New faces, old places

Sometimes I feel a little guilty for not posting a story every day, even if it's a just a short one. This would be very easy to do, since there is no shortage of excitement, action, and observable interests to share. The breadth of humanity knows no bounds and it truly does take every kind of people to make the world go round. Can I just take a moment to say Thank You Broward County for keeping me from getting bored.

The 50 is one of my favorites. My coworkers think I'm joking when I tell them this, maybe my enthusiastic smile comes across as facetious. Or it could be that no other driver I know of likes the 50. I'll usually get sighs and head drops when I ask other drivers how the route is treating them. On the surface, much of the route appears to be stuck in a time long past, with the dreariness of industrial zoning always nearby. That's no doubt tied to the FEC RR which mostly runs adjacent. But where practicality threatens to keep a place stuck in stasis, fresh faces from other places keep it dynamic.

Speaking of faces, one trip to Central Terminal a 20-something male tattooed one approached and in low voice told me the terminal supervisor said he could ride free. He flashed his hospital band, a common practice among the homeless to skip the fare. Often they'll wear them till they're faded. Maybe it was his nonchalant presentation, but I wasn't buying it - and told him so. Everyone boarded, I peeled myself out of the seat to stretch before another long trip when who should come over but the terminal supervisor. He confirmed the patient's claim and I had to accept that for every rule there's an exception. It was a reminder that every person entering our doors has their own story.
"Told ya so" he slipped in the jab as he slipped out the door. Then he asked for a free pass. Can't blame him for asking.

A regular I call Mr. Mercedes since he tricks out his bike with hood ornaments and custom paint jobs boards. I compliment him on having the coolest bike on the route and we talk about paint colors. I recall he used to have a Cadillac-themed bike and ask what happened to it.
"Oh that was stolen" he states matter-of-factly, and I instantly relate.

Have I introduced you to Charles? He talks my ear off with a ceaseless stream-of-consciousness torrent of fascinating experiences and life-learned wisdom. A 'senile citizen' (his words) he loves to talk of family including his twin brother ('womb mate'). No conversation with him is complete without him telling you about his faith, but he's also the lowest-key converter you'll meet. I admire him for living fearlessly and relentlessly, always active and on his way to some exciting event or errand at an age most just retire.

We pick up an older Haitian woman who speaks zero English, and hands me an FPL bill. I assume she's looking for an office to pay the bill, but when she exits it all makes sense: she was showing me her address so I'd know where to let her off.

One trip we pick up a gentleman in unbuttoned dress shirt and jacket. It quickly becomes obvious he's been drinking as he struggles to slip his money into the fare box. I patiently wait for him to finish and find something to hold onto, as he doesn't seem too steady on his feet, and finally we pull away. At the very next stop he exits.

Our last service visit to Central Terminal a familiar smile boards: my Jamaican sunshine, who I don't think I've ever picked up on the 50. She's got perfect dreads, a glowing smile, and calls me her favorite - so it's easy to instantly cheer up when she shows up. It's been an overcast day, and when she exits I thank her for bringing the sunshine.

10 views of a route

Old-timer bus operators have tons of stories to tell of what they've seen over their careers on the road. They'll tell you they've literally seen birth, death, and everything in between. My inclination is to suggest they write a book, to which they invariably answer, "All bus drivers say they'll do that, but never do." The reasons are probably numerous as to why they don't share their stories with the world, but I can assure you it's not because they are incapable. Even a short conversation with your average bus operator will show you a decent communicator is at the wheel. My current theory is that since a bus driver's day is made up of a million minor interactions and observations, the bus space itself is the story; the whole world comes through the revolving doors of the bus. Although the countless anecdotes and incidents are both entertaining and enlightening, they don't necessarily lend themselves to long form prose. This is where blogs come in handy.

10 glimpses on the 10 route:

-A passenger with a bike boards and asks if I like beer. Not sure where this is leading, I tell him occasionally (although limited lately to keep the dreaded 'bus belly' in check). That's when he drops the bomb: beer turns men into women. He goes on to explain that hops are female flowers and turn into estrogen when consumed. The skeptic in me asks for his sources, but nothing specific was forthcoming. I laugh and tell him he has now ruined beer for me.

