Dreamin’

“It’s too bad I’m retired, and no longer have a job,” I said to my wife in a dream.
My wife died well over a year ago, but she’s always alive in my dreams.
“I’d feel more like living if I had a work-schedule to follow,” I said. “Even Transit might be more pleasurable than having to come up with things to do every day.
I really miss drivin’ those 500s,” I said, tearing up.
My wife put her hand on my shoulder.

A bat-wing Flxible-Flyer (not RTS — the front-bumper is different too). (The bat-wings are the signs along the top-edge of the bus; RTS had these.)

The 500s were buses made by Flxible.
In my dream a 500 was roaring by, wound to the moon, driver riding high.
Our 500s were fairly simple. Basic bus with a two-speed auto-tranny and V6 6-71.
They leaned a lot in curves, and rode fairly hard.
But they were great fun to drive.
You’d floor the accelerator, and off you lumbered. The racket was a thrill.
And you were right there up ahead of the front-wheels, ridin’ high.
They’d go through anything; 18-inch snow once.
We also had GM buses, but they weren’t as much fun. —Except they cornered fairly well; didn’t lean as much.
But they’d cripple at the slightest: all kinds of sensors that shut down the bus.
The 500s had sensors too, but let you keep operating even with a “hot engine” or “lo oil” light.
If a bus crippled, there you were, trying to explain to Granny why she’d have to miss “Oprah.” (Granny might bop you over the head with her cane!)
I hated crippling a bus; primarily because long ago I’d been a bus-passenger myself.
My career driving transit-bus started May 20th, 1977.
Turnover in bus-drivers was horrendous, so I quickly moved up the seniority-list.
The job was supposed to be temporary, but paid quite well.
Our union had negotiated a cost-of-living escalator.
Only four survived my driving class. We started with five, but one couldn’t stand it.
Out of those four, two were gone in not too long, one fired and one quit.
There were at least two classes right after me, maybe three. Three classes is 15 behind me.
I found driving a bus to be a joy, particularly the 500s. Mastering the operation of a large vehicle was fun.
What mattered was placing the back-end. Since it didn’t steer, it crabbed inside the front-end. It could climb curbs and take out utility-poles.
You see this with tractor-trailers, semis.
The driver puts a huge swing on the truck to make sure his trailer doesn’t hit things.
It’s the same with a bus.
The rear-wheels are 33 feet behind the fronts on the average 40-foot bus, so you have to drive the front-end so the rear won’t hit things.
And with a bus you always had the accelerator floored.
You had to. It was the only way to get it to move.
But of course there was much more to driving bus than operating the vehicle.
You were parrying the public, usually the dregs, who could be capricious and difficult.
We bus-drivers had an unwritten rule: “Don’t get shot!”
For that reason a lot of madness got overlooked, and rules were broken.
That comment about Granny bopping me over the head is not made up — it actually happened.
I could tell stories; I drove bus 16 & 1/2 years.
By 16 & 1/2 years I was tiring of it: too much madness.
My stroke ended it. I retired on disability, but recovered quite well.
I had driven everything interesting, and was now just parrying the public.
And the 500s I started with were gone.
504 was my favorite, a so-called “soft-seater 5.”


Not an RTS bus, but similar to 504 — it has the air-conditioning blister.

504 was one of our original “Park-and-Ride” buses, one of only six with air-conditioning.
Those air-conditioned 5s, 501 through 507, had three-speed over-the-road automatic transmissions.
We had six other soft-seater 5s, 571 through 577, but they were two-speed like the city 5s, and were also governed like the city 5s to 55 mph.
Hit 55 on the expressway, and the motor went away. 55 was all they would do.
501 through 507 weren’t governed.
507 I never saw; it apparently had been destroyed.
501 through 506 I drove often, since I would pick rural runs. —Rural runs were much more pleasant than city runs.
But I preferred 504.
Apparently 504 had been re-engined with a fresh 6-71, so it went like stink.
504 was good for 65-70 mph on the expressway, even with the air on. Glorious! Ridin’ high. Boomin’-and-zoomin’.
I used to say drivin’ bus was no fun unless you could boom-and-zoom at least once every day.
I also used to say 504 was the one I was making payments on.
Every afternoon I’d walk from our parking-lot through our bus-barns before pulling out my rural-run.
Looking for 504, and if I found it, could I get it out?
Often I had to move buses to get out 504, and sometimes I had to back 504 out of the barns.
Backing a bus took skill and faith. You also had to make plenty of noise with your horn. We didn’t have backup beepers then. —Plus you couldn’t see behind the bus.
The guys in middle-management who assigned buses loved me. Transit had considerably expanded its Park-and-Ride services before I started, and got 35 buses to accommodate. Three-speed ungoverned over-the-road 8-71; our 400s.
So when a driver reported to pull out his country Park-and-Ride, he’d bellow for a 400.
Yet here I was asking for 504.
504 was better than most of our 400s. It was more powerful and faster.
By that time our 400s were wearing out.
I remember riding out to a car-dealer to pick up my repaired car.
I sat in the back with other passengers.
That 400 hardly ran. Every time that thing upshifted it sounded like the tranny was gonna come through the floor.
That poor bus-driver had to take that thing all the way out to the boondocks? It was a cripple waiting to happen, and it was cold.
There was one good 400, 436. But all the other 400s were douche-bags.
I used to say 436 was the one I’d steal.
During my final year at Transit, before my stroke, I became intimately involved with my bus-union.
I started doing a voluntary union newsletter on my computer with Microsoft Word©. I’d generate the newsletter, have my wife print it on her laser-printer where she worked, and then copy each page on the union’s copier, perhaps 400 copies per page.
Then a fellow union-member and I would arrive in the Drivers’ Room at 4:30 a.m. to pass them out.
It was a marriage made in Heaven. A confident word-slinger (me) generating words.
I’d write long bus-stories I ran in the newsletter, write-ups of my various experiences driving bus.
The newsletter had immense power. That fellow union-member was distributing that newsletter to various local politicians that funded Transit.
And the politicians would read it, since it was an interesting read.
For once the union’s side of things was getting out; the opposite of “everything’s hunky-dory” from Transit public-relations.
If a bus broke apart and fell off a lift — it happened — we cartooned it. We also cartooned some of the insanity of our passengers — the muggings, the floozies, etc.
We also cartooned some of the insane promulgations of Transit management.
The end result is some politician would call up Transit public-relations and ask “What’s going on down there? You were telling us everything was hunky-dory, yet I have this union newsletter that implies it isn’t.”
A copy of my newsletter went directly to the Transit head-honcho. What fires did he have to put out this time?
He’d thereafter call in his head of public-relations, and ask why I was doing a better job.
That public-relations head had a gigantic salary, and was supposed to produce a glittering and self-congratulatory house-organ every two months.
Yet he often failed. We might see that house-organ twice a year.
Of course he failed. He was driving a desk and guzzling free company coffee.
Yet here I was, a mere bus-driver, producing this voluntary newsletter, which everyone loved, even people in lower management.
And mine was monthly, not bimonthly. I’d list birthdays, etc.; stuff the house-organ should have listed.
My stroke ended it, as it did my bus-driving.
People probably thought that newsletter was the cause of my stroke, but it wasn’t, even though it caused late nights and was struggle to put out.
I had an undiagnosed heart-defect, since repaired.
So as I recovered from my stroke, my recovery-team asked me what I wanted to do.
Did I want to return to bus-driving? No I didn’t! What I wanted to do was something similar to my newsletter, word-slinging.
So I was taken to the Daily Messenger newspaper in nearby Canandaigua to be considered as an unpaid intern.
I was allowed on, and after a year began actual paid employ.
My position at first wasn’t slinging words, although they began publishing a weekly column by me.
My pay was peanuts compared to Transit. My column was no charge.
I was encouraged, and soon began computer-tricks.
After a couple years, an advisor from my stroke rehabilitation team showed up, and asked me again if I wanted to return to bus-driving.
“Absolutely not!” I told him. That newspaper-job was the best I’d ever had. —Happiness was more important than good pay.
In the end I was doing the newspaper’s website, and generating pages of copy for print. A lot involved computer-tricks that made such copy possible.
I had created various computer-functions that saved time — all because it was technically interesting.
But having driven bus so many years I find myself having bus-dreams.
And I miss those old 500s.
This morning’s bus-dream (two days later) was piloting a bus over a raggedy-ass rat-race like I was doing just before my stroke.
But at least this dream was sensible, instead of driving a bus through contorted hallways, and into cul-de-sacs I couldn’t escape.
It was on Transit’s north-south 500-line, busy taking malcontents out to “Wuh-fay,” our county’s Welfare-building.
Before my stroke I was driving the 800-line, Main St. through Rochester.
It was awful. Eight continuous hours of stop-at-every-stop, and no break at all except once at a hospital.
Straight-eights were rare; only three out of hundreds of runs.
Our union only allowed those straight-eights because a few drivers wanted them. Our number-one in seniority had one, and another old head had one.
By then I was about 30th in seniority — out of about 250 drivers.
Most drivers wanted a lunch-break.
The only advantage to that line was it relieved in front of the bus-barns. I could walk directly to my car in the company parking-lot.
I wasn’t being relieved downtown, and waiting for a bus back to the Barns.
My dream had my wife in it, which tells me it’s a dream.
My wife is gone, and no longer shares the bed.
I reach over, and no wife.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• “Flxible,” not “Flexible.” — Flexible-Flyer is the sled (I had one as a child, fastest sled in town).
• “Transit” (RTS) equals Regional Transit Service, the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
• “Tranny” is the transmission on a motor-vehicle.
• A “6-71” is a six-cylinder diesel engine of 71-cubic-inch cylinders. “8-71” is eight cylinders. (Other cylinder displacements were made; for example 53 cubic-inches, and 92 cubic-inches. [Our later bus-engines were turbocharged 6-92.]) —Diesel-engines were first made inline; for example a 4-53. Later they were made as Vs; for example a V6 6-71.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”
• RE: “Relieved.......” —When your driving-shift ended you were relieved by another bus-driver, if the bus ran continuously all day long. (The opposite was to “pull-in” back to the Barns.)

