Winked
What follows is my all-time favorite bus-story.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) out of Rochester, NY.
The job was supposed to be temporary, but I liked it, and it paid well.
Especially learning to operate large, heavy vehicles, which have to be driven just so, lest you clip corners and take out telephone-poles.
But after 16&1/2 years I was tiring of it, especially our rancorous, cantankerous clientele. I picked country-runs to avoid city-folk, who could be abusive and sometimes murderous. My country-folk loved having me, since I was reliable and timely. I had ridden bus myself when younger, which affected my operating. I got my riders to work on time no matter what.
I developed secret detours to get around snow-jams. I also carried my own tools, and would fix the bus myself if I could. I remember fixing windshield-wipers once, and tightening innumerable outside rear-view mirrors.
I often did school-work in the morning, when the kids were too sleepy to be difficult. My kids loved having me. If I saw a kid running for my bus, I stopped and let him on. Those kids were getting to school no matter what; it might be their ticket out of the ghetto.
But my stroke ended that: October 26th, 1993.
And I’d say it wasn’t burnout; it was an undiagnosed heart-defect, a Patent Foramen Ovale (“PAT-tint for-AYE-min Oh-VAL-eee”).
Apparently right after you’re born this hole between the upper chambers of your heart, which allows you to use your mother’s oxygen in the womb, is supposed to seal closed.
Well, mine didn’t, and it passed a clot to my brain.
During my final year at Transit, I began doing a voluntary newsletter for my bus-union. At last the union’s viewpoint was getting out to politicians that funded Transit.
Much to the dismay of Transit management, although they liked what I was doing.
For once what it was like to drive bus was getting out. I’d publish bus-stories from my own experience.
I’d take blank time-sheets on my bus, and write up my stories at layover points. Often these stories got written on the backs of tiny bus-transfer slips.
And the politicians loved reading my bus-stories.
And I liked doing it. Often I was up at 3 a.m. keying in stuff on my computer.
My wife was my secret cohort. She’d take my computer-file into work on floppies to print on her employer’s laser-printer.
A friend and I then took her prints to the union office, and copied them perhaps 200 times.
That friend and I would then show up in the bus-drivers’ room at 4 a.m. to pass them out.
Usually one copy made it to the desk of Transit’s head-honcho.
He’d wave it at his $70,000 a year public-relations mavin pointing out I was just a bus-driver, yet I made the PR guy look bad.
I got a newsletter out every month, and the PR guy was supposed to publish a house-organ bimonthly. He usually failed. We might see a house-organ once a year.
Politicians would ring up the PR guy. “Howard, what’s going on down there? You told me everything was hunky-dory, yet I got this union newsletter that reports a motor fell out of a bus.”
“Don’t read that stuff!” Howard would scream. “It’s by union anarchists!”
Once at a Christmas-party Howard refused to talk to me. “Just keep it positive!” he screamed as he ran into the Mens Room.
If anything my slinging words, my blogging, became comfortable with that newsletter. Mainly, just write the story. Don’t edit; it’s good enough as it is.
I might edit a tiny bit, but otherwise just let my muse sling. With my union newsletter I didn’t have time to edit.
This bus-story ran first in my newsletter.
603-bus is gone now. Retired, off the property, and probably languishing forlornly in some boneyard awaiting the scrapper’s torch. Understand I had no more desire to drive 603 in her final years than anyone else, but there was always something special about 603, a secret between her and me.
It all goes back to a bitter wintry night in January ‘79, when I was driving 603 down West Main toward the Corners [Main and Clinton] on the last lap of a particularly arduous afternoon on the 800-line. The weather was bad, I was very late, and after Main & Clinton I was headed in, or so I thought.
But Radio Controller Ron Dodsworth, who departed RTS amicably many years ago, kept asking on the all-call for a soft-seater to do a “quick charter.” Ron kept at it plaintively for about 15 minutes until finally I took pity on him and called. “I got 603-bus,” I said; “which ain’t a sleeper but at least it's got padded seats.”
