No angels

Sunday mornings on the 60, a chance to truly enjoy this route without the brutal onslaught of rush hour traffic. The schools are closed so everyone gets a seat rather than the usual standing load coming out of the college. The route itself is one of those dual-personality routes like the 11 and the 40. It stays on one road through east Broward (Andrews Ave) for a long stretch then decides to switch things up by veering out west through Pompano, Coconut Creek, and Margate. The purpose for this is obviously to maximize connections for passengers wishing to hop on other routes. This year, the county straightened out the hairpin curve on Andrews at Atlantic; it required cutting a section out of a warehouse sitting in the way. Now that the road is updated there, the flyover is complete, and widening up at Copans are done perhaps the planning department can look at having the route go straight up Andrews and Military Trail to the county line. On second thought, scratch that idea. Without the western leg, this most colorful and exciting of routes would be just another boring north-south line on the map.

Our first trip we came rolling down the Turnpike overpass, made our turn onto 31st Ave, and pulled up to the first stop for an awaiting trio of men. Two of them told me they just got out of jail, a common confession at this stop across the street from the detention facility. They want free rides, and they have the universal bus pass of the just-released: "I can show you my paperwork." One fumbled some papers in hand, then added with a quiet afterthought: "It's nothing to be proud of."

We made the horseshoe turn onto 27th Ave through the still-sleepy Collier City. A birdman was crumbling biscuits on the sidewalk, but there were no birds.

That first trip tends to be the busiest. Sunday service starts later than weekdays, but people still need to go to work so we're packed now, but it will lighten up as the morning progresses.

The next trip is northbound. At the Prospect red light, there's a loud thud sound. The solid impact two cars make when colliding is a mystery to me. With all the glass and metal and plastic involved it seems like there should more of a shattering, scraping sound. Even so, it's always a similar sound: thud.

We make the turn off John Knox and onto Dixie. A slight curve in the road lined with auto garages leads to the first of two stops before the Transit Center. The stop is empty and my heart sinks a little. Ordinarily there is a group of five or six day laborers waiting, immigrants speaking little English and dressed in their Sunday best: clean jeans and t-shirts. Without so much as a peep after we exchange Good Mornings, they make their silent pilgrimage to San Isidro, patron saint of farmers and feeder of birds. Always paying their fare, camping out in the back of the bus, and pulling the cord on cue, I find them to be a source of steady and reliable strength. Maybe they're whispering back there, but I hear only silence. It can't be because they're not familiar with English, we get all languages talking on the bus at all volumes. They are mysterious in their presence, and today they are mysteriously missing.

Pulling out of the Transit Center, we began our westward trek on MLK. Soon there was a woman in a red sedan in the lane next to us - driving the wrong direction. At this section of street there is a landscaped median which meant she was between it and the bus. I slowed down to a crawl and may have come to a stop in awe of what I was seeing. She continued on her way without causing harm to herself or others.

After that, a familiar face in the neighborhood boarded. With thick graying dreadlocks hanging out of his ski cap, he cuts a distinctive figure. This philosopher is always ready to drop some knowledge on me and I'm always ready to listen. Today he theorizes that the government should better maintain housing projects to keep people's spirits up, then transitions into the concept of helping others. A vague example of him sitting down, asking for help, and not putting in any effort seemed clear at the time but now I'm not sure.

Finally making our way back up 31st Ave on the final leg of this trip, a rider we picked up awhile back makes his way up to the front. Sporting a Cheetah Pompano shirt and lunch tote, he must work there since it's too early to be open.
"Off to work," he said with resignation after an audible sigh.
"Another exciting day?"
"Yeah." No enthusiasm.
"There's gotta be something exciting, something's gotta happen." It was trite encouragement, but it's not like he was looking at a day of drudgery in an office.
"When you seen one, you seen 'em all."

Late morning has arrived, we're on our second southbound going through the college when who should board but my pal Al. He's on a mission to feed some feral cats and dogs. Regaling me with military adventures in Costa Rica, this guy's been places.