Queen of the Seventeen

This morning’s transit-dream was about good old Hazel Rolle (“roll”), the so-called “Queen of the Seventeen.”
Hazel, like me, is a retired bus-driver from Regional Transit Service (RTS, “Transit”), although she probably retired well after me, since I retired early because of my stroke.
In fact, I only worked for Transit 16&1/2 years, 1977-1993; my stroke was October 26, 1993.
Hazel was ahead of me in seniority, and probably worked there 30 years.
Regional Transit Service, in Rochester, NY, is a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs.
The Seventeen is Transit’s 1700-line, a really nice ride.
It was almost rural in character, and had a great clientele.
They weren’t always threatening to shoot you, or ripping you off, like a city bus-line.
The 1700 didn’t even go through downtown Rochester. It used the same terminal as our Park-and-Ride buses, behind a downtown shopping-mall.
It left the city via a ritzy boulevard, and headed out into ritzy suburbs.
Its destination was Pittsford, an ultra-rich suburb on the old Erie Canal.
Your clientele was often domestic-help for Pittsford’s residents.
There were two colleges out along the line, and they were the only problem.
One was St. John Fisher College, which I’d access via a long driveway-loop — in-and-out.
Students would go ballistic when I drove out the driveway and headed for Pittsford.
“Hey man, where ya goin’?”
“Pittsford, just like the sign says,” I’d answer.
“We thought ya were goin’ downtown,” they’d wail.
“Anybody read at that there college?” I’d ask.
It was always a joy to leave them shivering in the cold along the avenue into Pittsford.
“I’ll be back in about a half-hour,” I’d say.
The other college was Nazareth, another in-and-out driveway-loop.
The trouble was the bus-loop itself, full of illegally-parked cars.
“No parking, bus-loop,” signs said.
I’d have to get off my bus and go inside an adjacent building to get the receptionist to make an announcement over the building P.A.
I couldn’t negotiate the bus-loop without driving all over the grass to avoid the illegally-parked cars.
Driving on the grass was a definite no-no. The college would sue the bus-company for damage.
Hazel was a volunteer helper at my polling-place; help the old folks vote.
“Are ya sure ya can read all those instructions, honey?”
That was Hazel all right. She was always calling everyone “honey.”
“Of course I can,” I responded. “And I drove bus at Transit just like you, Hazel.”
She didn’t recognize me.
“1703,” I said. “I drove it three years.
Nicest ride I ever had,” I added.
“Eugene Muhammad had it, then he gave it up, and then I drove it.
And Eugene Muhammad is still alive,” I said. “Silver hair instead of coal-black, but it was him, and he remembered good old 1703.”
And Fred, the passenger at Nazareth we all dreaded. He was always yakking at you like we were his best buddy.
Try to avoid bus-accidents with Fred yakking at you.
Eugene was always yelling “Come-on down” in the Drivers’ Room (at RTS), when the Dispatcher called an Extra-Driver to report for duty.
The Extra-Drivers were on hand to substitute for a sick or unreported bus-driver, or take a bus out to replace a crippled bus, or to fill in behind a loaded bus.
“Come-on down” is reprising the Price-Is-Right TV-show.
Eugene was being sarcastic.
I’m sure Eugene had been an Extra-Driver once. But 1703 was a nice ride, and had the same hours every day.
Which is why I avoided the Extra-Board. Hours as an Extra were different every day.
Plus there was always the chance you’d get sent on a trip out along streets ya didn’t know.
Often during blizzards I’d get sent who knows where to make a trip that hadn’t been made for some time.
“I need a navigator,” I’d say to my passengers. “I don’t know this route.”
Passengers just loved that; “not some self-absorbed idiot that takes us astray.
We just wanna go home.”
Hazel drove 1702 or 1701, the two all-day buses on the 1700 line.
1703 was an extra afternoon trip, added to shorten headways.
1703 had a school-trip attached to it — Transit ran segregated school-trips along established bus-lines.
The trip was kind of a drag, because the kids were really wired, and they were seventh- and eighth-grade.
What I’d do if they were complete monsters is just drive around the block back to the school.
They hated that. What they wanted was to get home, so it shut them down.
After that school-trip I had a 50-minute layover before my first trip to Pittsford, enough time to nap over the motor.
I’d set my alarm-watch, and go sack out.
Paid to take a nap!
And once I started driving the 17, it was fabulous.
Which was why Hazel always picked it.
On my second trip I carried a bunch of commuters out to Pittsford, and they’d sit in the back and discuss politics (or religion/philosophy [gasp]).
This was way better than shooting off firecrackers, playing dice on the bus-floor, or laying plans to mug the bus-driver.
I made three trips to Pittsford; which was one too many — done at 7:30, late.
But it was a nice ride; one of the best.
I don’t think Hazel ever recognized me, but she did recognize 1703, Fred, and Eugene Muhammad.

• At Transit, bus-runs were chosen according to job-seniority, so old-heads usually got the best runs.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester, then back.

Good old 504 bus

Another strange and utterly predictable bus-dream this morning.
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 its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
So I have bus-dreams.
I was driving good old 504 bus, my all-time favorite.
Our company had at least 75 500-series buses, perhaps 76.
They were numbered 501 through 576 or 577.
They were made by Flxible, and were basic buses, which is why I liked ‘em.
They were extremely hard to cripple — break down.
A GM bus might throw up a “lo-oil” or “hot-engine” light, and shut everything down.
In which case you were stranded with a bus-load of angry passengers, incensed they couldn’t get home.
A 500 might throw up a red trouble-light, but it kept goin’.
You could run with low oil or water until an on-the-road mechanic topped it up.
And there was a pretty good chance the sensor that triggered that trouble-light was wonky.
Which was especially frustrating with a GM bus. (Crippled by a wonky sensor.)
I’ve heard opposite opinions about the Flxible 500s, that they rode hard and caused back problems.
They also were leaners; they didn’t have the roll-resistance of a GM bus.
But I always preferred a 500 over a GM bus, mainly because they were so hard to cripple.
I’ve ridden bus myself, and if there was one thing I hated as a passenger, it was my bus breaking down.
That always effected my bus-driving. (We weren’t crippling if I could help it!)
501 though 506 and 570 (or was it 571) through 576 (or 577) were “soft-seaters.”
They had cushioned seats.
Everything else were city buses; they had hard plastic seats reinforced with fiberglass.
501 through 506 had three-speed over-the-road transmissions. Everything else was two-speed, governed to 55 mph tops.
The top gear of a two-speed was direct; full revs at 55 mph.
So 504 was the three-speed over-the-road tranny, but a very strong 6-71 V6 engine.
It was probably re-engined, so 504 was faster than many of our over-the-road 400-series GM buses with 8-71 V8 engines.
Most bus-drivers preferred a 400, so 504 was easy to get.
Due an over-the-road Park-and-Ride bus in the afternoon, I’d come through the barns and look for 504.
Quite often it was buried in the middle of a long line of buses.
I’d have to extract it, but usually I could.
That meant moving buses to get 504, but they always gave it to me when I asked for it.
Sometimes 504 was at the rear of a lane, so I had to back it out of the barns.
But 504 was a great ride. 60-70 mph in the passing-lane on the expressway.
(It was no fun driving bus unless you could boom-and-zoom at least once per day!)
And 501 through 506 were also air-conditioned, but that didn’t slow 504 any.
571 through 576 (or 577) weren’t air-conditioned, and their two-speed trannies limited you to the slow-lane on the expressway.
So I always looked for 504, and usually got it.
I said 504 was the one I was making payments on.
My dream had good old 504, a Park-and-Ride in the dark into the boonies.
It was bad weather, and vision was marginal.
There were no street-lights in the boonies, so all you had were your headlights, which usually weren’t very good.
It got so about all I could see was the right side of the road, right in front of me.
Even that disappeared, so I was driving on where I knew the curves were.
Very frightening!
But I knew it was just a dream.
Then what usually happens in these dreams, what bus-drivers (at least me) feared most, happened: I drove into a cul-de-sac, a road with no exit except reverse out.
We were prohibited from backing, so had to get the assistance of a road-supervisor, who then implied you were stupid.
There was also the possibility your passengers might go ballistic, and mug you.
But this was a Park-and-Ride. Park-and-Ride passengers were usually above that, and they always loved me because I was so dependable.
I.e. They were with me.
Things were closing in.
Everywhere I looked there was not enough clearance to pass a bus, so I got off to look around.
As often happens in these dreams, I noticed an exit opening up.
I could escape without reversing — no road-supervisor.
(Who knows how many times I actually reversed without a road-supervisor? —Although usually not far.)
Escape-route located I began waking up.
504 only crippled on me once. A fitting came loose on its tranny and dumped ATF (Automatic-Transmission-Fluid) all over a parking-lot out in the boonies.
The on-the-road mechanic had to drive all the way out there, with Quik-Dry, but fixed it right there.
I completed my run, but a half-hour late.