-The cabin sounds like an apiary, with crystal-clear sweet birdsong drifting up to the front. It's enough to make me physically turn around, rather than simply use the cabin mirror. Totally expecting to see a canary flying loose, it turns out to be the soundtrack on a video game.

-At the Main Library, a woman boards with a tiny dog, maybe a mini pin or chi. Service animals are always welcome on the bus, and this one even has her certification card. The little cutie is dressed in some frilly pink outfit and her owner tells me her name is Minnie Rose and you can find her on Instagram. Kids on the bus love her and she obviously loves the attention.

-At Oakland Park Blvd a woman in a wheelchair is waiting to board, so I kneel the bus and lower the ramp. Although our customers with wheelchairs are not required to have their chairs secured with restraining straps, we are required to ask if they would like them. So as she rolls her chair on board, I ask if she would like to be secured.
"Oh, I don't believe in S&M" she answers with a sly smile.
It took a nanosecond for me to get it, and it made my day.

-"What does a baby corn kernel call its father? Popcorn." Yes, a 'corny' joke from a regular I call The Weatherman because he has a weather one-liner. He tells me a couple jokes about turkeys and judges. "Is he really the weatherman?" a girl asks me after he exits.

-The birds are out in force this day: As I pull up to a stop, I see a grackle flailing in the middle lane, narrowly avoiding being crushed at any moment. Cars are zooming right over it, and it's struggling to stand up. Traffic eases for a moment, and off he flies. Later, another operator calls dispatch over the radio: a pigeon has boarded his bus at Central Terminal and he's trying to shoo it off. Other drivers chime in with their witticisms: "Let him ride!" "He has an employee pass!"

-"Bom dia!" I greet the two older Brazilian ladies I used to pick up mornings last pick. This time it's evening and they're going the opposite direction than they did back then. They speak no English, so I try out a little Portuguese. "Tudo bem!"

-Here's Maria, the elderly Italian lady who's a regular on the 10. I affectionately call her Grandma. She's nearly blind and lugs a heavy wheeled suitcase she uses to steady herself, so I lower the bus and tell her to take her time. She loves BCT drivers and is always looking out for us, calling me Sweetie and asking if I'm eating right and hoping I don't work too many hours. She actually has to go the other way, but it's dark now and she can't see well enough to risk crossing the width of US 1 at her slow pace. So she's gonna ride all the way to Central Terminal even though we're way up in Pompano. A young guy on the bus sees her and helps with her bag. She's always quite talky but not pushy, filling in those quiet moments with questions about the bus announcement system, other drivers, and places to eat. This bus goes out of service after this trip, so when we get to the terminal, she needs to disembark and switch to another 10 already there and waiting in a different aisle. As I guide her off and assist her over there, this grandmotherly figure suggests that I go to a strip club to relax.

-At a certain stop popular with foreign exchange students, four lovely German girls board with brand new passes. As I instruct them how to activate the passes, they say they're going to the beach and wonder how to get there. I assure them I'll let them know, but they end up going with Google maps. Danke, they say.

-A man boards with a fresh meal in carry out container, delicious aromas making my mouth water. He sets it on the dashboard to swipe his pass and I rub my hands together and loudly say "Alright! You brought us dinner! You're the best!"


-----
-Bonus view on a different route, but heard on radio while driving the 10: An operator called in to say a passenger was boarding with an iguana. Dispatch replied if it's a service iguana and secured, to let him ride. Reminds me of the passenger I had awhile back (on the 10 no less) with an "emotional support bunny" - which was safely secured in carry bag.

Death and detours

This one will be a challenge. How to write about death and suffering without getting morbid and morose? Should I assume we are all so familiar with these things there is no need to go into detail? Let us revisit a day in time and you can come to your own conclusion.

The day started with the news of David Bowie's death in early January. A dynamic creative to the end, this was a reminder that a musical era was nearing its end and came as a surprise. The timing was the surprise, not the reminder that no one gets out alive.

This day was my weekly run on the 10, an early morning piece that ended around lunch time. It was the middle of winter and a cold front had settled in. Picking up regulars heading to work downtown on the pre-dawn southbound, we made a stop at Imperial Point hospital and I noticed that the shelter stop had a pile of blankets beside the bench - with a wide-eyed head poking out. It was Patty, in a wheelchair, which caught me a little off guard since she normally would be using the bench. She was perfectly still except for the alert eyes, their glowing whites more visible in the darkness, and probably not wanting to move lest a frigid draft sneak under her linen cocoon.