We're back on John Knox going the other way and I can see my old regular Louis rising from the bench when he spots the bus. This is the rider who threatened to fire me awhile back. Now he's a bit miffed because a coworker quit at the gas station and he got called in. Forced to nix his plans to attend a charity wrestling match at Mickey's Bar, it added insult to injury as we passed by and could see the ring set up in the  parking lot. Already surrounded by several dozen motorcycles, he said all the biker clubs would be there. When I hinted that might mean trouble he laughed it off.

Maybe angels can be found in the unlikeliest of places: prison, strip clubs, biker bars, even bus stops.

Fretless

It's that day again, his day. Jaco Pastorius, one of Broward's own who pulled music out of the air. He said the music was in his hands. For many of us our livelihoods depend on our hands, and occasionally for a brief moment, the stuff of Life passes through them.

Sometime in the past few weeks a passenger and I were discussing the bus we were in. Every bus is different and has its own set of glitches and quirks. I don't recall the particular ghost in the machine we were dealing with that day, but it prompted an excited response from the passenger and he christened it the Bus of Doom. Instantly there was one degree of separation from Jaco and his Bass of Doom. We all use various tools to ply our trades: wrenches, pens, scalpels, computers, and even buses. Jaco bought his in a Margate pawn shop, popped out the frets, and the rest is legend.

Below is an essay I wrote 10 years ago about heroes and Jaco's place among them. It could probably use an editing update (especially since he now has a dynamic park bearing his name), but the substance of it is still true and so I present it here as a sincere and simple offering to the World's Greatest.

Happy Birthday, Jaco.

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Jaco the Hometown Hero

Many years ago, I thought about the great men I admire and asked myself what made them so great. Artists, explorers, inventors, and all the other titles we bestow upon those we call 'heroes.' As I compared the lives, personalities, and qualities of each one I realized there are three fundamental aspects to all heroes. I call these aspects The Three Vs: Vision, Virtue, and Vice.

Vision is what separates heroes from non-heroes. In the case of an artist, vision is that creative spark always pushing outward, seeking expression, and often building to an intensity difficult to bear. Jaco had Vision to spare, as evidenced by his incessant drive to express the music he had within. Those with a sensitive temperament, that is those who are sensitive to the influences and impressions of the world in which they live must be able to express themselves in some way. Impression without expression equals depression.

Virtue is that part of us that is compassionate, generous, honest, and self-sacrificing. Jaco showed his Virtue in several ways: encouraging other musicians, giving to the homeless, and especially by his love for his family.

Vice is the aspect of ourselves which is the opposite of Virtue. It is dark, cruel, and selfish. Jaco's Vice was revealed in alcoholism and drug abuse.

Essentially everyone has Virtue and Vice; only a hero has Vision as well. Jaco had all three.

Jaco is still considered a hero to bass players internationally. On a smaller scale, he should be a hometown hero for everyone who was raised in South Florida, as well as for transplants who have an affinity for the region. Jaco himself was a transplant from the North, though it was at a young age and he immediately felt at home in the new environment. He heard music when the train rumbled through his neighborhood wailing its lonely cry in the night. He never met a tree he didn't like to climb. He felt the power of the ocean when he went to the beach. His hometown shaped him as a person, as all hometowns do, and today he is inseparable from South Florida, as much a part of it as the flora, fauna, climate, and landmarks that define it. He often mentioned its influence on him in interviews. He performed around the world and back again, visited dozens of countries and spent a sizable amount of time in New York City, but always returned home to the Fort Lauderdale area. Ultimately he was laid to rest in the place where he spent most of his life.

My personal heroes include some of the great writers of the world: Cervantes, Villon, Dickens, Dostoyevsky, and especially the American writer Thomas Wolfe. Originally from Asheville, NC, his hometown shunned him for his writings and he spent the rest of his life looking for 'home,' never finding it. He had an insatiable hunger to know, see, and experience all things. He died of pneumonia at age 37. His hometown now holds an annual festival in his honor, and the last time I attended I spoke with a teenage resident who was ignorant about his city's most famous native son. I told him his ignorance was a shame and I would be proud to say Thomas Wolfe was from my hometown. Jaco is Broward County's Thomas Wolfe, and I am proud to say he is from my hometown.

