Prompt-sheet

Last night I unearthed a vestige of my long-ago time driving bus, the prompt-sheet illustrated above.
Driving bus was supposed to be temporary, but I stayed 16&1/2 years until my stroke suddenly ended it almost 25 years ago.
It was supposedly temporary while I fruitlessly looked for work as a writer. It was pleasant at first. Especially when we lived in Rochester five minutes from work. There also was learning to operate large vehicles.
But it became drudgery after we moved to West Bloomfield. I was now 45 minutes from work, and could no longer work the kind of work I had been doing.
Bus service follows the need. Primary was getting people to work in the morning, then home at night. Service was aimed at rush-hours. Early morning runs, then late afternoon.
There were bus-lines that ran all day, but mostly we were serving the rush-hours.
The prompt-sheet illustrates this kind of work. 2203 is bringing people in from suburban Penfield, and 2007 is taking them back home out near Brockport on the other side of the city.
After we moved I could no longer do this kind of work. 45 minutes was too far away. I had to switch to morning then mid-day. It also meant a change in clientele — I was no longer carrying suburbanites. I was carrying mid-day jerks inclined to mug or cheat me.
With our move bus-driving became no longer fun. It was largely the clientele I was tiring of, and driving only city-runs meant no more expressway blasts. I used to say it was no fun driving bus if I couldn’t boom-and-zoom at least once in an expressway passing-lane. Up-and-down a city street was drudgery.
Never mind! I made many friends among my fellow employees, and passengers loved having me as a driver. They could depend on me. I’d ridden bus myself in the ‘60s. I knew where passengers were — very important out in the boonies.
If they weren’t there I looked for ‘em. If I saw ‘em running after me, I stopped.
When I went on vacation I warned my passengers. I usually started late, arriving downtown on time, but my replacement might start on-time (earlier), so “be at yer stop about five minutes earlier.”
Also “you guys know where the regulars are,” when I started a run in the rural outback. “I need somebody riding shotgun. I don’t wanna miss anyone.”
The passengers loved that. “We got a good one, Martha.”
I was getting those passengers downtown or home on time no matter what! I’d ridden bus myself. I used ramps to get around traffic-jams, and I developed a secret route — not expressway, which was often clogged during blizzards.
I don’t remember what 2203 was, but I remember 2007. It was a Park-and-Ride taking suburbanites home out near Brockport. I had a large “articulated,” the buses that bent in the middle; our first “bendables.”


2105, one of my all-time favorite rides. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

They were bog-slow, but rode extremely well — much better than our city buses, which after suspension overhaul rode like lumber-wagons.
You had to be careful. Driving an “Artic” could be difficult. They easily got stuck, plus the trailer steered. You dared not turn a corner lest that trailer side-step into a four-wheeler.
There also was the challenge of backing: righty-lefty, lefty-righty. They also were so slow ya had to jump the traffic-light. Hit the accelerator when the other direction turned yellow. If ya don’t, the trailer may still be going through the intersection when yer light turned back red.
Bog-slow or not, I loved drivin’ ‘em. Head for the passing-lane, and put-the-hammer-down! They’d krooze at 65; top-end for them.
After we moved, “Artics” were no longer an option. Artics were Park-and-Ride; I could only do city work. (Park-and-Rides were rush-hour.)
My prompt-sheet details times I needed to know to do my run. I taped it to my video-recorder in my kitchen where I watched recorded news while eating supper.
Most important was “Report.” Show up late and yer run got assigned to an “extra driver.” If that happened there was a good chance you got sent home to lose the day.
Others might report exactly on-time, but not this kid. “Report” was five minutes before pullout (mighta been 10). We got paid for that, but it wasn’t enough to fully inspect bus safety.
With me it was wheel lug-nuts; occasionally I found ‘em loose. I didn’t want a wheel coming off; 500-800 pounds (whatever) spinning aimlessly into traffic, and me off the road.
I also needed the extra time in case something mucked up. The one time I was almost late a downpour started as I got out my motorcycle. I had to park it and get my car.
“Up” and “out” is roll outta bed until starting my car. I was allowing an hour to get dressed and eat breakfast.
With 2203 I’d get back home about 10:45 a.m. I was free until “Shower” at 2:40. That was about five hours between “halves.” (Some runs had three “halves;” make sense of that!)
During that time I took my dog to a nearby park and ran. After we moved I no longer had that: my running withered. I used to run footraces.
That long break was wonderful for my dog. My wife didn’t leave until 7 or so, yet I was back by 10:45. The dog got a chance to run at the park, but was alone again about 4 p.m. She’d monitor the squirrel population. My wife got home perhaps an hour-and-a-half later, then me maybe two hours after that.
The shower was because I ran. I also was getting paid extra to work a run with such a long break. All that was lost by moving. I was tiring of it; at 16&1/2 years I still had 14 to go. My stroke was somewhat a blessing; it ended my bus-driving.
It was a “stupid, meaningless job,” but it paid for my house. Driving bus was a challenge. First was the clientele I fell to after moving. Second were Granny and the NASCAR wannabees. You had to forever be on-guard.
“Oh Dora, look; a bus! PULL OUT, PULL OUT!” I came home frazzled.