After visiting Central Terminal, we headed back north. For some reason almost every time I do this trip I hit all three red lights before we make the turn onto US 1. It could easily take six minutes to go four blocks, then only three minutes to cover the next mile. But try explaining this to the dour gentleman waiting for your bus on time like he's supposed to, with an unpleasant chill biting without mercy, and while he's letting you know all the other drivers get there on time.
"Leave the terminal a couple minutes early" he suggests.
Of course this is a non-starter since it violates County policy, and I let him know this.
"Then give it more gas" he instructs me.
Perhaps in a more ideal world, the bus would be everyone's personal taxi. Having spent decades riding Broward Transit, when service wasn't nearly as frequent as it is now, I learned to have patience and factor in extra time for any trip. Riding taught me that people wait for the bus, the bus doesn't wait for people.
For a change we're on time this day, and he actually wishes me a good morning. He's even more sociable when he exits way up the line since we made good time and he'd be able to grab coffee and a doughnut before transferring to his connection.

Up at Hillsboro I picked up the Orange Couple. A personal nickname due to their wearing bright orange sweatshirts every time I see them. It's a middle age son and his elderly mother. I've never heard her make a peep, and he always handles the fare for her, but it's clear they're homeless and occasionally the fare is an issue on their way to any given soup kitchen. That's quite rare and he's always contrite about it, exhibiting humility at their plight and gratitude for any generosity.

The next southbound started regular enough, aside from the fact Patty had somehow shifted about a mile south to the Commercial Boulevard stop, now with feet also sticking out from under the blanket pile.

Then we crossed Oakland Park Boulevard, and traffic was backing up around the curve leading to 26th St. This was not a good sign. As we approached 26th St a horrific crash scene spread before us. I could see a dark van laying on its side, and a small white car nearby still upright but with its entire front peeled up. Rescue personnel had the intersection closed off so we had to detour onto 26th St like the 20 route, then back over to US 1 along 13th St. It meant missing a few stops, and since it was a fluid situation, the bus ahead of us had taken a larger detour and missed even more stops. On top of this the bus that was supposed to be ahead of us had broken down. So when we resumed the regular route and riders were wondering why they were waiting an hour, I explained why. A few weeks later a passenger brought that morning back to memory as he recounted watching it happen, then dragging the injured from the wreckage. The up-close scene he described was far messier than the overview I observed. A woman lost her life that day, in what seems to be a daily occurrence on our streets. Are we merely playing the odds every time we go out? The longer I drive professionally, the clearer I see that safety doesn't happen by accident, it needs to be a conscious effort at all times. Otherwise it is indeed 100% chance, rather than skewing the odds in your favor.

Later that night I got some extra work on the 31 route to fill in for another operator. In an instance of surprise connections, along the way I picked up a familiar face from the 10 a few picks back. He became extremely excited when he saw me and when I told him I was only filling in he took it as a sign that I'd help him win the Powerball (at that time over $1 billion), like a bus-driving good luck charm. He was carrying ten pounds of chicken and awed that he would bump into me at that particular moment.
Some time ago on the 10 he asked if I would hold the bus for him while he ran across the street to retrieve the bike he'd left locked up that morning since the bus bike rack was full. We ended up making that happen, thanks to a fresh red light and his nimble moves.
"You're the only guy that let me do that!" he thankfully exclaimed.
Sometimes it's the little things that have true value, more lasting than any Powerball.

Farewell 40 (for now)

Some things just grow on you. This is a little different than doing what's right even though you don't want to. I'm not talking about eating your veggies. No, this is about learning to see beauty in the blemished.

The infamous 40, bane of many a bus operator mostly because of an impossible schedule during certain hours of the day, certainly reminded me of this concept. Now that I'm no longer on the 40 and can look at it a bit more objectively it occurs to me that I actually miss the chaotic fury it carried me through. Fortunately, my new routes bring similar mind-numbing action so I can cope with the loss.

