we passed each other, I realized we had much more room between us than I had anticipated, passing each other at a very safe distance. As we did so, he smiled and gave me a thumbs up while I nodded at him because this rookie had both hands on the wheel. He kept nodding, smiling as we passed each other. My sigh of relief was accompanied by a determination to thank him later for his guidance.
Not too long afterward, I saw Willie in the bullpen. We made eye contact. After he finished greeting a friend, I walked over. "Hey Brother Gold Operator," I said in hopefully-enough respectful tone as a rookie, "thank you so much for your help in that turn the other day. I freaked me out until I saw it was you."
Willie shook my outstretched hand with both of his. Firmly meeting my gaze, he replied "I knew you could do it, and you did it so well! Great job, Patrick!" I was momentarily speechless. I had barely driven a bus one year, and here was someone with 35+ years experience complimenting my clumsy attempt at a turn he considered routine. At that moment in time, Willie and Dad were the same person. Teaching and encouraging in the same moment.
* * * * *
Willie retired the year I published JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane. I don't know if he read it, but he encouraged me to put it out there. That was almost a decade ago. My career has evolved since, and I smile at the transit operator naivete my writing expressed back then.
At Willie's service, I encountered two trainers I admire and our former union president and her husband. I was embarrassed to realize nobody else was familiar. Out of a few hundred people, I knew a grand total of five.
I wanted to find time to sit with Willie and have a few drinks together. To get to know the man behind the legend. I had plenty of opportunities. All I had to do was call his daughter and find a mutually-agreeable time. There were so many questions I had to ask him. So much music and shared experiences from which only a decade separated us. It's a failure which adds to my grief mourning his passing.
I must implore you, dear readers, to please not hesitate to achieve what I failed to: get together with those who mentor you. They're valuable fonts of information and shared experiences from which you can only grow and enjoy.
I'm sorry, Willie Jack. I did not honor you as planned. You likely would have indulged me my star-struck inquiries with your typically graceful "aw shucks" finesse. Then, you would have told me stories nobody else could equal.
* * * * *
Willie's family didn't simply mourn his passing at this service. Willie's brother died a few days prior. The day before the service, the family suffered the loss of Jenelle's great aunt. Their grief far surpassed my loss of parents 12 years apart and our baby brother three years ago. Still, they were composed, strong in their belief that God had taken all three so close together in accordance to His plan, confident in a forthcoming heavenly reunion. They released doves after the service; an act that was graceful and just. Afterward, I hugged Nelle once again. I was honored to be part of the family's grief, because I felt that pain and wanted to show my respect.
It wasn't until I sat alone in my car that I allowed myself to cry. Then, I drove to Center Garage, signed my work and completed another shift. This time, it was in Willie's honor. Each passenger was greeted warmly and treated with respect. I worked on a specific part of my craft. I thought of our interactions and was thankful to have known such a special soul. Wished I had made true that promise to get to know a senior Operator I held in such high esteem.
Rest in peace, Willie Jack. May you enjoy your eternal rest. Bless those you left behind, that they will eventually have comfort in your happy memories together. And thank you, Brother Gold Operator, for the many lessons in professionalism you bestowed upon me of which my gratitude was never properly expressed in person. I know you forgive my trespasses, but still, I'm sorry you were more to me than I was to you.
Rest well, dear sir, brother, mentor.
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