Keeping vigil

Bus operators are rarely called by their job title, rather we receive countless nicknames and epithets. They can be repetitive or creative, and when a new one comes my way I add it to the running list. One that will never make the list is Father, since it wasn't given on the bus. It was bequeathed upon me by another operator, who was presumably inspired by my general appearance. Other operators latched onto it and what started as an inside joke soon morphed into an inquisitive greeting.

Father's Day found me on Atlantic Boulevard, one half of a dynamic duo I dubbed Team 42. Shortly after pulling out of the garage, I witnessed a somber scene: a couple dozen Egyptian geese were convened in a semi-circle, in the street and on the shoulder. Standing straight as soldiers, they faced the same direction toward the flattened carcass of one of their flock. Keeping a respectful distance from the still, feathered casualty, they stood in stony silence with blank, wide-eyed stares.

My turn for giving a confused look came on the first westbound trip. A couple stops before US 1, an older woman waited to board. With limp, stringy hair and her arm in a brace, she called me by name as soon as the doors opened, before she even boarded. Hard as I tried, I couldn't place the face and no name came to mind. She proceeded to talk to me as if we were familiar with each other, updating me on her man's job plight. Hoping her name would come to me, I didn't let on that I couldn't remember her.
"I see you cut your hair!" She tossed out an observation that could be a clue.
   'Yeah, I gotta be respectable now.'
I felt bad for not calling her by name, but I just didn't recognize her. My theories are that we met briefly a long time ago, or that she got me mixed up with someone else.

On our previous trip, a 20-something young man with extensive ink on his arms begged for an emergency pass so he could "get to the homeless assistance center," which he didn't know the location of because he was "from Orlando." I offered a ride to the transit center a little over 10 minutes away, where he could catch the 60 to the Broward Outreach Center. He immediately began hedging and declined the offer, mumbling that he would "drive myself."

We did a round trip and settled in at the east end layover. A slight man in a motorized scooter rolled up the ramp. Curious tattoos on his thin arms stood out in contrast. I commented on the lighted ball used to control the scooter's joystick. He volunteered that he had been paralyzed during a robbery on Las Olas in the '90s. His arrowhead necklace caught my eye and I complimented him on it, which prompted him to tell me about his Cherokee grandmother.

At the stop before the FEC RR, a familiar old man boarded. His personal hygiene had long been neglected, understandable among our homeless regulars but rarely this powerful. The offensive odor is always more than offset by his impeccable manners and politeness.

Simple gratitude and consideration go a long way in our interactions with one another. We may not know each other's names, we may not know where we are going, we may know where we came from, and we may offend each other unintentionally. This is our flock, we are marked together as one community, and look out for each other to the end.

Staying level

Late starts are no way to start the day, especially doing the 72 on a weekday morning. It meant I wouldn't be able to get on time for a couple hours. This wasn't my regular run, I was filling in on my day off. This being the 72, one of the busiest routes in the system, the 60-footer artic was soon filled with a standing load up to the yellow line - and the sun wasn't even peeking over the horizon yet. To add to the delays, this particular bus was notorious for being sloooow. My follower caught me near the end of the first trip so I went into drop-off only mode and tried to get back on time.

During the first couple trips, passengers came up to me for assistance or socializing and their words stuck with me, piercing through the din of early-day chaos.

"It was a test and I passed it. I'm keeping positive." The Jamaican woman had missed her stop on our previous trip, and here she was again on the return trip. Not sure if she was referring to actually missing the bus stop, or what transpired at her destination.

"Water seeks its own level." An older gentleman repeating an old phrase. Again, in the tumult and blur of the moment his reference eludes me, but the words remain.

My follower caught me a second time and I was ready to chalk up this crawling bus as just about useless.

The furious squall of the morning rush subsided to a manageable pace. The crowds clamoring to get to work were replaced with the smaller number of those in pursuit of more leisurely activity, or none at all.