Being a Broward native, virtually every route has some connection to my life at various stages. The 40 goes right by Broward General, where my journey began, and also Sunset Memorial Gardens, where it'll probably end. In between is the stuff of Life. I miss the familiar regulars, the views from 17th St bridge, Swap Shop people, BBQs on Sistrunk, Outcast Ryders MC, and threading the bus through the Eye of the Needle by the county courthouse.

The last day on the 40 was typical of the previous runs. A Sunday morning run, for the most part an unrushed piece, except for the first trip out of the Hill, and regular lane closures on A1A for special events.

"My favorite driver - announcing driver - only announcing driver," was the cheery greeting I received from a regular, a homeless gentleman who without fail kept his luggage protected in heavy duty black plastic garbage bags. Sometimes the onboard announcer isn't working so if the PA system is functional I take to the mic and announce the time points and points of interest. Apparently most drivers don't offer this service, since I've received numerous comments about how unusual it is. To me it's a joy and honor to call out these names that are part of me.
Sunrise> World Famous Swap Shop> African American Research Library> Central Terminal> Main Library> Courthouse> Broward General> US 1> Port Everglades> Las Olas> Galleria

At the Galleria another regular awaits, also homeless, with the pungent ripeness of living rough. Sociable and refined in speech, he presents a more pragmatic presence than the previous passenger. Initial small talk about the weather makes way for headier topics such as current events, mass transit, and various occupations. On a different day, he made a wry joke about doing card tricks, and I think I caught him off guard when I presented him with a fresh deck and asked for a lesson.

At the Port a tourist explains he'll only pay the senior fare since he's "55 plus" and offers to show me his passport. I welcome him to Broward County and let him ride.

Every Sunday at 11 a.m. there is a looong line waiting for the doors to open at Tap 42, across from the hospital. It makes for an unlikely hot spot in an area still sleeping at that hour. Today it's doubly long. BBQ?

As we roll along Sistrunk, a woman sitting on a bus bench up ahead spots us, hurriedly grabs an armful of belongings off the bench, and does a modified bicycle kick to flag the bus. I can't say it's the first time I've stopped for legs, but it's the first time I've been stopped by them.

At the Hill, a lady puts some coins in the farebox, and one of them is rejected. She sees it's a foreign coin so naturally tosses it behind her onto the bus platform.

At the Central Terminal we pick up the smiling face of a newcomer from Jamaica by way of Boston. This guy has class and is bringing back the lost art of nice hats.

Near the end of my shift I pull into a stop for a recognizable regular. She's a young lady whose speech belies some level of learning disability, along with physical limitations. In spite of this she's kind of an inspiration because she doesn't let it paralyze her or render her inactive. She always has a smile for me and I ask if she had a good time at church, but today she's not smiling. She tells me another driver didn't lower the bus for her and slammed the door in her face when she didn't move fast enough. Now, I wasn't there so I can't vouch for her accusation, but there's no denying she's hurt and upset. It sickens me to see this sweet person, normally sociable and bright, down in the dumps due to mistreatment when we should all be looking out for her and assisting her as much as possible. She's counting on us to do our part, and it's not good for her to just be standing out on the streets any longer than necessary. Fortunately she's ok and this time it's more of an inconvenience than anything. I lower the bus for her.

Note: this pick you can find me on the 10, 50, 60, 72 and 595 Express. All over town on my tours of duty, hope to see you out there.

Regular day off

Like most jobs out there, bus driving offers its workers a couple days off during the week. Rarely are they on the weekend, so our 'weekend' may actually be in the middle of the week. I usually sign up for extra work on at least one of those days to get in some overtime. Plus, I love being behind the wheel and it just feels weird when I'm not constantly on the move. Working on my off days is quite unlike a regular day. First of all, it's usually a run I'm not necessarily familiar with, could be a split shift, or nothing but express runs. Then again, it may be all too familiar since it may be one of my regular routes, but it wears a cloak of mystery since I'm seeing the same thing from a different angle.

One such day I worked a split shift, which involved a few hours on the 88, then a few more on the 10. Now the 88 runs up and down Pine Island Road, except for the section of road in Coral Springs, conveniently named Coral Springs Drive. This route is generally lightly traveled, other than twice a day when the rush to and from the six school zones it services is in effect. So the more leisurely aspect of the route make it enticing to senior drivers, and it's heavily used by young people. This particular day was drizzly and overcast, which meant even lighter use than usual. I can see how regular drivers on this route could get to know most of the regulars. In other words, the complete opposite of the 441 Breeze.