• I had a stroke 18 years ago, from which I pretty much recovered.
• “GM” is General Motors.
• “Tranny” equals transmission.
• “6-71s” are six cylinders of 71 cubic-inches displacement per cylinder; “8-71” are eight cylinders of the same cylinder displacement. —Our engines were diesel, made by Allison.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to-or-from work in Rochester.
• “The barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the barns.”
• A “road-supervisor” was an official of the company that rode around in a supervisor-car, supervised bus-drivers, and settled arguments with bus-passengers. They also attended bus accidents.

Geezer meeting

Norb Dynski at left, Ron Palermo next to him, Vince Arena at right; all retired bus-drivers. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The other day (Thursday, July 28, 2011) was a brunch meeting of the Transit retirees group, which I call the Transit geezers club.
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 its environs.
My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Our group is ad hoc; that is, it’s not official.
It’s comprised of both hourlies and management, although it’s low-line management, not the White-Tower elitists.
In fact, one guy isn’t retired. He still works at Transit as management, a radio-controller.
The radio guys kept in contact with bus-drivers, etc via radio, more-or-less dispatching operations.
Nevertheless that guy is from our time; he’s worked at Transit 38 years.
I remember working with him. His feet were squarely on the ground.
Radio-controllers, and bus-drivers, could be jerks.
But we weren’t.
On my end, it was a reflection of the fact I had once been a bus-passenger myself.
On-time performance, and the bus better not cripple. Plus the shortest detours I could find time-wise.
We got those people to work on time, or else I’m losing passengers.
No excuses, no “not my fault.”
The bus-union would have been mad at me.
I carried my own tools.
I wasn’t waitin’ no 35 minutes for a mechanic to tighten a floppy mirror. —Nor floppy windshield-wipers.
I preferred our Flxible (“flix-ible”) buses. They’d run even with the “hot-engine” or “lo-oil” trouble-lights — unlike our GM buses, which shut down.
Nine times out of 10 a sensor was haywire.
We’re gettin’ them passengers home. I ain’t stickin’ ‘em.
I always feel a little out-of-it at these shindigs; like I’m not really one of them.
But I am; and they make really great friends.
Driving bus was dangerous; dealing with psychos.
You could get shot.
And upper management seemed more in it to just collect their bloated paychecks.
It seemed upper management wanted to insulate themselves from the world we dealt with.
Plus upper management and my bus-union were always at war.
The world we dealt with went for all us geezers.
Madness everywhere, and we were always parrying it.
We swapped stories about what it was like to have some passenger puke all over you, or pee on the floor.

• “Flxible” was a manufacturer of transit-buses. They competed with General Motors. RTS had about 75. Flxible is no more.

Transit-dream this morning

Fishbowl but not RTS.

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 its environs. My stroke ended that.
“I need a navigator.”
I used to do this on esoteric routes, bus-routes a bit hard too follow, that twisted and turned all over.
“I don’t wanna miss anyone,” I’d say.
I suppose this is more motivated than many bus-drivers, but I had been a bus-passenger myself eons ago.
I’d go out and reconnoiter the line the weekend before starting a new route, but sometimes I felt that wasn’t enough.
Especially out in the hinterlands, where there might not be bus-stops.
“Don’t miss this guy. Ya won’t even see ‘im.”
One year I had a school-run through “the Projects,” the deepest darkest slums in Rochester.
I had it all school year; started with a full bus-load (about 40-50), and ended up with maybe 20.
I really had only one rule: “ass, pass, gas or grass; nobody rides free.” (They had passes.)
If one of my kids was running to a stop, I’d stop and let them on.
Them kids were gettin’ to school if I could help it.
(And I only drove school-trips in the morning. The kids were too sleepy to be trouble. —Going home they were wired.)
40-50 down to 20; I used to wonder how many were still alive, or how many had gone to prison.
I also wondered how many I’d lost to “ass, pass, gas or grass.”
Kids would lose their bus-pass, then drop out.
The run in my dream was very esoteric, and I happened on it as a vacation-run, whatever.
I had one of our old “wide-100s,” 102 inches wide, our first buses over eight feet wide — eight feet is 96 inches.
“100” was the bus series, although we only had about nine or 10, numbered 151 on.
They were “Fishbowls” (GM “New Look”), like pictured above.
A wide-100 still seated 53, the added width was in the center aisle.
The added width made little difference; what made buses hard to drive was their length (and their wheelbase).
It was a city-run, but over unfamiliar streets. It wasn’t a regular bus-route.
Far be it I miss anyone because of my winging it.
I corralled a navigator to ride shotgun — follow the correct route.
I had ridden these things myself, and knew what it meant to be left standin’ if no bus showed, or worse yet just flew by.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. It ended my career driving bus.
• Regional Transit does school-work, taking kids to school in regular city buses. The kids are picked up along regular bus-routes.
• RE: “Vacation-run.......” —The regular bus-driver would go on vacation, so his run became a “vacation-run,” open to extra drivers. (Extra drivers were a pool of bus-drivers not assigned to regular bus-runs. —You were an “extra-driver” by choice.)
• Vehicle-width used to be restricted to eight feet. Then it was upped to 102 inches.

Missed relief

Horrible dream this morning.
......That I had “slipped” a relief.
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 its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
A “slip” was to fail to show up on time for work.
There were two kinds of slips:
-1) To fail to report on time to pull a bus out, and
-2) To miss relieving a driver already driving a bus, who was to be replaced by you. (Some buses ran all day.)
My missed relief came from confusion which set in -a) since my stroke, and -b) since my retirement from bus-driving.
Such confusion never occurred during my employ. I never “slipped” once. —I was supremely conscientious.
I’d schedule things so slipping couldn’t occur.
Although I tried awful hard once.
It started pouring rain as I got out my motorcycle.
I had to park it and get in my car.
I made my show-up with seconds to spare.
If you were a second late for a show-up, you slipped.
Which may seem ridiculous, but I felt it eminently fair.
It took possible management favoritism out of the equation.
In this morning’s dream, I showed up at management’s window to get transfers for my relief.
Transfers were tiny pieces of paper a driver issued to passengers for a nickel or dime extra.
They entitled that passenger to transfer to another bus without paying additional bus-fare.
My relief was a run I hated.
A slow sojourn out into the western suburbs with horrible equipment, aging and unreliable.
Equipment prone to breakdown, which I abhorred.
There was confusion on my part, like when I was supposed to make the relief.
As I say, confusion like this never occurred during my employ.
I was over an hour off (late) — I had “slipped” the relief.
A typical management goon, prone to elitism, told me we needed a “consult.”
We bus-drivers were unionized; management and union were always at war.
I was dragged into a tiny office to face the goon at his desk — this was what was known as “getting called on-the-carpet.”
I failed to get union representation to go in with me; an angle I knew I should have done from my involvement with the Union.
A union-rep was always on-the-property to accompany union employees before management.
But you had to ask for union representation.
Over 16&1/2 years I got called-on-the-carpet a few times, but charges weren’t serious.
A missed relief was.
The management goon could go ballistic; he might even fire me.
I mentioned the source of my confusion; the fact I had driven the run only a few times.
But management loved to pillory union-employees, or so it seemed.
Like we union-employees were the scum of the earth — an outcome of the wars.

