I could tell stories

“Will I be assaulted?” “Why am I so stressed?” “What am I breathing in?” “Will I have a bathroom break?”
The January/February issue of my “In Transit” magazine arrived the other day. On its cover was a bus-driver worrying about all those questions.
That wasn’t them all. The bus-driver was a lady.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
During that time I was a member of Local 282, the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU), which represents bus employees, including mechanics.
“In Transit” is their magazine. They’re in Washington DC.
“In Transit” says bus-employ is the most difficult job in the world — that transit is routinely rated a least healthy occupation.
A graphic depicted health problems prevalent among transit employees: high blood-pressure, diabetes, lower back-pain, asthma, depression, lung disease, cardiovascular problems, carpal-tunnel, etc, etc, etc.
All were apparent in transit employees, especially bus-drivers.
—1) “Will I be assaulted?” This was our greatest concern. What I most abhorred was our clientele.
I’d pick country runs to avoid city folk. We picked by seniority; three times per year.
We drivers had an unwritten rule: “don’t get shot!”
Better to avoid contretemps. Rip-offs weren’t worth losing your life.
—2) “Why am I so stressed?”
“Oh Dora, look, a bus. PULL OUT, PULL OUT!”
Suddenly I hafta stop nine tons of hurtling steel without tossing my passengers out of their seats.
Driving bus I was on guard all the time: 100% concentration.
Eight hours of constantly parrying Granny and NASCAR wannabees.
Even now I can’t drive car with the radio on: it’s a distraction.
I’d come home from work utterly bushed.
Take a nap, to bed by 8 p.m., then up at 3 a.m.
I’d pick runs that minimized port-to-portal.
Out-of-the-house to back-home was about 12 hours. I’d get paid for eight.
—3) “What am I breathing in?”
Our buses were stored inside large sheds (“The Barns”). Mechanics came out each morning to fire ‘em up. This was in case they needed to be jumped.
Once lit, they’d rev to the moon to pump up the air — or just let ‘em idle.
Garage-doors on the Barns were kept closed to keep out the weather. The Barns filled with exhaust.
There also was the possibility exhaust might fumigate inside your bus.
I heard reports of a driver setting off smoke-alarms in his house after driving his first stint.
—4) “Will I have a bathroom break?”
A serious challenge: “Can I hold it until my next opportunity?”
Often that opportunity was out the door in some semi-private location.
Or between the closed rear clamshell doors if your bus was empty.
I factored bathroom breaks into my run-picks.
Transit management, free to use bathrooms willy-nilly, protested our need to widdle.
A retired bus-driver told me about hopping off his loaded bus to take a leak on a city street.
My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended my bus-driving. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
I did it for 16&1/2 years; many drivers more than 30.
It was supposed to be temporary, while I continued looking for work as a writer, mostly in ad agencies.
But it paid fairly well, and I enjoyed doing it at first — mainly the operation of large highway equipment.
But after 16 years I was tiring of it, mainly the clientele.
My stroke was somewhat a blessing. It ended my bus-driving, and got me into the Mighty Mezz; best job I ever had.
I made many good friends at RTS — many of whom I still main contact with after almost 24 years. —And that includes people in management.
People tell me what a stupid, meaningless job bus-driving was, but it paid for my house.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 11 years ago. I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)
• RE: “up at 3 a.m.” —My final run, before my stroke, pulled out at 5:05 a.m. (There were runs that pulled out earlier.) A trip in was about 45 minutes. Leave house at 3:45 after glomming breakfast.