"Buh pah" was all I heard from the voice behind the little hand reaching up to me from below. No more than 3 years old, his cool comic-con mom deciphered the syllables for me.
"Another driver gave him a bus pass once and now he asks every time he gets on the bus!" she explained.
As we rolled along, she explained basic bus etiquette to him such as not running around the bus while it's in motion and when to pull the stop request cord. It's always great to see the youngest ones among us getting an early education on how to use mass transit.

And so that morning on the 88 went, uneventful overall. Then came time for the afternoon piece: the 10. Let me just say I love the 10. It's been a mainstay at least one day of my work week for a long time, though all my other routes get changed when we make our picks. The route itself is nothing exciting, only deviating from US 1 at the north and south ends. But the trip from one end to the other is a sort of anthropological archaeology, or as a supervisor put it "A sociological lesson in life."

I should have known this wouldn't be just another afternoon on the 10 when the bus showed up to the relief point almost 20 minutes late. Any longer and my follower would be on my tail so I adjusted the mirrors and booked it, noticing the bus was loaded. A few miles up the road we made a routine stop request when who should bound by me as he exited the front door, but my favorite German bus fan. Hadn't seen him for awhile since he tended to be on the 10 only at a certain time when I drove it on a different day.
"You punishment! You naughty boy on weekend!" was how he both greeted and said goodbye this time.
No, he wasn't referring to some off-duty debauchery, but rather it was the continuation of a long-running joke regarding whatever bus I'm driving at the moment. Being a bus fan, he's quite knowledgeable about the buses themselves. In this case the bus was nearing the end of its service life, almost an antique. The opposite of the newer model I used to drive when I picked him up regularly. So whenever he sees me in an old bus he jokes I'm being punished for misconduct. The levity is most welcome as I wave farewell.

By the time we finished that trip and arrived at the north end layover, we weren't much better off time-wise. A large group awaited and let me know in clear terms that they were displeased with the delay. It doesn't do any good to explain the reason we're late since that won't fix the issue, so I offer up sincere apologies and keep it moving. Waiting among the crowd, as irate as the rest but for different reasons, is a local legend on the 10. It's the one and only Patty, or the one I used to call Patty till she said that's no longer her name. Claiming previous drivers wouldn't let her board, she was determined to make this bus so I kneeled the bus and in she came. Once seated, she immediately went off on another homeless woman seated directly across from her, claiming the woman's rolling luggage was hogging the aisle. The woman decided not to stay for this treatment and exited. This seemed to satisfy her and she switched into sweet-talk mode, complimenting two homeless men who boarded. Then her attention turned to me.
"Bus driver, you need to take me to a hotel." Bear in mind nothing she says is meant for my ears only, everything is at top volume and everyone on the bus can hear it.
"There's a hotel, baby" she continued. I can only smile, call her a sweet-talker, and let her go on.
"Hey Stanley, wanna shave my head this weekend?" she calls out to one of the earlier men she recognized.

Shortly before she exits at the south end, a young man boards. He looks familiar but I hesitate because I'm unsure. He's wearing a yellow safety vest and wants to start a revolution, not the kind that causes chaos but fixes it. His idea is a Rescue Team, a do-good army to fix the world's woes such as transporting water to the drought areas of California. He says the media focuses on bad news the way a parent focuses on a bad child wanting attention.
"I can't do it alone, so I talk to everyone about it to plant seeds. I can't do much, so today I'll start with a haircut."

Just another regular day off.

Blessed and highly favored

In previous posts, it was the multiple-personality 40 that vexed me on a regular basis. This time around it's the limited-stop 441 Breeze. One of the system's longer routes, it reaches from Coral Springs in north Broward to the Golden Glades park & ride in north Dade, at least an hour and a half from end to end. It is a good way to see the heart of Broward County, from the manicured north in Coconut Creek to the gritty south as it transitions from Hollywood and on into Dade County.