Not the real world

Last night (Thursday, January 20, 2011) I got an e-mail from an old friend, who like me retired from Regional Transit Service.
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 its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Like me, he retired because of strokes; in his case two, in my case only one.
Both of us recovered fairly well, although his left side is somewhat inoperative, particularly his left arm.
I, on the other hand, have all my faculties, although speech is slightly compromised, and my balance is wonky.
My friend retired as a Road-Supervisor, me as a bus-driver; although he drove bus at first.
Road-Supervisors drove around in supervisor-cars, supervising bus-drivers and intervening in disputes with passengers.
In other words, he was management.
I probably could have migrated to management myself, but didn’t.
Like most bus-drivers, I was of-the-opinion that the best job at Transit (RTS) was driving bus.
You were pretty much on-your-own all day, free of office-politics.
My friend is married to a current bus-driver who will soon retire.
So he’s privy to what’s going on there.
I’m not. Transit faded from my life after my stroke.
Apparently new red-light cameras in Rochester were triggered by RTS buses running red-lights.
Traffic-lights were always a hairball, approached with great fear and trepidation.
If the light changes, do you keep on going, or slam on your brakes throwing passengers on the floor.
So I always approached traffic-lights slowly, so I could stop if I had to without throwing passengers on the floor.
Driving the same bus-route every day, you got so you could predict a traffic-light.
Beyond that, most city traffic-lights had pedestrian walk-lights.
If a walk-light was on for pedestrians, you could proceed.
If the pedestrian-light was at “don’t walk,” the traffic-light might change on you.
Often the pedestrian-lights had timers counting the seconds until “don’t walk.”
So it’s hard for me to imagine myself triggering a red-light camera.
Except if your schedule is so tight you have to break the law to keep schedule.
This e-mail prompted a dream, actually two of my lucid bus-driving dreams this morning.
I was driving Main St., the dreaded 800-line.
The 800-line was always a killer; the main drag east-to-west through the city.
The eastern end was the worst; stop at every stop, and not enough time to do so.
I always ran late.
Flat-out through the end-of-line layover, and change the sign on-the-fly.
So here I was driving the east end, the first time I had driven bus in years.
East Main was a war-zone; construction everywhere.
With a bus you had to be fully aware of the gigantic size of your vehicle, lest your back-end clip something.
The bridge over the old New York Central railroad-tracks was being rebuilt, and down to only two lanes on one half.
A bus was too wide for opposing traffic; you had to have the bridge to yourself.
Plus you were making sharp curves approaching and leaving.
You had to drive just so; lest your back-end clip the bridge-trusses.
Bus-stops were crowded as they always were on the 800, plus most stops were somewhat unsafe.
In my first dream I found myself “off-route” downtown, trying to get back to Main St.
“Off-route” is grounds for firing, so I didn’t report it.
But I drove into a cul-de-sac — no exit — as I do in most bus-driving dreams.
Cul-de-sacs were the thing you feared most.
I only had it happen once during my career, on a detour through a snowy parking-lot I wasn’t familiar with.
You don’t back a bus out of a cul-de-sac, for fear of blindly backing into something.
You have to call in a Road-Supervisor, who drives out and then loudly excoriates you as stupid.
My parking-lot cul-de-sac looked safely escapable, but no reverse.
A Road-Supervisor had to drive all the way out from downtown to engage my reverse manually.
I was at Lake Ontario, perhaps 10 miles from downtown.
My second dream was not “off-route.”
I managed to get downtown, but the dedicated bus-lane was filled with parked delivery-trucks.
“I’ll have to let you off in the street,” I said to my passengers.
“The bus-stop is blocked. Look both ways before stepping out the door.”
I thereafter looked out for my debarking passengers, so they didn’t step into the path of an oncoming car.
(I had it happen once. A girl got off my bus, walked in front of it, and got brushed by a passing car.
It didn’t injure her; just flipped her into the pavement. She got clipped by the right-side mirror.
But Daddy and an ambulance-chaser went after Transit.
Deep pockets.
Like it was my fault.
Which it wasn’t, of course.
I hadn’t signaled her.
From then on, I looked out for debarking passengers.
Saved a couple kids once.
They were mad as Hell like I had honked at them.
They never even saw the car that woulda run them over, if I had not stopped them.)
Passengers off, I headed west over the stone viaduct over the Genesee River.
It was dark, and the pavement was all torn up — like driving on dirt.
My next bus-stop was also dirt.
Let your passengers off in rock rubble.
“Unsafe,” I said. “Be very careful. This is the best I can do.”
Sure, keep a tight schedule under such conditions.
What is that Scheduling Department doing? A single car on Sunday morning with no passengers?
NOT THE REAL WORLD. Do they have any idea what it’s like out here?

• The “Genesee River” (“jen-uh-SEE”) is a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, runs through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario.

Rollout........

........yesterday (Tuesday, November 23, 2010) was at 5 a.m., which my good friend Gary Coleman (“coal-min”), also like me a Transit retiree, says is a disgrace to the Transit retiree code-of-conduct.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — “Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Coleman is right, of course, since every run I had pulled out very early in the morning; usually no later than 6:45.
My worst pulled out at 5:05, which meant getting up at 3 a.m.
I was doing this for two reasons:
— 1) To allow time for breakfast, etc; perhaps 45 minutes.
— 2) To allow 30-40 minutes travel-time to the Barns.
The idea was to not be late for work, so I was usually arriving about 4:45.
Late would have been after 4:55; we were supposed to report 10 minutes before pull-out.
We were paid 10 minutes to pre-check our bus, which was hardly enough.
By reporting at 4:45, -a) I was never late, and -b) I could more thoroughly pre-check my bus.
Which in my case was make sure all the wheel lug-nuts were tight.
Quite often they weren’t, in which case I was directed to the Tire-Room.
Tightening everything might gobble 10 more minutes, but I wasn’t about to have a wheel come off.
It was easier when we lived in Rochester.
There I was about five minutes from the Barns.
That meant I could work runs with perhaps a five-hour break between “halves” (segments).
Such work was usually school-trips or Park-and-Rides. Park-and-Rides were the cream of the pickin’s.
Good clientele, and a scenic ride.
School-work was okay, but only in the morning, when the school-kids were too sleepy to be a problem.
By afternoon there were wired — monsters.
I had one run that took middle-school students downtown after school.
Many times I returned to the school with a discipline problem.
It was all I could do.
They were good after that because they wanted to get home.
Sometimes they were so desperate they jumped out the side-windows of my bus. The side-windows swung open from the top as a safety-measure.
Especially if they saw a fight was brewing on the sidewalk.
But in the morning they were too sleepy. I did a lot of morning school trips.
But after we moved to West Bloomfield I could no longer do work assignments with a five-hour break.
I was now 30-40 minutes from the Barns.
To do such work meant long trips to-and-fro, or staying downtown, which wasn’t possible.
I had to start doing regular city bus-runs, which made the clientele worse, and took out the time off for school off.
Driving school-work meant if school was off, you were off. Yet you were still getting eight hours of pay — per contract.
With that it was possible to work only four hours in the afternoon, yet collect eight hours pay.
With regular city-bus runs that was no longer possible.
School vacations didn’t apply.
Our early rollout was because we had to deliver a car to a car-wash place at 8 a.m.
The car-wash place was in nearby Canandaigua, 20-30 minutes away.
“Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we 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 15 miles away.
We probably coulda got up 15-20 minutes later; we arrived at the car-wash place at 7:55. (We were also allowing for breakfast.)
It wasn’t open yet; but they arrived just before 8 a.m.
People are probably wondering why we couldn’t wash/wax ourselves.
Well we did before, but now we’re old.
I figure it’s better to farm it out than waste a whole day or more doing a sloppy job.
The car-wash place is also doing doll-ups for dealers.
They have what’s needed for black plastic trim. We always ended up with milky wax-smudges on that.

• I had a stroke I pretty much recovered from.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns. (We Transit-employees always said we worked outta “the Barns.”)
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. We previously lived in Rochester.
• RE: “Now we’re old....” —We’re both 66.

Artics

(“arr-ticks”)


An “Artic.” (Photo by BobbaLew)

Over 16&1/2 years of driving bus, I liked driving the artics (pictured above) most of all.
From 1977 to 1993 I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
In my humble opinion, the artics were the best-riding bus we had.
Other buses often accelerated better, but might ride like lumber-wagons.
436-bus was especially strong. I used to say it was the one I’d wanna steal.
It went like stink, but was all wonky when I got it.
I wrote it up for worn suspension-bushings, and thereby got the driver who usually had it all bent-outta-shape.
436 was still a beast after it was fixed, but was no longer the regular assignment on that driver’s run.
It became part of the Park-and-Ride rotation.
Anything else I could floor through an expressway flyover.
But not 436.
It was too strong — it woulda spun into the boonies.
Our 400-series Park-and-Ride buses were 8-71 unturbocharged V8 motors with a three-speed automatic tranny.

GM fishbowl (not RTS).

They were fishbowls, but soft seats and no standee windows; i.e. suburban Park-and-Ride buses.
The artics were not GM.
They were M-A-N, a German design.
But they were manufactured here is the USA under license.
Articulated meant the bus was hinged in the middle; two bus segments with an accordion bellows between.
I.e. One driver for a bus 60 feet long.
The front segment had the motor under the floor; the rear segment was a trailer.
The idea was to combine two bus-runs into one, but it wasn’t that successful.
Those two bus-runs might carry 60 people, and I started out with that, but ended up with about 30 after five months.
I was leaving about 10 minutes earlier than the Fairport bus-run, and picking up the East Rochester bus-passengers about 10 minutes later.
You also had to make allowances with an artic.
They were so heavy and slow ya had to start accelerating through a traffic-light before the light changed.
You also had to drive slowly over dips lest the whole bus start pogoing, center (hinge) up while each extremity bounced down.
Another hairball was the trailer steering. Turn a tight corner, and the trailer steered out and sideswiped anything in the adjacent lane.
I saw it happen once; the bus-driver didn’t even know she’d hit anything.
Transit management forbade sharp right turns with an artic, but that didn’t cover everything.
Better was the bus-driver being aware. Ya didn’t start a corner until all adjacent traffic cleared.
And then there was traction on wet and snow-covered pavement.
Wet was okay, but on snow-covered pavement the drive-wheels would start spinning.
The heavy motor-weight wasn’t over the drive-wheels like on regular buses.
I remember my first time with a city-bus in 18-inch-deep snow.
The thing kept going, and the back-end was baldies.
I was amazed.
But not an artic.
Management tried snow-tires at first, our first use of snow-tires.
Didn’t work.
Management then tried retractible chain-wheels, that spun chains under the drive-wheels.
That worked, but only three buses had them.
I arranged with the morning “train-out” man, for one of those buses for my run.
I had a steep hill to climb, a private road, that was never salted or plowed.
The worst problem, although supposedly, because I never had it, was braking.
The artics had some gizmo for additional braking, that when activated (a toggle-switch) apparently put additional braking (electronic or hydraulic; whatever) into the drive-wheels.
Transit management would come on the radio all-call, and tell us all to switch off that additional braking if the pavement was wet.
Use your brakes hard enough, and I suppose that could lock your drive-wheels; sending you sliding.
That never happened to me — I wasn’t using the brakes hard enough.
Other bus-drivers suggested using your rear-door interlocks to stop your bus.
I tried that once, and what it did was lock the bus’ rear-end.
Not this kid!
What I was doing was allowing engine compression to decelerate my bus; braking was only additional — and marginal.
Same with the artics; although I also dutifully switched off that additional braking when commanded.
But I didn’t have to.
I loved the artics.
Best ride was mornings from far-out Hamlin.
Toward Rochester, and then get on Interstate-390, head for the passing-lane, and hammer-down.
An artic would cruise at 60 or so.
Hammer-down all the way into Rochester, about 7-10 miles.
I was supposed to loop in the parking-lot of the Hamlin town offices, but one morning it had snowed quite a bit, so huge plows were clearing the parking-lot.
They had built up a huge ten-foot berm, so I had no place to turn.
And I couldn’t back; ya don’t back an artic.
So I just aimed 90 degrees at the berm, and drove right through it! Head-on; just blasted it.
We didn’t ride up on the snow; just plowed right through it.
An artic was heavy enough ya could.

• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “8-71” is eight cylinders, 71 cubic inches displacement per cylinder.
• “Tranny” is transmission.
• “GM” is General Motors — they had bus-manufacture.
• “M-A-N” is Maschinenfabrik Augsburg-Nürnberg.
• “Fairport” is a suburb east of Rochester; “East Rochester” another suburb to the east of Rochester, but closer than Fairport. —Both suburbs were served by the same bus-line, so that a bus in from Fairport could serve East Rochester on the way in. Previous to artics, each suburb was served by its own Park-and-Ride.
• “Baldies” are bald tires — no tread.
• RE: “Retractible chain-wheels.....” —The chains weren’t actually on the tires; they were on retractible chain-wheels that slung the chains under the tires. A toggle-switch would put the chain-wheels down, and start them rotating.
• The “‘train-out’ man” was the employee that assigned buses. —Each bus-run was called a “train;” language from trolley days.
• RE: “Interlocks.....” —When you activated a door, the nearest brakes would set into a parking-mode. Most city-buses had “rear-door interlocks;” quite a few also had “front-door interlocks.” The fronts apparently activated only the front brakes, and the rear the rear brakes.
• “Hamlin” was a rural farm-town far west of Rochester, perhaps 20+ miles out.
• “Interstate-390” is the main interstate into Rochester from the south, and then it wraps around the west side of Rochester to where it ends.

My last bus-story........

....for the time-being.

Shortly after my stroke I discovered the muse was still there.
A stroke destroys brain-tissue; in my case it was a blood-clot, same kind of stroke New England Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi (“brew-skee”) had.
My stroke was October 26, 1993, and a lot was messed up.
Speech was a mess at first, and my whole left side was useless.
All of that eventually came back. —What brain-tissue was left had taken over.
My speech is still slightly compromised — difficulty finding words and assembling them for speech.
I can’t jabber like those radio advertising guys, and I can’t argue.
But I can pass as normal.
In high-school my 12th-grade English teacher told me I could sling words together extraordinarily well.
I thought him crazy, but I guess I can.
I been doin’ it since college.
I fell into motorsports coverage for a weekly newspaper in the early ‘70s in Rochester, and started a union newsletter at Transit in 1992.
I was the newsletter’s sole editor and producer; a volunteer — I used Word.
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 its environs. My stroke ended that.
The bus-driving job was supposed to be temporary, but I stayed with it because it was okay.
It also paid pretty well.
It was that union newsletter where I found my voice.
I didn’t have time for self-editing; just pick up the shovel, and start shoveling.
I could depend on the muse; the talent to sling words together pretty well.
I’d use it to tell stories, which people loved to read.
This story was bouncing around before the stroke, and I found it still bouncing around immediately after my stroke.
Writing was impossible — too messy — so my wife tried to take dictation in my hospital-room.
When I finally returned home I found the muse was still cookin’.
It was like finding the old me.
This story has never been written, so has been kicking around almost 17 years.
I was driving an afternoon Park-and-Ride to East Rochester and Fairport, suburbs east of Rochester.
I had 417 bus, on the Eastern Expressway, Interstate-490.
I had shot The Can, and was headed for the Fairport Road exit.
It was snowing, and roads were icy. —I had to go slowly.
I angled onto the Fairport Road exit, about 20-30 mph.
UH-OH! All four corners are sliding.
Here we go! A bouncing roller-coaster ride across the frozen tundra. Thank goodness it was open with no ditches.
I sawed furiously at the wheel correcting slides, but a big hand came down from the sky, and directed 417 back onto the cloverleaf.
The ramp straightened, but there was another curve ahead.
More wheel-sawing; again, all four corners were sliding.
But again a big hand dropped from the sky, and directed 417 toward Fairport Road.
“Whew!” I said.
“What was that all about?” asked my regular riding shotgun.
“I didn’t notice anything.”

• “Muse” defined: “a woman, or a force personified as a woman, who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.”
• The “weekly newspaper” was City/East (now just “City”).
• Microsoft’s word-processor computer software is “Word.”
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “417” was a Park-and-Ride bus, a “fishbowl,” but with a large V8 engine and a three-speed transmission. Some could go quite fast.
• The “Eastern Expressway, Interstate-490” is the main connector into Rochester from the east to the NY State Thruway, Interstate-90.
• RE: “The Can.....” —The Can-of-Worms (so-called) was an old expressway interchange southeast of Rochester, built in the ‘60s. It was difficult to get through. The “Can” was reconfigured a while ago (Old Can and New Can), taking out little-used railroad trackage, making it much easier to negotiate. There were various tricks to “shooting the Can” with a bus. Most difficult was a lane change smack in the middle of the Old Can.

Racing with Betty Mitchum

Over the 16&1/2 years I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs, I drove Main St., the dreaded 800-line, hundreds of times.
This was despite the fact I hated it. It was too busy, and could be a killer.
My last run before my stroke was a straight-eight on Main St. Eight straight hours on the same bus.
No let-up; only one break the whole eight hours.
Otherwise it was stop at every stop to let passengers on and off, and zoom through the layovers, changing signs on the fly.
Straight-eights were the exception; there were only three out of hundreds of runs.
Dave Stright (“straight”), number-one in seniority at that time, the only one who had driven trolley-cars, picked one, as did another old head.
Two straight-eights were on Main St., the third was on another line.
Stright picked one of the Main St. runs, the other guy the other line.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
I picked the third straight-eight, the remaining 800-line.
By then I was fairly high in seniority, and no one else had picked it.
Main St. always had a strong logistical advantage, that it changed drivers right in front of the Barns, which were on E. Main St.
Other bus-lines changed drivers other places, eventually all downtown.
Changing drivers downtown meant you had to transport yourself there, and/or back to the Barns, if that was where your car was parked.
With the 800 you just walked out front to take over your bus, or directly to your car when done.
Changing drivers downtown might add 45 minutes to an hour to your daily time commitment. 13 hours alarm-to-garage-at-home, versus 12 with the 800.
It’s why I picked that straight-eight.
I was done at 1:30, Stright at 1.
E. Main St. stretched three-four miles all the way from downtown Rochester to the eastern outskirts of the city.
At its end the line went either of two ways, both in outlying residential areas.
It passed a high-school and Senior towers. That end was always busy.
By 1993 I had an hour to make the entire trip; out and back to downtown.
It was rarely enough time; I was always flying through the layovers, calling the radio to tell how late I was.
“Take it through; see what you can do......”
W. Main St. went three-four miles all the way to Bulls Head, a main intersection with Genesee (“Jen-uh-SEE”) St. from the south, and Brown St. from the northeast.
It was called “Bulls Head” because the head of a bull had been carved into the top stone wall-cap of a building overlooking Main St.
Actually, Main St. went slightly past the intersection.
The intersection was the confluence of four bus-lines, three of which turned down Genesee St.
Main St. ended there splitting into two main streets, Chili (“chye-lie; “ not the country or the food) Ave. to the west-southwest, and West Ave. to the west.
Chili went all the way to Chili Center, a suburb west of Rochester.
West Ave. fell parallel to the old New York Central Railroad (now CSX) at its end, ending at the State Barge Canal, which it didn’t cross.
The 800-line could go either way, although when I started West Ave. was still its own bus-line.
Before crossing the city-line the 800-line could go either of two ways.
It could could continue out to Chili Center, or turn south onto Genesee Park Blvd.
Genesee Park Blvd. was a wide boulevard skirting a residential area.
It eventually ended at Genesee Park, a large park southwest of Rochester.
When I first started we were looping in a bumpy old tree-shaded trolley-loop in the park.
With that closed we began looping (and laying over) in a spot near the park swimming-pool.
Now the 800 goes clear across the Genesee river to Strong Hospital — people at Strong were incensed they had to ride downtown to change to a Strong Hospital bus.
By 1993 we were going to Strong Hospital. —That was my only break.
Four bus-lines on W. Main could lead to wrestling match.
What you were supposed to do, if in the lead, and fully loaded, was pass to your follower, who then made all the pick-ups along W. Main.
Determining if your leader was fully loaded was near impossible.
Buses still had rear windows at that time; now they don’t.
Your leader could stick it to you; pass up and make you do all the stops.
This is where Betty Mitchum comes in.
Betty was a really nice lady, but African-American, whereas I was just a honky white-boy.
Betty was doing the Chili Ave. yo-yo; me West Ave. and Genesee Park Blvd.
Betty would make four or five trips from downtown Rochester out Chili to the city limits, and then back.
I always hated yo-yos; stayed away from ‘em. (Short trips were no fun — although Betty had more seniority than me.)
I always looked for Betty as I came down Genesee Park Blvd.; she’d be off on a side-street, laying over before turning around.
Often if I was late, she had already left.
There began the race.
Betty was more direct on Chili, but busier.
I had the dog-leg, but few passengers.
So who would get to Main St. first?
If it was me, I’d take the lead and make all the stops.
If it was Betty, I’d follow, but signal her to pass up.
Betty always looked exasperated, like I was trying to stick her.
But I couldn’t have that; Betty was a really nice lady.

• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns. (We Transit-employes always said we worked outta “the Barns.”)
• “Genesee St.” and “Genesee Park” are both named after the “Genesee River,” a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, goes through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario.

This is for you, Brownie

My good friend David Brown tells me he enjoys reading my Transit blogs, e.g. my recent Transit Dream.
Brownie was a life-long employee of Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Dave Brown spent most of his employ in Transit management, although he started like me as a bus-driver.
Brownie was one of the good ones. Some managers were complete jerks, but not Brownie.
I abstained from Transit management myself; I don’t think I could have handled the politics.
I used to always say bus-driving was the best job at Transit; you were pretty much on-your-own.
I probably would have been a life-long employee myself, but a stroke intervened.
It was probably just as well; I was tiring of it.
After we moved out of Rochester I could no longer do the kind of work I had been doing.
Mainly school-work.
Transit supplied school-bus service with regular transit buses, mainly over established bus-routes.
School-work had the advantage that if it was off, you were off.
Yet you were still getting eight hours of pay per day guaranteed by contract, even though you were off.
For example, eight hours of pay for four-five hours of work.
Often your school-trip was hooked to a regular line-service trip, but I avoided those.
If school was off, I wanted the whole morning off.
One run I had was half school-work. If school was off, I got eight hours of pay for only four hours of work, all of which were in the afternoon.
But to do such work you had to live in Rochester.
For years I lived in Rochester, about five minutes from “the Barns,” the locus of Transit operations.
After moving out here to West Bloomfield, I was 45 minutes from the Barns. I had to work regular city line-service with no time off for school off.
Moving also scotched Park-and-Rides, carrying suburban working-stiffs to and from the city from the boondocks.
Park-and-Rides were rush-hour, so usually got scheduled with school-work.
Your morning assignment might be a Park-and-Ride, and your afternoon assignment might be school-work linked to line-service.
An example of this had 2105, a morning Park-and-Ride from Fairport, east of Rochester, hooked with school-work and regular line-service in the afternoon.


(Photo by BobbaLew.)

2105 was one of the best assignments I ever had.
Great passengers; they even gave me a party when I left.
2105 was one of our company’s first use of articulated buses, buses with two segments that hinged in the middle (see picture).
The front part had the motor, and a trailer was attached.
It was all one interior, with the two segments having a large accordion bellows between them.
People sitting in the back got to watch the front part angle into turns. (I never did.)
To me, our artics (“art-TIK”) were our best-riding buses, but you had to make allowances.
They were heavy and slow, and tricky to drive.
The trailer steered, so you had to avoid sharp right turns.
The trailer would step into the adjacent lane, and clout anyone beside you — unbeknownst to you.
I saw it happen once.
I was aware of this, so I always looked before making right turns.
I avoided right-turns, but if I couldn’t I looked to make sure no one was to the left of me.
If there was, I let them clear.
The artics were also awful in the snow.
A regular city-bus wasn’t; all that heavy motor weight was right over the drive-wheels.
I remember being amazed at how well they went.
Snow 18 inches deep, and we kept goin‘ — even on baldies.
Not so with an articulated.
Its motor wasn’t over the drive-wheels.
Its motor was under the floor in the middle of the front part.
With the least bit of snow, it spun its drive-wheels.
So Dave, this is for you......
Inbound from the end, the Fairport Park-and-Ride immediately goes through a low-rent apartment complex.
To exit, you had to navigate a private road.
It was never salted, rarely plowed, and included a steep hill.
So here I am with an artic, an icy hill in front of me.
It started spinning its drive-wheels.
I reversed to try again.
Backing an artic was a hairball — the trailer went where it wanted, not where you wanted.
I only backed about 10 feet, because the trailer was going onto the grass.
I started again, and the drive-wheels began spinning.
The spinning wheels would burn down through the ice to pavement, and advance about four inches.
Smoke was pouring off the tires, but we were about a third of the way up the hill.
We’d burn through the ice and advance about four inches.
Finally I called the radio.
“Woody, do you want me to keep doing this?” I asked. “The tires are smokin’ like a fuel dragster!”
“Keep goin’,” he said.
Took about 15 minutes (four inches at a time), but I made it.

• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “Woody” was a radio dispatcher at Transit during my employ.

Transit dream

Fishbowl.

This morning’s (Wednesday, October 13, 2010) Transit dream was about the one thing I loathed more than anything else driving bus, a complete and utter cripple.
That is, a completely inoperable bus, stopped dead in its tracks.
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 its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Anything could render a bus inoperable, like complete lack of brakes.
The brakes operated by air-pressure; the air-compressor had to work, and the entire system not lose air.
Usually there were small air leaks here and there, but the compressor overcame them.
That is, you might hold 120 pounds of air-pressure despite a small air leak.
The buses rode on pressurized rubber air-bags — they were called “bellows,” and served as springs.
If your load got heavier on one side, the bellows would increase pressure to offset.
But of course, a bellows might have a tiny air leak, like where the rubber bonded to its steel mounting-plate.
Evidence of this was the bellows deflating overnight when the bus was off.
The bus would be on-the-ground in the morning, bottomed out until its bellows pumped up.
Sometimes a bellows might blow while driving, in which case your bus sagged to its knees at that corner.
Another problem was your transmission-fluid leaking out of your transmission.
So you pressed the accelerator and no movement. All it did was rev your engine.
Sometimes this would be sudden, other times slow; that is, your bus would operate until there wasn’t enough tranny-fluid.
If it was sudden, you usually gushed tranny-fluid all over the pavement, in which case an on-road mechanic showed up with Quik-Dry.
I had that happen once, but in a parking-lot.
My bus gushed tranny-fluid all over when a fitting popped loose.
The mechanic was able to repair the fitting, and got me going a half-hour late.
I wasn’t filled in; “driver’s fault,” as always.
Other problems were “hot engine” or “lo oil.”
Some of our GM buses had protective circuitry that shut off the bus if you got either indication.
But that was a hairball — the indicator might be defective.
Other buses could continue operation despite a “hot-engine” or “lo oil” indication.
I preferred these, since what happened in either case was the on-road mechanic would show to add oil or water.
With the non-protected buses I wasn’t crippled; I could keep operating.
I wasn’t at the mercy of some wonky sensor.
What motivated me more than anything was that I had been a bus-passenger in the late ‘60s, and if there was anything I hated as a passenger it was a crippled bus.
Often I had to change buses along a route. That was okay, perhaps five minutes lost.
But a complete cripple made you wait at least 15 minutes until a replacement showed up.
And often there was no explanation; the driver didn’t say anything.
Not this kid.
If my bus crippled, I told my passengers why.
And I was doing anything I could to keep going.
I used to carry my own tools.
I wasn’t being waylaid by floppy windshield-wipers or a floppy mirror.
One time I was driving along in a snow-burst, and my wipers started flopping.
I sprung outside with my vice-grips and fixed ‘em.
I wasn’t about to strand my passengers.
The mechanics would have had a fit I was fixing these things myself, but I wasn’t waiting 15 minutes until they showed up — that had happened to me when I rode bus.
So my dream was driving good old 604 bus, a fishbowl (above), down a main street in Rochester.
It got dark; no street-lights.
I noticed my headlights weren’t on, so I hit the switch.
No lights (gasp).
Here I am about to turn onto Main St. in Rochester, and I can’t see a thing.
I had this happen to me once in a bus; hit the dimmer-switch to turn on my hi-beams, and nothing.
Pitch dark, 35 mph, out in the country.
I hit the dimmer-switch feverishly; at least I still had lo-beams.
I could keep operating.
But nothing-at-all with 604 bus.
I got ‘er stopped; “The driver is panicking,” a passenger said.
“No lights,” I said. “I ain’t got nuthin at all.”
Electrical problems are what I feared most; our mechanics always seemed buffaloed by electrical problems.
You might write up a bus for some minor electrical problem, and they’d try something until, for example, the errant light came on.
Things might be wired wrong, but it came on, didn’t it?
One time a bus caught fire because a giant amperage was being channeled through a small wire, it overheated, and caught fire.
I got 604 pulled over and called the radio to report I couldn’t operate.
Radioing a problem was often fearsome; your problem might get misunderstood.
“Take it on to Main St.; we’ll change you off there.”
Uh, yeah Woody; I’m supposed to drive out onto Main St. when I can’t see a thing — blind as a bat.
I then have to explain my problem to the radio; in which case I get called a stupid and difficult ne’er-do-well.