On my final trip I picked up two familiar faces in the east part of town. Both homeless, one is a sociable ex-Marine and the other frequently annoys passengers by begging on the bus. The Marine was chugging a beer when I pulled up, which apparently had left him broke as he turned out his empty pockets. The second rider made an effort and put a few coins in the box. I also had him promise not to bother anyone on the bus, since he has a habit of staying up front and begging everyone who boards. He promised, but it didn't last.
"Driver, you need to kick him off the bus, he's bothering everyone." The Marine was fed up with his friend's antics. We were stopped and I turned back to see what was going on with my crew.
   'I know he's not, because he promised not to, right buddy?' My tone was kind and peaceful, not upset. These two would be exiting soon enough and the annoyance was minimal, or so I thought. Shortly after my playful chide, a woman exited up front and made a point of encouraging me on her way out.
"You have the patience of a saint, sweetheart."

Water seeks its level, makes its way where it can, and adjusts to the space it's in.

In my heart

A sedate morning on Sample Road. The first trip was under a cloudy sky, which seemed to complement the low ridership and light traffic. By our second trip, the sun had a chance to rise and burn off lingering nighttime moisture.

We picked up the eccentric cyclist and he wasn't talking about the weather when he joked about going under the Doppler Radar today. Life is bound to bring us all a collection of scars, and he proudly displayed an impressive one on his abdomen, gouged there by an infection during a hospital stay.
"I just had surgery and got up to go to the bathroom, but the nurse thought I was falling and went to catch me. She was holding two bags of IV fluid and grabbed me with the bags, right on the surgery spot. The doctor almost fired her."

About this time Mr. Pickle boarded, heading to work at his Pickle Spot in Festival Flea Market. Somehow our conversation turned on me and the two of them were shocked when I told them I was working from 6 am to 7 pm, with an evening run to Miami on the 95 Express after this local shift. There tends to be a wide chasm between the ridership of our premium express service and those on the local routes. They rarely overlap, and each group is unfamiliar with the other service. So I wasn't surprised when they asked me if I'm on the 441 Breeze, which is promoted as a limited-stop express service, but in fact stays on surface streets. I started to explain the differences and was met with looks ranging from confused to betrayed, as if I was a wayward father with two families. Mr. Pickle soon exited and conversation ended.

After the Tri-Rail station, we passed the AMPM Food Mart with at least a dozen day laborers hanging around for someone to come by and offer work.

A Haitian woman boards and asks for "Pompano", but can't be more precise.

Pulling up to the red light at Dixie, a 50 bus barrels by southbound. It stops close to this corner and a man in a pink button-down jumps out and races over to my bus. For those I'm familiar with, I'll joke that it takes a real man to wear pink. This guy is a stranger, so I skip that idea and go with a simple compliment: 'You're fast.'
"When I got a knee replacement, they gave me an upgrade! Like Steve Austin."
   'Where do I get that?' I had to know.

We flip around at the east end and a familiar face from the 10 is waiting on 33rd Street. A perennial Grumpy Gus who once told me to "give it more gas" so he could get his coffee before his connecting bus, he was a regular when I drove the 10. Now I was picking him up where I left him off. Uncharacteristically sociable today, though still a dour front as usual. Some reasons for that started to become known.
"I'm ex-military. That's where I got hooked on coffee. I put cognac in it on the weekend."
From there he listed his complaints about BCT: bad schedules and bad drivers. I was with him on the first thing, as for the second complaint my answer is always: We got all kinds.

Now we're bookin' it back the other way, heading east. Another regular with a bike boards at Turtle Creek. Semi-retired until Social Security kicks in, he flashes a LAID OFF - RENT DUE sign at Powerline. Unabashed about how he makes ends meet until then, he wistfully recalls receiving $100 bills in west Broward. Far smaller denominations come his way on this dusty stretch of warehouses at the base of Mt. Trashmore. His voice audibly broke when he remembered one young man in a BMW giving him all the money in his pockets; he grabbed the generous giver's forearm and said, "You're blessed."
He cleared his throat, lowered it to a whisper, and came in a little closer: "Over here, people of color are the most consistently giving, while our own kind sneer at me. Took me 60 years to really see, though I knew in my heart."

