“Fat Lotta Help!”

Most of the “Transients” at this get-together. (Father *******, nattily dressed, is front-and-center.) (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Yrs Trly is very good friends with retired Regional Transit bus-driver *** ********.
Since retirement *** has organized get-togethers of retired Transit employees, mostly bus-drivers, but also management — management that weren’t jerks.
“Transients” is an appellation given us by the guy who daycares my dog while I attend these get-togethers.
He’s a mocker like me, and we worked together at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua after my stroke. He as an editor, me as anything-and-everything, sort of an editorial-assistant.
My job-description there was “typist;” but I never typed anything. I suspect they didn’t wanna call me “Editorial-Assistant,” afraid I’d ask for more pay. I doubt it; it was the BEST job I ever had. They can take credit for my excellent recovery from a stroke.
With me it was Word® tricks, computer-stuff. I retired doing their website.
Usually these get-togethers were at eating establishments, buffets and restaurants. Those who showed were among those invited; although *** invited all he could.
Things were falling apart. I’d been to get-togethers of only two others beside me.
Most retirees drove bus far longer than me. 16&1/2 years for me; many 30 or more. My bus-driving ended October 26th, 1993 with my stroke. Many of my friends drove much longer than I did.
It was a stupid, meaningless job, although I enjoyed the challenge of learning how to drive large equipment.
Plus the pay was pretty good. —It paid for my (our) house.
Among RTS management were jerks, all too happy to pull rank on drivers.
Beyond that was our clientele — I always picked country runs to avoid city-folk.
We drivers had an unspoken rule: DON’T GET SHOT! Be difficult and yer pushing your luck.
I once had a senior clobber me over the head with her umbrella when I asked for senior-citizen ID. (That was the last time I asked.)
Once at a party, Roadeo volunteers (ambulance auxiliaries, whatever) asked how we did it.
“Only three things matter in this job,” I said. Suddenly you could hear a pin drop. “They are -1) show up, -2) don’t hit anything, and -3) keep yer hands outta the farebox.”
A management-minion quietly observed “Ya know Bob, I think yer right.”
Senior-citizen ID was a rule I regularly disregarded. But management wished other drivers were like me — I never caused them grief.
I always reported for work, never late, drove cautiously with 100% concentration, and never stole from the company. Even some in management were fired because of that.
I offered to help ***. He e-mailed retirees as well as phonecalls. I would assemble a gigantic group e-mail list, then send the e-mail myself, so he didn’t hafta do it.
Getting Transit retirees to attend anything seems like pulling teeth. Beyond that, none of our group look at e-mail like ***, me, and a few others.
“Fat lotta help I was,” I told ***. “All I did was assemble that e-mail list. You still had to make phonecalls.” —Phonecalls are difficult for me due to slight aphasia, a stroke-effect.
We tried to arrange a similar get-together last March at Cartwright’s Pancake House. We had only four, but Cartwright’s is 65-75 miles from Rochester.
*** suggested another get-together, but this time in Rochester.
We’d gather at “Nick’s, a restaurant in Sea Breeze up near Lake Ontario. It’s across from Sea Breeze Amusement Park.
I arrived earlier than most, greeted by a torrent of F-bombs from another retired bus-driver.
That’s okay with me, since that’s how we talked at Transit. I had to consciously reduce my F-bomb usage when I began at the Messenger after my stroke.
Usually I feel out-of-it at these shindigs, but not this time. I suppose because most of my retiree friends are somewhat like me.
I happen to have a college degree, but so does another — in fact, he graduated Notre Dame.
That other guy is rather religious, but also is a bleeding-heart Liberal like.
“Them kids from those Projects are gettin’ to school. I ain’t stickin’ ‘em. I’ll stop if he’s chasin’ me. Education might be his only way out.”
(Transit had to contract to bus kids to a school on Rochester’s outskirts. The students came from all over the city. School-trips were often hooked with additional bus-trips needed during rush-hour.
Father ******** is the hyper-religious one. He also is the Notre Dame graduate.
But he better not judge children. —I’ll butt right in.
“Your kid is goin’ through that B-17 on my nickel!”
There were at least 12 people, one being management.
“You were the best radio-controller there was,” an ex-driver said to the management guy.
(The radio-staff were called “controllers.”)
“No need for brownie-points,” another ex-driver remarked.
“Bob, will you please smile?” Father ******** said.
I bared my teeth, what I usually do when so requested.
This shindig was the same day that nut shot Congressmen in that baseball-practice near Washington DC.
Most bewailed the violence.
“How come mayonnaise is on my sandwich?” a patron asks the pimply clerk at a local Mickey D’s.
BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!
Father ******** also decried the gun-violence. “This country is so divided we feel justified killing our opponents.”
I pretty much kept to myself. (“Bob, what aren’t you smiling?”) Verbal discourse is difficult for me; it’s my aphasia.
I often get made fun of because I’m a mite slow getting words out or making sense of things.
I can still sling words extremely well; those guys will read this blog.
I suppose I could hide = not attend these get-togethers. I do partly because my wife died, so I’m told I should socialize.
I also attend because they’re pretty good friends.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus from 1977 to 1993. My stroke ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• RE: “my (our) house......” —My wife (now gone) and I designed our house — a contractor built it.
• “Bob” is of course me, Bob Hughes, “BobbaLew.”
• Mickey D’s is McDonald's.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.