The Breeze stops running earlier than the regular-stop routes, though could probably stand to run a bit longer since this is one of the busier lines in the system. From the time I relieve the previous driver to the time I go out of service, it's a non-stop effort to never stop moving forward. Being a limited stop service, the Breeze has more options for keeping it moving by switching lanes regularly if enough space opens up to tuck in a 60 foot articulated bus. This gets tricky during the chaotic rush hours, when certain sections of 441 are bumper to bumper for miles.

The driving skills required to make the route work are an exciting challenge, but it's the people that bring the most reward. All of my 'favorite' routes share that characteristic, and the only downside in this case is that the relentless pace of the Breeze limits lengthier interactions. Even so, when pretension is not an issue and the comfort level is there, equal hearts can connect.

An older gentleman who boarded at Golden Glades asks me to let him know when we get close to his stop, in north Broward. This is usually tough to keep track of due to the countless similar requests that come my way, but we're getting close and he stands close by to look for familiar landmarks. A Bahamian who left the islands long ago for more opportunity, he's traveling to visit his grown daughter this day. A driver himself in younger days, he emphasizes that driving a bus is "no joke" and he'll "leave it to the young guys". He loves the newer model bus we're using today and says it feels like he's flying in an airplane.

At one stop, a wide-eyed young man boards nervously and comments that the area we're in is scary. This interests me since it's a relatively benign area. I ask where's he's from, expecting him to mention a gated community somewhere. "Brooklyn" he replies.

Down in Hollywood, another guy is sharing his thoughts on current events, commercialized holidays, and various other ills. He makes a prophecy concerning the Russia-Turkey conflict: Ethiopia will get involved. It's in the Bible, and he'll bet $100 on it.

A fashionable lady with a braided bun boards, and her long pointed nails attract my attention. When I tell her they're nice, she runs them lightly across my leg. Surprised, I tell her she's bad - and she agrees.

On my last trip northbound, a young man steps out of the darkness flashing a big toothy smile. He can't be contained, he's so excited.
"I'm ready to drive, man, I put in my application to be a bus driver!"
These guys are the best, hopeful and eager to be in my seat. I encourage him to pursue his dream and don't give up.

Two middle age women are having a semi-religious discussion in the front seats. One of them had to travel out of state recently for some time. She returned to find her Bible, with tithe money inside still intact, and called it a blessing.

On a different day, pick up a young mother with two little ones at Golden Glades. With all sincerity, she explains how she left her purse at work and doesn't have fare for the youngest. He meets the criteria for a free trip anyway, so no problem. Later on, I look in the cabin mirror to see her holding some cash. A woman who just exited gave it to her, out of the blue. "I know God is good to me" she says with wondrous confidence.

At Commercial Blvd, a sizable group of day laborers awaits to board, covered in paint splatter, drywall dust, and stale sweat.
"What you need to do is find one good thing to do for people. You know we're all in the same situation. Everyone on this bus is in the same situation." The conversation between two coworkers that began at the bus stop continues as they board and swipe their passes.

Much later, nearing the end of my run, I look in the cabin mirror and see a familiar face. Can't remember where he boarded since the sheer volume of the ridership tends to blur such details unless I take note. But I always remember when he boards since he has a definite greeting. I used to ask him how it's going, and he'd reply with "Blessed and highly favored." Now I beat him to it and ask if he's blessed and highly favored today. Always greeting me with a "Ya mon" in a light island accent, thick plaits spilling out from a skully, this cheers me up for some reason, no matter what's going on around us. As we approach the final stop of the night, the bus annunciator gives its final message: "Route finished. Thank you." My blessed friend is quick to disagree with the disembodied voice, calling out a message of his own: "I'm not finished, I'm just getting started!"

A certain slant of light

"Route 36 to Galt Mile," the on board annunciator chimes out each time the doors are opened. The curbside destination sign also reads Galt Mile. This all creates a little confusion for passengers since the 36 no longer goes to Galt Mile during heavy road construction on that stretch of A1A. Now we turn around at the beach end of Sunrise Blvd, and those heading north can transfer to route 11. There was a little confusion when the service change began and regulars soon caught on, though the technology hasn't.

This pick I drive the 36 on Saturday mornings. Since Daylight Saving Time ended last month, I still deadhead to my starting point at Sawgrass Mills in darkness, but head east with the rising sun. It is a stunning spectacle showcasing the power of light bringing the world to life. As we head over the 95 overpass, downtown is spread before us, illuminated by the sun peeking through a variety of clouds.