The widespread ignorance about his very existence, much less his accomplishments, is a shame and must be remedied. Something must, and will, be done to honor this shining light in the place he felt most comfortable. He passed away in 1987 and still nothing substantial has been done to honor someone who deserves so much.

If you listen close to everyday sounds you can hear Jaco even after all these years. When the ibis flock overhead, a whisper in the breeze, when the sky roars, when the mockingbird sings at midnight, and when the train rumbles through the neighborhood.

Pinhole viewer

Spring time Saturdays in Broward County, what could be better. Cool temps, still too cool to roll up my sleeves. The rising sun has turned Oakland Park Blvd. into a street of gold. Yellow tabs in bloom. Ibis pecking for grubs. The light is clear and golden.

A guy in a Piney Grove Baptist shirt, glasses, and snaggle teeth. On his way there now for a health fair. A friend goes there, I ask if he knows him. Yes, he does.

"Thanks for sayin' that, my mind was gone." The middle-aged man in pink-themed outfit thanked me for announcing the stop. There's no annunciator or PA on this bus so I'm doing it old school and hoping folks can hear me at least halfway back into the artic. It's good to know someone's listening, we all need periodic reminders of where we are at this moment. His statement reminded me of my own experiences staring out a bus window, both locally and during the Gypsy Years. Whether the view is familiar or strange, this time-defying act can transport the imagination beyond the bus and down countless side streets, countryside paths, and glimpses of Life.

"How's it goin' out there?," I asked one gentleman as he paid the box. Even though the bus is out there too, it's always on the move like a planet unto itself. Since it's a long road with ever-changing dynamics, I like to find out what's going on with people at various points along the way.
"It's goin' nice. How's it goin' in here?"
It's goin' nice in here, too, Sir.

Getting caught

An early morning express run on the agenda, I deadheaded to the BB&T Center for a tripper to Miami. On 595 there was a horrific accident closing down the east bound lanes and traffic was already backing up for miles. This was going to create a problem when I went into service. Fortunately the road supervisor developed a detour for us and we got to take a rare scenic-route trip on surface roads to the Davie Park & Ride. So while the buses ahead of us gave radio updates of their progress crawling through the accident scene, we bypassed the mess and made good time.

The afternoon piece on the 50 wasn't meant to run as smooth. A detour around the line crews closing lanes would have been nice, but that wasn't an option as we inched our way along.

A passenger came up to me wanting 10th Street in Deerfield. With Spanish accent he said he was from Miami and hadn't been in this part of Broward in 15 years. He looked lost as he commented how everything changed. I had to agree with him, though that stretch of road probably hasn't changed in decades. Sure, signage changes, businesses come and go, landscaping gets replaced - but the physical buildings on Dixie are stuck in a time warp untouched by the rapid gentrification on other thoroughfares. Change is good and necessary and unavoidable, but there's a simple reassurance knowing some places aren't turned upside down and torn down. It anchors the roots as the tree spreads upward and outward, successive years adding expanding rings of hardwood to withstand the stormy times.

Something was in the air that day as another passenger, a woman in scrubs wandered up front, scanning out the window with a dazed look. She was from New Jersey and lost. Were the scrubs the uniform of an exhausted nurse or an inpatient?

We hit the end of the line and headed back south, passing Satchmo's BBQ on 4th St, with his enormous smoker set up on the front lawn of an abandoned shell of a house. The smoke of comfort food is a welcome sight and smell on this lonely street, mostly populated by the ghosts of Pineview Cemetery. A couple love taps on the horn and up goes the master cook's arm in waving response.

Our next northbound we got slammed. The bus was extremely full, presumably from my leader running a few minutes hot. That meant I was picking up people waiting for the previous bus, which leads to complaints about the bus being late though we were actually on time.

The trip after that things got really bogged down. Traffic was congesting and we kept getting later until my follower caught me. It doesn't help anybody to have buses bunched up, so I got instructions to drop off only and put some space between us.

The following trip the tables were turned when I caught my leader and she went into drop off mode.