• “Tranny” equals transmission. Our buses were all automatic-transmission.
• RE: “Filled in......” —An extra bus “filled in” your departure time.
• RE: “Change-off......” —A second bus was sent to replace the one you had.
• “Woody” was a radio dispatcher at Transit during my employ.

Slipping

This morning’s dream (Wednesday, September 29, 2010) was about being late for work at Regional Transit.
Transit had a word for it: “slipping.”
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 its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Over that time I was never late for work once, although I tried awfully hard one afternoon.
A downpour began as I started my motorcycle, so I parked it and got in my car.
I made it to work with seconds to spare.
Regional Transit was the largest arm of RGRTA (Rochester Genesee Regional Transportation Authority), transit bus-service in Rochester and its environs.
“Slipping” violated one of the three cardinal rules of Transit, which were: —1) Show up, —2) Don’t hit anything, and —3) Keep your hands outta the farebox.
We bus-drivers had a fourth rule never revealed to management — I’m sure they were aware of it.
It was DON’T GET SHOT!
Our clientele could be difficult sometimes.
When it came to fares and rules we didn’t push too hard.
Violate any of the three cardinal rules and management called you in.
You might get fired.
Management was very specific about “slipping.”
Report to work one second late, and you were late.
This seems silly, but I thought it eminently fair.
It took management favoritism out of the equation.
Avoiding “slipping” seems to have degraded since my stroke.
I often am late for various appointments, although when that happens ya don’t get the third degree.
At Transit I figured travel-time so I wouldn’t slip; 45 minutes from here in West Bloomfield to Transit in Rochester.
I might be 20-30 minutes early.
It allowed me to more thoroughly pre-check my bus; e.g. make sure all the lug-nuts were tight, all the lights worked, and the horn and wipers.
We were paid 10 minutes to pre-check our bus, but that wasn’t enough.
Most drivers performed a cursory pre-check, or did nothing.
But I wasn’t having a wheel come off.
One morning I was driving out in the country, switched on my high-beams, and nothing. Pitch-dark at 30-40 mph and nothing.
I also found loose lug-nuts enough times I always checked.
So this morning I was out in the Barns, yammering.
I thought I had enough time.
When I reported for my bus-assignment I was about two minutes late.
I had “slipped.”
First time ever.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• The “Genesee” (“jen-uh-SEE”) is a fairly large river that runs south-to-north across Western New York, runs through Rochester, including over falls, and empties into Lake Ontario.
• The “Barns” are large sheds the buses are parked inside. The “Barns” are also where Regional Transit conducts its operations from attached buildings. We always said we worked outta “the Barns.” (1372 E. Main St., Rochester, a little way east of downtown.) —They were about 35 minutes from where we live.

This morning’s dream

Fishbowl. (Not RTS.)

This morning’s dream (August 31, 2010) was about driving transit bus for the first time in 17 years.
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 its environs.
My stroke was almost 17 years ago. It ended my career driving bus.
It was fun at first, but I was tiring of it.
I could minimize my driving hours, and thereby minimize exposure to the clientele.
The clientele was the worst part. They could be rancorous and cantankerous.
The job was always a bucking bronco to avoid getting mugged.
And Transit management was always complicit. If you got mugged, it was your fault.
Assistance was always too many minutes away, and Transit wanted to keep out the Police.
And placate the miscreants.
Too far to counter a mugging.
I had a passenger try to strangle me; and I had a lady bop me over the head with her umbrella.
We bus-drivers had a rule management never heard about, although I’m sure they were aware of it.
It was DON’T GET SHOT!
We probably collected less in valid fares because of that, but management seemed to go along with that.
Spies would blow us in for accepting an invalid fare, we’d get called on the carpet, but nothing came of it.
What mattered was not rocking the boat.
Avoid violence, which would involve (GASP) calling in management.
It was possible to avoid this by picking Park-and-Rides; express runs from suburbs, or the hinterlands.
It avoided the city, where the rancorous clientele was prevalent.
The clientele was better on Park-and-Rides; working stiffs avoiding an auto commute.
And avoiding parking in the city, which was expensive.
Driving bus also involved skill — they were large vehicles.
I remember stroking the brake-pedal to get braking action.
On top of that was defensive driving; avoiding accidents.
You always found yourself cutting slack for the Mario Andretti wannabees.
And the NASCAR wannabees.
You were always driving the back end, which was 33 feet behind.
It followed inside of where the front-end went. You had to put a swing on all turns to make sure the back end didn’t clip things; e.g. cars, curbs, and telephone poles.
It’s not like that with a car, which is short enough to not pay attention to the rear.
This all came back, even 17 years later.
I was driving one of our old 600-series fish-bowls (pictured above), a bus RTS no longer has.
They were scrapped years ago, I think during my employ.
The Yard was more challenging than I remember it.
The Barns were being expanded, and concrete pilings were in the way.
I had to drive around the pilings, which included 90 degree turns.
The Yard was also snow-covered, and massively drifted in.
But a bus could drive through most anything; it was all that motor-weight over the drive-wheels.
I arrowed my bus into a three-foot drift, and drove right through it.
You could never do that with a car.
In the morning when we pulled in, we’d stop next to the Wash-Building, where a “bus-placer” would tell us where to park.
I had written the bus up for some minor thing, so was told to park on Lane Six.
I drove behind the Barns, but into a barricade.
They were building something, so Lane Six was inaccessible.
I managed to get turned around without backing, and stopped at the bus-placer again.
“Lane Two or Three,” I was told.
“Can’t do it,” I said.
As usual the left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing. (The barricade was not visible to the bus-placer.)
“Okay, Lane 13 or 14,” he said.
Which meant my write-up wouldn’t get looked into.
It was only a “check” anyway.
13 and 14 weren’t mechanic lanes.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “The Yard” was a large paved area outside where buses congregated before leaving, or could be parked.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, somewhat from downtown. The Barns were large sheds the buses were parked inside. Regional Transit’s operations were conducted in buildings adjacent to the Barns.

Gathering of Transit veterans

(Photo by BobbaLew)

Yesterday (Tuesday, July 13, 2010) another luncheon was held by retired veterans of Regional Transit Service.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the local transit-bus operator in Rochester. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
It was a pleasant job for a while, but I was tiring of it.
The job was difficult, especially the inner-city clientele.
Management-labor relations were strained; Transit employees were unionized.
Part of it was because so many union employees were jerks, playing the system.
Our group is ad hoc, although pretty much the same people organize and attend these events.
It’s mostly retired bus-drivers, although a few management are sprinkled in.
I was probably first to arrive, about 10:30 — the luncheon was at 11:30.
This was because -a) I had no idea where the restaurant, Old Country Buffet, was, and -b) how long it would take to drive there.
Others began trickling in, first Tim Quinlan.
Timmy still works at Transit, a radio dispatcher.
(His title is “Radio Controller.”)
He’s done that a long time. He was doing that during my employ at Transit.
His wife is Linda Quinlan, a reporter at Messenger-Post Newspapers (MPN), where I worked for almost 10 years after my stroke.
I never met Linda Quinlan during my employ at MPN, but Linda was essentially the Irondequoit (“ear-RON-dee-kwoit;” as in “oye”) Post.
The Irondequoit Post was one of publisher Andy Wolfe’s many Post newspapers, acquired by the Messenger when Andy retired.
Others worked at the Irondequoit Post, but Linda was the reporter. Or at least seemed to be involved in everything.
The Irondequoit Post was a class act, a shining star the Messenger bought into when it acquired the Post newspapers.
Of course, all the Post newspapers were pretty classy, as was the Mighty Mezz — still is.
“That was nice what you said about my wife,” Timmy said.
That was in my recent Alhart blog.
“Well, that was true,” I responded.
Soon others arrived.
People began gathering around Timmy. I was still in our van.
Finally we went into the restaurant; we were getting a discounted buffet price.
Dominick Zarcone (“zar-KONE;” as in “czar”) sat next to me.
“Oh, I think I’ll sit here,” he shouted.
Zarcone is still driving bus at Transit; he had got the day off.
Zarcone started shortly after me. He’s driven bus 33 years, and is now number six in seniority.
Which means if I’d not had my stroke, and kept at it, he’d be number seven.
Zarcone and I have always been friends.
That’s largely because I can argue with him minus a turgid torrent of noisy ad hominem put-downs.
I get that with my brothers, all tub-thumping Conservatives merrily goosestepping to the latest Limbaugh OxyContin® rant.
Zarcone is ardent Catholic, always trying to convert me; as many did at Transit. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Seventh-Day Adventists and zealous Baptists of the Jerry Falwell strand.
Other sinners weren’t being pursued; I always wondered why me.
Zarcone, like me, was also college-educated.
Yet we were driving bus.
“I majored in bus-driving,” I always said.
It was a slam-dunk.
The pay was good, and hours of work could be minimized.
Part of the reason I was tiring was I no longer could minimize work hours.
To do so, you had to live near the barns.
In Rochester we were five minutes from the barns. West Bloomfield was 45 minutes.
“Yadda-yadda-yadda-yadda. Well look at that! It’s Dick Thompson; I thought he was dead.”
Around-and-around we went, greeting old compatriots.
The management attendees were Quinlan, Dave Brown (a retired radio dispatcher), and Bernie Kreitzberg and Gary Coleman (“coal-min”).
Bernie and Coleman were both road-supervisors; Coleman retired after multiple strokes. Bernie still works at Transit, but part-time.
Stories got swapped — “lemme tell ya about the time my bus crippled in the old Can.”
And also “The time the roller-sign assembly dropped and clouted me in the head.”
“The old Flxible 500s had a vent in front of your feet,” I noted. “The thing was always stuck open — ya’d freeze in winter. I’d stuff it with newspaper.”
“How about that driver that committed suicide and killed his wife?”someone said.
“Wait a minute!” I shouted. “How is that even possible?”
“Hughes, will you shaddup,” someone said.
“One time I got called in for preaching on the bus,” Zarcone said.
“‘I hear reports you’re an excellent driver, and have an excellent command of the Catholic faith,’ management told me.”
”Remember that time Brent sent me out to tell you to lay off the preaching?” Coleman asked.
“I have to censor your e-mails,” Zarcone told Coleman.
As we walked out about 1:30 it was thundering; but not raining yet.
Some lady, probably not a restaurant employee, was handing out alleged million-dollar bills.
But they were religious tracts — mine got shredded.
Zarcone is very Italian. He ate almost 10 times as much as me.
I always feel a little out-of-it at these shindigs, like I don’t fit the mold.
It’s like I attend only because I worked at Regional Transit.
And drove bus — challenging.
The best job there.