This is my easy piece of the week. The schedule has enough extra time built in that I actually hope for various time-eaters along the way to keep us from running hot. Wheelchair passengers are always welcome any day of the week, though the slower pace of a Saturday morning means I get to roll out the royal treatment by being precise about where the ramp will come down, kneeling low to the curb, and making sure they're secured if so requested. Then there's the FEC RR. The lights start flashing, the arms start dropping and we're stuck at the tracks. Four engines crawl by and we know this is gonna be a looong one. No problem, we got time. As a child, I used to count the cars for fun, often there'd be over 100. In those days, I vaguely recall there being a caboose at the end, not necessarily a red one, but still one nonetheless. I don't see cabooses on trains anymore. More often than not, people complain about the long train. I give the same answer as when they complain about cockroaches: It was here first. Like the natural rivers many confuse with man-made canals, the railroad is a vein of thriving life through the hearts of our eastern cities, an immovable highway connecting past and present.

Today we're on the 36, where we can see the great dichotomies of our community, the razor-thin margins separating luxury from poverty. On the east end is the Galleria, a gilt elephant for wealthy locals & visitors. At the west end is Sawgrass Mills, which seeks to wow patrons with its sheer size. In between we have the Swap Shop, with its endless dark alleys of hidden treasures.

A1A> Intracoastal> Galleria> Holiday Park> Searstown> Andrews> Powerline> Sunland Park> Dillard High> Swap Shop> Lauderhill Mall> Deepside> Sunset Strip> Plantation High> University> Sawgrass Mills

"Good morning, Boss Man! How are you this morning?" This is a regular, a young man dressed quite dapper in beige suit and tie. Always a beaming smile, a quick yet steady movement from entry to seat. His enthusiasm rubs off and I return the greeting and call him "Mister" even though he looks about 20. Any young person who takes the time to look like a future professor deserves a respectable greeting. And is he from the eastside, or the posh western suburbs? Nope, from the heart of Deepside, in clear contrast to the influences around him. Thank you, Mister.

"Do you meditate?" an older woman exiting at the Hill asks me. Maybe I present an introspective figure on these slow morns. She's an older woman with ink in fonts and locations typical of the neighborhood.
"I do sometimes" I respond, explaining how it's good for keeping stress at bay.
"God bless you" she whispers in a grateful tone, eyes piercing to the core. Her children are causing her grief and she's drained. Her hand rests gently on mine and I cover it with my other, encourage her to hang in there and stay strong.

While at the Hill, a man in work clothes and ski cap approaches. He's seems familiar with me, but with the headwear it takes me a minute to recognize him as a familiar face from earlier this year. He used to board with a fishing pole and try as I might, he'd never reveal his best fishing spots to me. Now he's set aside the fishing and is focusing on golf. Gives me some basic golf tips for beginners, and says he's recently returned from being out of town for work. He's generally reserved, but today he's open and has some thoughtful insights. Perhaps fatigue has loosened him up, since he seems tired and later on he appears to be dozing on the bus.

Near the transfer station, a young man with a megaphone is calling all listeners to repentance and to love one another.

After leaving the Hill, a group of ladies with folding carts boards. This is not unusual when we service the Swap Shop, but this is the stop near Lauderhill High and the carts are loaded with frozen turkeys and other Thanksgiving fixins being given out at the school. The line wraps around the building.

On another eastbound trip, I see a long lost friend. She just got off another bus and is rushing to mine as I pull into the stop. She's dragging two large garbage bags (clothes?) and she looks exhausted. As she boards, she's sure to swipe her pass, but doesn't look up at the driver. Still in her security guard uniform, her hair slightly mussed, and dazed stare all let me know that this lady's been working all night and is in a rush to get home. When I drove the 36 nights back in the spring, I'd pick her up and hear about her plans to work hard and make a good life for her baby. Now it's winter and it's clear she's kept her vow, finding the will to keep moving through the exhaustion. When she exited, the light inside her shone again, as she wished us a good day. These are the strong ones, spending of themselves to the last, the strength of character outlasting the frailty of body.