At Sample a nurse in scrubs boarded after a long shift.
"Save any lives today?," I asked.
"Just one," she replied with a satisfied smile.
"That's enough."

Finally, we pull in to the north layover for our last trip and the rhymers are waiting.
"What's the con, Don?" The young one threw out there.
"How you like the hat, Matt?" The older gentleman tossed up while profiling his classy headwear.
I couldn't drop the ball this time and had to up my game.
"Keep it loose, Bruce."

Epic day on

Lest I start thinking it's only my days off that are eventful, life reminds me that every day brings its own surprises. As long as we keep moving, our next stop will be Life and all that it contains. Occasionally those stops come at us rapid fire and it's all we can do try to keep up and take some notes along the way.

An otherwise predictable morning tripper on the 10 started out predictably enough. The Palm Tran driver whose layover coincided with my starting point at the Publix on Camino Real was coming out of the store as I was going in. With a fluid gait, dead-weight arms, and before I could say Good Morning he announced with deadpan disappointment, "No croquettes!" Not needing a pit stop (and not caring for a patty) I too turned around.

Settling into our trip to Central Terminal, we picked up the NFL guru, a regular whose extensive analysis of football history and predictions I must always defer to. Football's not really my sport, but talking with him makes it fun to discuss.

Then the ghost reappeared. Not one of those bus glitches that appear without warning, but rather a rider I hadn't seen in well over a year. A bit more gray above the ears than before, but no less dynamic than I recalled. A tireless talker and inveterate socializer, his New York bravado and invasion of personal space demands constant engagement from anyone in his orbit. Frank the street preacher keeps you on your toes, a relentless challenge to apathy. With a curled copy of his autobiography in one hand, the other holding onto an upright stanchion so he could sway in the aisle rather than sit and aggravate an injury, the trip from Pompano to downtown was out of the ordinary. Between countless entreaties of "Jesus have mercy" every few blocks, he explained how he was on his way to court for preaching where he wasn't wanted, resulting in a trespass charge. As we passed the sky-high steeple of Coral Ridge Presbyterian gleaming in the morning sun, he pointed it out and proclaimed aloud, "I need to preach there!" With enthusiastic soulful inflection, he told us how he started in the black churches, then the Haitian churches. That last bit perked my ears.
"Sak pasé?" I asked, hoping to work on my Creole.
"I don't even speak French." A dead end for my language education, but at least I wouldn't need a translator for this sermon.
We approached Barnes & Noble, which prompted another proclamation while sliding his hand across the sign: "I see my book there. Nine million copies sold."
That kind of success requires some promotion, and I advised him to digitize his book, then go to the Art Institute and find a film student to follow him for a day. I'd watch that documentary.
As we neared the end of our trip, he let it be known he was looking for work. A car salesman for 20 years, he was let go recently after only a month at one dealer, "Even though I was the top salesman." Lamenting past mistakes that have set him back for lengthy stretches, he quietly resolved, "I need a godly organized woman." Just before he exited, he offered to sell me his mangled book; I decided to leave some things to mystery.

Trips like that can be invigorating and exhausting when you're not expecting them. It was a good warm up for the afternoon run, after a break between shifts.

* * *

It must have been at the Whole Foods at Copans when the lady boarded with a dozen eggs. It was an irresistible intro, so I asked if she was going to throw them.
With concern she flatly replied, "No. I need to eat them."
A man boarding behind her got my yolk joke and kept it going by saying, "I might do it."
"Let's make an omelet!" I suggested.

Closer downtown, our Special Olympics regular awaits, still wearing her big number sticker from the weekend race. She's excited and hopeful about going to State Finals.

Pretty sure it was at Central Terminal where the down-on-their luck couple boarded. These two were visiting and had to get all the way up to West Palm for a friend's wedding. They had limited funds, but enough for the fare to Boca. Hopefully they gave themselves plenty of time for the trip, I've taken that journey by bus before and it's a looong one.

In Pompano a newer rider stows her bike on the rack. With strong facial features, she boards waving a $5 bill and explains with a Slavic accent she doesn't have change. She got behind the yellow line, I kept the bus moving, and she returned with change after asking the other passengers.

Next the familiar Stander boarded. A bag lady in the truest sense, she hauls about a half dozen full bags around. A couple weeks earlier she'd made a morbid comment the day Brussels was attacked. Now, as then, she preferred to stand and let her "bones grind together." Perhaps unable to keep her thoughts silent, she continually talked out loud to herself, missing her stop and getting upset at herself.

Promising progress on Sunrise Blvd: finish coats are being applied, hopefully wrapping up an insane project which has been stifling traffic flow for months at the worst time of day.

Shortly after our next trip out of Central Terminal, we pick up the "visiting" Jamaican lady. I've picked her up several days in a row on other routes, she's always surprised to see me and never has the fare. She'll intently focus on me, whisper her request for a free ride so quietly it's the same as mouthing. We hear a lot of sob stories on the bus, but hers is a consistent one involving domestic trials and travails. It's not difficult to extend a courtesy to the suffering.

Uptown, the regular with the Peru hat boards, I lower the bus as he limps on with a cane. He's getting more mobile as he heals, and he'll be walking without it soon. We approached Atlantic Blvd, and he took the Pompano Cemetery stop. As he exited, I advised him to turn and not walk straight ahead.
"Ha ha, not yet, I got a few more years!"

Somewhere in Deerfield, a woman prepares to exit, but not before swiping her pass. I'd forgotten she boarded, but recalled it was way downtown and at the time she struggled to locate her pass. A classy lady with a sweet voice, she seemed tired after a long day so I told her to have a seat and just come back up when she found it. Wearing a Broward College lanyard, she mentioned something about working with 20-40 year olds. Bus drivers work with all ages, so I couldn't quite relate to the age reference.

Just before picking her up, a long lost couple boarded at Central Terminal. I used to pick them up every Saturday back when I drove the 20. He looked beat and dazed and didn't seem to recognize me, she was beaming with a huge smile and wide eyes behind cute glasses when they got on.
"Hey guys! How's it goin' over on the 20?"
"He's an older driver..." she bit her tongue. "God bless him."
They both seemed world-weary when they exited all too soon.
"If I could only keep myself out of trouble," she sighed.
"We know the right thing to do but we don't always do it," I concurred.
"We make choices..." she continued as they drifted away.

Oh, on that last northbound trip we picked up the NFL guru again, the same one we picked up that morning. He was a bit surprised that I was still driving so late. It's funny how things come full circle sometimes, even after a shift change.

Up at Hillsboro a longtime gas station was leveled. An earthmover with monstrous claw was steadily tearing a giant black olive tree apart, reducing it to toothpicks.

On one of our earlier trips, a northbound at Copans, we were parked at the red light when I looked to the left and saw a woman in the vehicle next to us aiming a camera with an enormous Nikon zoom lens directly at me. I didn't mug for the camera or otherwise acknowledge it, but it felt weird. With a lens that large and that close it could probably see into my pores.

Finally, another familiar face appeared. This time it was incomplete, since up till now the gentleman always had his lady friend with him. Odd to see him solo as he regretted their break up. On his way to the Swap Shop to sell his phone for some extra cash, he too needed a free ride.
"What would I do without the good guys?" he pondered aloud as we all made our way down the road.

Silverbacks and cherry tops

Our 595/95 Express routes generally use dedicated commuter buses with features not available on local route buses. The first difference that is obvious is the outside appearance. Taller, longer, and more curvy, many of these models are decorated with either a silver or red roof and a large spaceship entry door. Inside, the seats are plush and padded, and the wifi always works. Although designed for rider comfort, a few of the older units have developed an unpleasant surprise for unsuspecting drivers: a rain reservoir that drains when the bus is in motion. Ok, so into every life some rain must fall, sometimes it happens to drip on your lap while you're on the turnpike. Soon enough, the dashboard's Stop Engine light and attendant buzzer sound activate, presumably in protest to the uninvited moisture behind closed panels. After pulling over briefly, the warnings relent and we continue our tripper to Miami.