While at the east layover, I did a walk-through and found a hat left behind. It was the second one of the morning.

At some point a petite, wan young lady boarded, clean and with a freshly made up face. Her blank expression brightened when I said hi, and she stood up front while we rolled.
"I'm a little nervous about what I have to do now, I'm not happy about it." Her first words came resigned and tentative, grasping for a life preserver. Not wanting to pry into what she had awaiting her, I tried to think of some encouragement for this skeletal girl with the sweet disposition.
   'We've all been there, this too shall pass.'
"Thank you." She seemed bolstered as she slipped out the door.

At Holiday Springs, a woman held a baby, perhaps her grandchild, and pointed up into a tree near the bus stop, smiling.

Sweet on you

A Sunday, the day after the Orlando nightclub shooting. After the horror comes comfort in seeing friendly faces, familiar faces. The morning went routinely, a stark reminder that the world keeps on going in the aftermath of concentrated chaos. I picked up regulars like the Toys R Us lady and the curious young man getting lost. There were also irregular regulars like the ever-tardy church-goer, again running to catch the bus this morning. She was followed by a young man nonchalantly doing a last puff of his 'cigarette' across from the casino, taking his sweet time to board. All along, a man in the back slept through the first two trips, once perking up to ask "Did we pass Pompano?" - we had.

It was laundry day for the day laborers, some marching, some cycling along the sidewalk from Coral Springs to Pompano with enormous stuffed black plastic garbage bags slung over their shoulders, others performing a balancing miracle with overflowing hampers on their shoulders.

At the west end an unlocked bicycle stood at a bus stop unattended. Painted Publix green, I predicted it wouldn't be there for long.

On the edge of an industrial zone at Powerline stood a lone pop up tent, covering a table laden with jars of golden honey. Honey comes dark and honey comes light, but it's all sweet.

A half-pint crowd boarded at Riverside, presided over by the self-described late bloomer who became a father late in life. He's close behind his four little ones, all well-behaved and curious about the pull cords, lights, signs, and other innards of the bus.

On my final trip I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the lone bike still standing at the bus stop, as if invisible to the world. It defied all logic that no one had snatched it by then, or the owner retrieved it. The surreal moment was fraught with the thought that this was how the world could be. Reality would return soon enough, for now I would enjoy the sweetness.

Hollerin'

He looked familiar, since I'd picked him up earlier in the shift. What was different this time were the fingerless boxing gloves on his middle-aged hands, like he'd just stepped out of a back alley octagon.
   'Did you tear up that bag?'
"Didn't you hear it hollerin'?"
   'I heard something...'

On time for my execution

The last day of school, a chance to wish all my regular Coral Springs High students a good vacation. Rainy season's drizzly, damp overcast was in full swing that morning on the 34. The weather was primed for misery.

The kids are in school, the grown ups are going to work. At the first stop after turning onto Coral Ridge Drive, a man boarded with his McD's bag. His short, gray-flecked beard suited the occasion.
   'How's it goin' out there?' I asked as he escaped the precipitation.
"Rough, rough. It's a dog eat dog world."
   'Hang in there, things will turn around.'
"I work in a shop painting metal, then we put it in a hot oven to cook and I just don't like it."
   'Is it cooking you?'
"Yeah."
   'There are other opportunities, you don't have to stay there forever.'
"Exactamundo! I'm glad you have a positive outlook."
   'Well, I don't wanna be miserable all day.'

On the flip trip, I pick up the regular who runs the pickle shop at Festival Flea Market. He goes over his picks for the NBA playoffs, and reminds me to come by for some pickles.

At Turtle Creek, a 20-something guy is waiting.
"Can I have a ride to the next bus stop?"
That section of Sample has the 441 overpass, creating a long stretch between bus stops. He's a sociable sort and is eager to talk about his morning.
"Man, I had a court date for some fines and was late. I don't want to be on time for my execution, I want to be late."
   'That makes sense.'
"My family don't understand and they tell me to be early. I just say I got this."

Tough in Florida

Let's go back in time to a little year I like to call 2002. Actually, it was 2016 and the bus was from 2002, a Gillig Phantom. Every bus that's been in service this long is bound to be full of phantoms and ghosts, with so many years of life within its space. I call them Gillig Time Machines, rattling around town while faithfully getting us to the next stop.

On one 10/50 split shift I rolled out of the garage in this '02, ready to fill it with more stories. The heavy overcast above was a gloomy way to start the day, but not unusual during rainy season. A late pull out time for this trip, it was the height of morning rush hour as I headed to Camino Real in Boca. At Hillsboro and Dixie, I was a bit startled to see the red caboose was missing. It had been moved slightly a couple weeks before, but today I couldn't see it in the vicinity. Finally I spotted it a considerable distance south and all was well.

In service now, heading south on US 1, we stopped at Sample for the normal crowd. Two Haitian women began to board, one with a folding cart loaded with a rainbow of Gatorade bottles. Her dreary demeanor matched the sky and her tone as she said "Good Morning".
I repeated it back to her, then had the inclination to toss in a little Bonjou. With that, her face lit up. When I followed with "Ke gen ou ye" she went ecstatic. "M'bien mesi!" she laughed with her friend as she took a seat.

At 6th St, a regular boarded and began feeding quarters rapid-fire into the fare box, alternating between both hands and delivering the coins like Chinese throwing stars.

At Commercial Blvd, with swarming traffic surrounding him, a homeless man sitting at the bus stop in vintage teal Marlins cap was beginning his day. He didn't want the bus, this was his intersection. With a black Sharpie marker, he carefully lettered a piece of cardboard. So far it only said "I'M DOWN".

At 15th Ave, an older woman was putting out great effort running across the Walgreens parking lot to catch the bus, as my laughing Haitian friend exited, presumably to catch the 36 and dispense her cart of rainbows at the Swap Shop. A younger woman waiting to board kept shifting her position, deferring to the others. She was a few cents short on her fare and put it in silently with some delicate finger gestures. While this was going on, I could hear a female voice calling out. Looking to my left, there was one of my favorite customers in the median, someone who always lights up my day. The older lady who was running a moment earlier was now on board, buying a day pass and advising me not to get old. By now the light had turned red, so my sunny friend had time to cross over to us.
"My favorite! Now I know it's going to be a good day. Thanks dahling."
At Central Terminal, I thanked her for bringing sunshine on a cloudy morning.
The mute young woman who was short on her fare suddenly became talky, revealing that she was homeless. She told me about her thrifty clothes shopping, wisdom from her father about doing the right things in life, how someone stole her bag while she used the restroom. She shared a bit of good news about securing a slot in a women's shelter. When she mentioned she hadn't been in a relationship with a man since 2002, I could see this was going down a strange path and gave her an emergency pass to get to the shelter.

The morning trip on the 10 was fairly busy, and a few more wrinkles were added to that old bus. The afternoon shift on the 50 was sedate in comparison. A different bus of course, slightly newer.

Picked up Mr. Mercedes at the usual spot. He's looking for a vintage-style spotlight for his bike, a perpetual creative work in progress.

At 54th Street, Iron Chef boards. A regular who always looks exhausted, but like the rest of us perks up when he gets to talk about what he loves. And he loves to cook. He cooks 6 days a week and wants a second job - cooking. He's worked at Boca Raton Resort so he's got the skills. Now he wants to open his own restaurant.
"What kind of food will it have?" I wonder.
"Italian, American, everything." His answer is broad and unlimited. I think he's looking for investors.

A young man who'd gotten on awhile earlier came up as he readied to exit. He felt compelled to throw some sweet talk my way, which tends to induce cringing. This time it impressed me.
"You're one of the coolest bus drivers, one of the best I've seen. You've got character, that's tough in Florida."