“No problem,” responded Ron, relieved. “I want you to go out to Nazareth College and take their men’s basketball team over to St. John Fisher.”
Now I had never been to Nazareth College in my entire life, so I worried aloud I might get lost. “You won't have any problem,” Ron assured me. “Just follow the driveway on around, and eventually you'll come face-to-face with the Campus Center.”
“R-T,” I said, as I got myself turned around, and headed for the expressway. I knew where the college was, so finding it was no problem, but once I pulled into the drive I was immediately confronted with a snow-covered fork in the road. I looked around anxiously for a few seconds, saw what looked like a Campus Center-type building to the right, and turned toward it. Then as I proceeded around the turn I began to notice the “road” was getting very narrow. When the “road” finally straightened out, the snowbanks were only eight feet apart. I also noticed the “streetlights” were now at eye-level. Obviously this wasn't a road; it was a sidewalk.
“How am I gonna get out of this mess?” I said to myself, as I picked my way gingerly between the lightposts and park-benches. Buildings closed in tight to the bus, and I began to worry about steps. No way was I going to get 603 up or down even a two-step staircase.
Finally two nuns from the nearby convent appeared in the glare of my headlights, pie-eyed at the sight of my hulking behemoth lumbering toward them on their main, cross-campus sidewalk. They clambered on board over the snow-piles, assured me there were no stairs ahead, and told me if I continued-on I would eventually merge back onto the driveway.
But I wasn't letting them off until we found that Campus Center.
“Sure looks like a road to me,” I allowed, as I pulled up to the fork in the road a second time. They agreed.
Word of this little adventure never got out, of course. And I'm sure I drove old 603 hundreds of times more before she was finally put out to pasture. But every once in a while when I drew her on assignment, while doing my pre-check, I’d look her in the face and give her a wink. Once she even winked back.
• $70,000 a year was quite a bit back then.
• “Saint John Fisher College.”
• “R-T” is the Transit equivalent of “Roger.”
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) out of Rochester, NY.
The job was supposed to be temporary, but I liked it, and it paid well.
Especially learning to operate large, heavy vehicles, which have to be driven just so, lest you clip corners and take out telephone-poles.
But after 16&1/2 years I was tiring of it, especially our rancorous, cantankerous clientele. I picked country-runs to avoid city-folk, who could be abusive and sometimes murderous. My country-folk loved having me, since I was reliable and timely. I had ridden bus myself when younger, which affected my operating. I got my riders to work on time no matter what.
I developed secret detours to get around snow-jams. I also carried my own tools, and would fix the bus myself if I could. I remember fixing windshield-wipers once, and tightening innumerable outside rear-view mirrors.
I often did school-work in the morning, when the kids were too sleepy to be difficult. My kids loved having me. If I saw a kid running for my bus, I stopped and let him on. Those kids were getting to school no matter what; it might be their ticket out of the ghetto.
But my stroke ended that: October 26th, 1993.
And I’d say it wasn’t burnout; it was an undiagnosed heart-defect, a Patent Foramen Ovale (“PAT-tint for-AYE-min Oh-VAL-eee”).
Apparently right after you’re born this hole between the upper chambers of your heart, which allows you to use your mother’s oxygen in the womb, is supposed to seal closed.
Well, mine didn’t, and it passed a clot to my brain.
During my final year at Transit, I began doing a voluntary newsletter for my bus-union. At last the union’s viewpoint was getting out to politicians that funded Transit.
Much to the dismay of Transit management, although they liked what I was doing.
For once what it was like to drive bus was getting out. I’d publish bus-stories from my own experience.
I’d take blank time-sheets on my bus, and write up my stories at layover points. Often these stories got written on the backs of tiny bus-transfer slips.
And the politicians loved reading my bus-stories.
And I liked doing it. Often I was up at 3 a.m. keying in stuff on my computer.
My wife was my secret cohort. She’d take my computer-file into work on floppies to print on her employer’s laser-printer.
A friend and I then took her prints to the union office, and copied them perhaps 200 times.
That friend and I would then show up in the bus-drivers’ room at 4 a.m. to pass them out.
Usually one copy made it to the desk of Transit’s head-honcho.
He’d wave it at his $70,000 a year public-relations mavin pointing out I was just a bus-driver, yet I made the PR guy look bad.
I got a newsletter out every month, and the PR guy was supposed to publish a house-organ bimonthly. He usually failed. We might see a house-organ once a year.
Politicians would ring up the PR guy. “Howard, what’s going on down there? You told me everything was hunky-dory, yet I got this union newsletter that reports a motor fell out of a bus.”
“Don’t read that stuff!” Howard would scream. “It’s by union anarchists!”
Once at a Christmas-party Howard refused to talk to me. “Just keep it positive!” he screamed as he ran into the Mens Room.
If anything my slinging words, my blogging, became comfortable with that newsletter. Mainly, just write the story. Don’t edit; it’s good enough as it is.
I might edit a tiny bit, but otherwise just let my muse sling. With my union newsletter I didn’t have time to edit.
This bus-story ran first in my newsletter.
603-bus is gone now. Retired, off the property, and probably languishing forlornly in some boneyard awaiting the scrapper’s torch. Understand I had no more desire to drive 603 in her final years than anyone else, but there was always something special about 603, a secret between her and me.
It all goes back to a bitter wintry night in January ‘79, when I was driving 603 down West Main toward the Corners [Main and Clinton] on the last lap of a particularly arduous afternoon on the 800-line. The weather was bad, I was very late, and after Main & Clinton I was headed in, or so I thought.
But Radio Controller Ron Dodsworth, who departed RTS amicably many years ago, kept asking on the all-call for a soft-seater to do a “quick charter.” Ron kept at it plaintively for about 15 minutes until finally I took pity on him and called. “I got 603-bus,” I said; “which ain’t a sleeper but at least it's got padded seats.”
“No problem,” responded Ron, relieved. “I want you to go out to Nazareth College and take their men’s basketball team over to St. John Fisher.”
Now I had never been to Nazareth College in my entire life, so I worried aloud I might get lost. “You won't have any problem,” Ron assured me. “Just follow the driveway on around, and eventually you'll come face-to-face with the Campus Center.”
“R-T,” I said, as I got myself turned around, and headed for the expressway. I knew where the college was, so finding it was no problem, but once I pulled into the drive I was immediately confronted with a snow-covered fork in the road. I looked around anxiously for a few seconds, saw what looked like a Campus Center-type building to the right, and turned toward it. Then as I proceeded around the turn I began to notice the “road” was getting very narrow. When the “road” finally straightened out, the snowbanks were only eight feet apart. I also noticed the “streetlights” were now at eye-level. Obviously this wasn't a road; it was a sidewalk.
“How am I gonna get out of this mess?” I said to myself, as I picked my way gingerly between the lightposts and park-benches. Buildings closed in tight to the bus, and I began to worry about steps. No way was I going to get 603 up or down even a two-step staircase.
Finally two nuns from the nearby convent appeared in the glare of my headlights, pie-eyed at the sight of my hulking behemoth lumbering toward them on their main, cross-campus sidewalk. They clambered on board over the snow-piles, assured me there were no stairs ahead, and told me if I continued-on I would eventually merge back onto the driveway.
But I wasn't letting them off until we found that Campus Center.
“Sure looks like a road to me,” I allowed, as I pulled up to the fork in the road a second time. They agreed.
Word of this little adventure never got out, of course. And I'm sure I drove old 603 hundreds of times more before she was finally put out to pasture. But every once in a while when I drew her on assignment, while doing my pre-check, I’d look her in the face and give her a wink. Once she even winked back.
• $70,000 a year was quite a bit back then.
• “Saint John Fisher College.”
• “R-T” is the Transit equivalent of “Roger.”
Labels: Bus-stories
posted by BobbaLew at 2:09 PM
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