After that morning run, I get a couple hours off the clock before returning for an afternoon on the gritty 50. The buses on the 50 run the gamut, from ancient time machines to brand new models unsullied until the fresh bus smell wears off. The previous driver seems to bring me a different bus each time I relieve him or her, and today I get a newer one which means everything is probably working ok. A good bus covers a multitude of ills and we're gonna need any edge we can get for the road ahead.

Prior to the bus arrival, an older woman also waiting made some comment and we joked around. The levity was to be short-lived soon after we boarded and departed the Pompano station. She set up camp in the middle of the very back row and not long into our trip I could hear a row brewing. As she yelled and cursed, others began arguing with her. In rough shape, with a bruised face and no sense of self-control, she let loose her entire obscene vocabulary. Difficult to determine if the behavior was due to drunkenness or derangement, I'm very patient with these episodes since the offender will exit eventually. As distasteful as crude language may be, it's still just talk and she never threatened physical violence toward anyone. It was only a short distance to our north layover anyway, where I assumed she'd exit. Never assume. She decided to stay on and ride back around, continuing the abrasive performance without tiring. When we returned to the Pompano station, the security guard escorted her off - right where she'd gotten on in the first place.

The rest of the trip was a breeze after that, but the afternoon was progressing and we got slammed on the next trip. Packed bus, wheelchair, bikes, slowpokes, and a suspicion that my leader bus went down.

At Sunrise I picked up a regular rider, an amputee in a wheelchair who's been riding Broward Transit since before it was Broward Transit. He can come off as bitter and cranky at first blush, but in time reveals a keen intellectual brand of humor; no cheap one-liners here. Totally independent, he inspires awe as he maneuvers the chair backwards up the ramp, the rear of which is heavy laden with a collection of bags common on the streets. No assistance required, my offer of securement declined. Way up the line an old man boarded cautiously, hands feeling before him. I've carried him occasionally, every time he's sure to tell me he's blind and where his stop is, and that he's 91 years old. Every time I congratulate him and make sure he gets his stop. He held on the stanchions to make his way into the bus, and was snapped at by the passenger in the wheelchair who preferred not to have someone sitting on his lap.

"Appreciate your help, you guys are a lot nicer than the bus drivers in Boston, where I'm from." No, this didn't come from an older passenger thankful for my assistance, but rather from a young man looking for an address. More mature folks tend to be profuse with their thanks, but I hear it from all ages and it's appreciated.

"Are you new?" a man asked at the Pompano station. I hear this question a few times a year and I usually reply the same. "New to you!" and a smile.

The afternoon got later and we picked up the pet vet. I asked him what exotic animal he worked on today since he's mentioned treating rhinos, lions, and pot-bellied pigs. Today it was nothing exotic, just a toy poodle with an owner resembling Arnold Schwarzenegger.

On this trip a pattern is developing: I'm getting reports from passengers that my leader passed them by. Most likely that bus was instructed to go out of service and get back on schedule, but passengers don't know that. Even I didn't know that, but it made sense of my earlier hunch.

The ongoing lane closure north of Sample is in effect today, causing a traffic crunch at the worst time of day. We're all wondering why the line crews can't do the work at night.

The weather's nice and the street walkers are out in force, hustling the blocks south of Copans as the daylight wanes.

At our final north layover, the rhymers arrive, hurrying over from Hillsboro. I'm stretching my legs on the sidewalk.
"What's flyin', Brian?" the young one gets the ball rolling this time.
"What's the deal, Neil?" the older one follows up with his nugget.
I'm ready this time. "What's the hurry, Murray?" directed towards both of them, followed with a smooth spin into the bus.


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We're well into our fall/winter pick. You'll find me on another variety pack like usual, this time on the 2, 10, 34, 55, and 114. All over the county, let's ride together...

We do our own stunts

Sunday morning on the 60, a bus stop on 31st Ave in Collier City. The thin lady sporting a black cowgirl hat stood out as unique in that place. The sunglasses made sense, but the skateboard didn't quite fit. The assuming type might notice that the Cheetah was one stop away and figure there's a connection post-Saturday night.
"You do stunts on that?" One of my go-to intros when I see a board.
"It's a stunt just being here."