• The “Mighty Mezz” (Messenger) is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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 15 miles away.)
• RE: “Barns........” —The buses were parked inside in large sheds (“barns”). “The Barns” was also the location of Regional Transit bus operations.
• We currently live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester, about 20 miles distant. Previously we lived in Rochester.
• “Limbaugh” is of course Rush Limbaugh.
• The “Can” was a large junction of interstates on Rochester’s east side. It was built in the ‘60s, and was a mess to get through. It was massively reconfigured and rebuilt not too long ago, taking out little-used railroad, etc. It was called “the Can of Worms.” (New Can and ‘old Can.’) —Park-and-Ride suburban buses often went through the Can. (The driver’s bus broke down [“crippled”] right in the middle of the Can.)
• The buses we first drove had roller curtain signs above the windshield. The entire apparatus was in a hinged panel that hinged at the bottom. If not properly attached to the top, it could drop and clout the bus-driver. (I had it happen a few times; each time with passengers.)
• “Flxible” is a manufacturer of buses. Our old 500-series buses were Flxible.
• “Hughes” is of course me, Robert Hughes.
• “Brent” is Brent Morse, a manager of bus operations. Brent was canned after my stroke.

Another gathering of eagles

Visible (left to right) are Ricardo, Murray, Douty, Palermo (standing), me, John Aguglia (“uh-GOOL-yuh), and others. (Photo by Gary Coleman.)

Yesterday (Tuesday, May 11, 2010) was a luncheon of retirees of Regional Transit Service (RTS), both management and non-management.
Regional Transit Service is the supplier of transit bus service in Rochester, NY and the surrounding area.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for RTS. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Working for RTS was difficult, but mainly because of the clientele, which could be ornery and difficult.
It was like being a policeman; your life was always on the line.
Beyond that, RTS brooked no insanity on the part of its employees; e.g. its bus-drivers. You had to -1) show up (be regular), -2) not hit anything, and -3) keep your hands out of the farebox.
Up until the '60s, bus-service was a means of commuting downtown. Most passengers were commuters.
But things began to change.
As downtown Rochester withered, the passenger demography changed.
More-and-more we were carrying the halt, the maim, those who otherwise could not drive.
We were also carrying the ne'er-do-wells, the trouble-makers; those inclined to rebel against RTS — as symbolized by its bus-drivers.
We found ourselves following a fourth rule; one management probably was aware of, but never heard about from us.
That rule was DON'T GET SHOT!
Passengers could get away with anything; laundry receipts as transfers, pennies on the fare.
Bus-drivers and mechanics were unionized at RTS; that goes back to trolley days and a private employer.
Union-management relations at RTS were tortured.
Management was insulated from the world bus-drivers encountered every day, and was inclined to just keep things going.
Bus-drivers were charged for all-and-sundry, often unfairly.
Union members were looking for every possible opening to stick it to management.
Passengers often suffered the fruits of this continual donnybrook, and middle managers got it from both ends.
Working for Transit paid well (thanks to the union), but was a bucking bronco.
Hours were brutal (e.g. start at 5 a.m.).
Most days you had to keep junky equipment between the lines in all kinds of weather, and parry thugs.
As such we Transit retirees have all experienced it; the madness of working for Transit.
We're a special breed, a brotherhood. We all parried the madness.
The management among us were middle management, the ones that got it from both ends.
The luncheon was at Nick's Sea Breeze Inn, in northeast Rochester across from Seabreeze Amusement Park by Lake Ontario.
Seabreeze is an old amusement park that still exists.
There used to be trolley service up to it, but now it's RTS. —I drove it years ago. It was fairly pleasant.
Nick's is an Italian restaurant, across from Seabreeze, patronized in the past by Frank Sinatra and Luciano Pavarotti.
All the regulars were there including Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”), Ron Palermo (“Pa-LAIR-moe”) and Gary Coleman (“COAL-min”).
Coleman had been a road-supervisor at RTS, previously a bus-driver.
He also had two strokes, which left him semi-paralyzed — left side.
Road-supervisors were management, alone in road-supervisor cars to supervise bus operations and settle passenger disputes.
I picked up Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”), the retired RTS bus-driver with fairly severe Parkinson's disease.
Art's wife is gone, so he lives with his sister in nearby Pittsford, NY.
Pittsford is a suburb southeast of Rochester.
Art is 69, and no longer drives.
We have similar interests, hot-rod cars and trains.
I have to come from West Bloomfield, so Art is along-the-way.
Before going in, someone complained to Colvin about the filth of his minivan.
“I bought it to drive it, not wash it,” Colvin snapped.
Thereby proving yet again the quickness of snide remarks that made you a successful bus-driver.
The luncheon was sorta depressing, but only because we're all older and decrepit.
Jim Douty (“DOW-deee”) was there, who started shortly before me.
He has apparently lost part of a leg, and uses a prothesis.
“My wife still works, 11 p.m. until 7 a.m, so I have to tiptoe around to not wake her during the day,” he said.
“I can't handle stairs,” another retired bus-driver complained.
“Knees,” he said.
Colvin said he was also having knee problems, and he always seemed pretty spry.
He also detailed a long story about being unable to get his veteran's benefits card.
Others were rendering long sorry stories about the travails of getting adequate healthcare.
I watched silently, realizing how lucky I was. Noticing difficulty getting up, I started doing leg-presses at the Canandaigua YMCA.
I also started exercises to improve my balance — which had been getting worse.
Most take many prescriptions; I only take one. Art takes over 20.
Coleman the stroke-survivor was sitting across from me. I'm also a stroke-survivor — although Coleman is in slightly worse shape than me.
Although he's still pretty ornery, and so am I.
We'd start stories, but the old speech difficulties would kick in, and our dissertations would drift into nothing.
Writing for me is easy, but speech compromised.
Finally, time to settle up.
Palermo, who was next to me, had apparently made the reservation, so the bill for our entire table was presented to him.
Each would pay $13.29.
I forked over a twenty, and Palermo went and got change. Returned, he handed me $13, which I was to give him.
So I handed him $20, but didn't get the difference between $13 and $20.
Not that I worry about it.
These things are always a hairball, plus socializing is worth $7.
Most interesting to me was Ricardo Junco (“HUNE-koh”), who I last saw in 1993.
I recognized the voice, and the older appearance, but I couldn't remember his name.
Finally, “Ricardo Junco,” someone said; a native of Cuba, I think.
Ricardo was a talker, and probably survived as a bus-driver because of it.
I also saw Dan Kiley (“KYE-lee”). “My memory of you is you standing at one urinal, and me next to you. We always pulled out at the same time.”
Most tragic was my encounter with old friend Murray Schroeder (“SHROW-drrr”), a bus-driver a few classes before me.
Murray and I became fast friends — we both liked motorcycles. —I almost bought his old Triumph in the late '70s.
“Sorry the old speech-center doesn't work too well,” I told him. “Otherwise I could socialize better.”
“Still married to the same woman?” Murray said, turning to someone else.
Luncheon over, we all paraded out, and Douty roared off in a chirp of tire-rubber.
He had applied his prothesis to the gas-pedal of his Mustang.
I took Art back home.
I explained I had forwarded Palermo's e-mail invite to Dave Brown.
“Not sure I should have,” I said. “Brownie is management.”
“Stuff like that doesn't matter any more, Hughsey,” Art said.
“Brownie was a class act, and we all survived Transit. Plus it's great to see everyone.”
I agreed.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we 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 15 miles away.)
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• “Hughsey” (“huze-EEE”) is me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew.