A Veteran Bus Operator Endures

Deke's Note: This career is my longest. I've had several, and I can honestly say I've enjoyed each. Now, having earned Senior Citizen status, I'm wondering when to say my contribution to blue collar America is done. Here's what it's like to be me, as a 65yo bus operator in my 14th year.

It's difficult to imagine myself the newbie. Hey, I'm #168/1100+ in seniority and I just learned I got my third pick for Summer Signup. I'm still not as "senior" as I hoped.

We've all been there, nervous yet excited newbies. Hoping to be someone who makes a difference in the lives we transport. Lofty ideals lose traction as the icy stares outnumber positive interactions. Wondering how to keep our original ideals while accepting the reality of transit. Trying not to allow being overwhelmed by the negativity that sneakily undermines our sunny disposition. Then seeking professional help to deal with the nightmares of scary instances invading once-peaceful runs.

Never in my working life have I been confronted with life-or-death situations until this career. Bus operators reading this will nod in agreement recalling some incident when you felt threatened. Trapped in the seat. Fight or flight. That nagging voice inside which warns that "management is watching," who expect perfection as you desperately search for the response which guarantees your safe arrival home. But it's a guessing game, because you're often dealing with extremes in those moment. Drug-addled passengers who don't respond to reason. Bus operators are trained by those who have held the wheel in their hands, but often managed by those who have not. We think, we act, differently to the immediate danger at hand.

Midway through my blog life, I wrote about how an operator faced with danger does not have time to consult past practice or precedence. All we have is our wits, biological responses as human beings evolved over millions of years. Sometimes, we fight like cats. Other moments, we cower in our seats, unable to differentiate between self defense and ridiculous Standard Operating Procedure.

The human animal, like all others, viciously defends itself. However, transit workers are governed by an entity which is litigated to the point where it considers itself a living entity to the point transit workers wonder what matters most. Survival versus transit agency? Immediate, surgical decision, dictated by evolution. 

* * * * *

I do not grapple with bullshit, but constantly consider what I will do when next confronted with violence. It has happened several times before in my career. Each time, I blamed myself although it's not a victim's fault for being so. Yet the more it happens, as it does more often than reported, the victim argues with oneself over who's' to blame. 

Management's insistence we be "perfect examples" of professionalism working within parameters set in often contradictory Standard Operating Procedures, cause a pause in a human's instinctive fight-or-flight response. That momentary delay could prove fatal. Even if it doesn't, our reaction has often been construed as "overly aggressive."

See? Even one hint of violence takes me into this frame of mind. Why? Because I have seen so many transit workers murdered over the years of this bus operator's career. Thomas Dunn in Florida. Irvine Jubal Fraser of Winnipeg. Shawn Yim in Seattle. Each of these was personal to me. It could happen to any of us. I mourn each of these, and all others who suffered this fate.

My brother Mike Perrault was held captive at gunpoint a year ago, praying he would see his family again. Countless others have suffered vicious attacks across the globe. It's why I urge all my brothers and sisters worldwide to don a bandage on their doorside cheeks every September in honor of #BANDTOGETHER. It's our way of saying #nomore to something we're all a victim of at least once (and usually more) over the course of a career so many consider "easy."

God yes, I want to retire. Great benefits await, true. However, given the cost of living in America today and the instability of Social Security, I can't afford to leave this job. So I'm stuck. 

My body is rebelling. Sciatica. Back pain. Sheer exhaustion tensing in the seat as traffic constantly bombards me with impatient foolishness. Any chance I can, locking up the bus to get out of the seat is a  mandatory survival tip.

Stretch, Nicotine inhalations. Push recent insults aside, try to regain my civility. 

Occasionally, between the rude no-looks of boarding pax, a smiling face greets me. Thankful I lowered the bus, asking how my day has been. Striking moments of kindness in the midst of typically-sullen masses taking my vigilance for granted just because they shelled out a few bucks and change for a ride. Sometimes, I hit the Friendly Bus Operator Lottery. A few actually take time to have a conversation. Maybe we interact daily and have cultivated a relationship. I've made friends of many a friendly rider. Seeing them at a bus stop instantly elevates my mood. They show respect, appreciate our relationship, and offer a welcome respite to the multitudes who care less who's providing them a safe ride.

* * * * *

The hum of tires on pavement, the powerful vibe of a diesel engine propelling 20 tons onward is comforting. I listen for any hint of imperfection. I become intimately entwined with each vehicle I drive. Each has a personality. Every pre-trip inspection, I take time to learn a bus's unique traits. By the time we've been together 10 minutes, operator and vehicle become ONE. We recognize our individual traits. I get a feel for the brake pedal, learn the quirks of the transmission, get a feel for the steering. We will be a team for 10 hours. It's imperative we recognize our collective abilities.

Usually I find a way to adjust to slight imperfections because I resist bothering Dispatch for minor faults. For safety's sake, I report mechanical issues and often predict the response. It costs a lot of money to switch buses. Either an Extra Service operator comes to my rescue or an operator volunteers at the end of their run to swap buses, resulting in overtime the District must reimburse them for. If the problem is not safety-related, I will be instructed to roll and write up the problem for maintenance to address when the vehicle returns to the barn.

I've come to love the vehicles I drive every day. There are several generations of buses. The newest are less than five years old, with a quarter-million miles. The oldest are pushing 500k, and are my favorite, having many old-school features an operator appreciates. Each generation challenges passengers at the back door. The newest buses allows the back door to open automatically rather than depending upon passenger interaction. However, these back doors take the longest to close. A bus cannot move until doors are closed and the interlock is released with firm brake pressure. 

* * * * *

This job can be challenging, interesting and frustrating all at once. But it's never boring, unless you allow it to be. I'm most at peace with a well-tuned, perfectly-operating bus. Thanks to our expert maintenance workers, our buses are fine-tuned vehicles. Given the fact that any of our approximately 800 buses are on the road any given day, their excellent service ensures we are largely problem free.

Overall, I'm blessed to have a career that offers great pay and benefits. I appreciate this more than I have expressed previously. Our union is worthy of praise, no matter how many assail it for "not doing enough." To them, I say BULLSHIT. If not for ATU757, I wouldn't be making $40/hour to drive a large vehicle in a challenging but largely-rewarding career which affords me a wonderful home in a neighborhood we've loved for a quarter-century. Times are tight nowadays, but I'm not living in a tent under a bridge. I have a nice car. Every so often, Beloved and I enjoy a fun vacation together. We can spoil our granddaughter. It may not be the career I expected at the end of my working life, but it's really good. Physically and emotionally draining yeah. But good.

Later, transit buddies. Time for sleep without an alarm. It's my Regular Day Off. Lots of Honey Do's to accomplish after a luxurious 8-hour snooze.