It Begins

Through the eyes of a city bus driver.

He seizes the cool iron rod from its usual nest aboard the 40 foot lowfloor transit bus resting for noontime shiftchange. Preparing to return to afternoon service the driver ticks through his usual pretrip check list. Tamping each wheel and dually patiently performing inspection around the simmering vehicle he works methodically, ignoring all else as he checks its road readiness for eight more rounds, eighty more miles of starts and stops before night fall. Rounding the nose of the bus, he greets passengers who have been patiently awaiting his signal to the close of this daily ritual. The late comedian Johnny Carson's joke about the Robin simmering his worm on the Pamona Freeway is not far from the current waiting conditions.

"Hundred and four on the bank sign," one waiting cyclist offers as he completes loading a yellow Trek on the front rack. "When will this end? Have you seen the report this week?"

"Didn't catch it," the driver tosses over his left sholder continuing to focus on changeover protochol. "When WILL it end?" he quanders silently checking each gage, then typing in his driver identification number to start the bus' GPS and communication system. "Short driver this morning," he grumbles as he raises the seat, and adjusts the level of the steering wheel and rear view mirrors. Entering his last numbers, he hears the familiar bells and radio responses. "All aboard, he calls as the passengers begin loading toward cool air conditioned comfort. [relative comfort]

"Is this the bus that goes to the mall?" a boardiing passenger inquires.

"Which mall?" querries the driver. "There is Rimrock, Grand Mesa Center, Mesa Mall, Eastgate, Teller Arms. Where do you want to go?"

"Walmart." came the frustrated reply.

"Sorry to have to ask you another question." rebounded the driver, "Which Walmart, downtown or North Avenue?

"Next to Lowes." came the irritated reply.

"You're boarding the wrong bus, sorry! You need Eleven." he picks up the microphone. "Route nine to route eleven, hold please, I have a passenger for you."

"Copy," comes the reply.

"There," driver pointing."The bus is diagonally across the concorse mam." She turns with increasing frustration and pushes back through the boarding line.

"Next," calls the driver.

"I need a day pass," barks the next in line earbuds competing for the moment.

"Three dollars and seventy-five cents, sir." responds the driver patiently awaiting fumbling fingers seeking exact change.

"How much?" the hearing impaired boarder asks as he pulls the impediment from one ear.

"Three, seventy-five," continues the driver.

"Have two, ninety," barks the fumbling passenger.

"Sorry, the fair for a day pass is $3.75." reiterates the driver. "What would you like to do?" the seconds ticking away.

"I need a day pass. I have several appointments." There is silence as the driver waits, having had experience with previous underfinanced confrontations. He then continues, "I can give you a one way pass for $1.50 and you can get another later when you get more money." he awaits decision.

"Here, I'll pay the difference, we've got to get going," called a passenger waiting in line.

"Ok, thats thoughtful, mam" affirms the driver.

"Be certain to thank the nice woman."

"Thanks," rises the frustrated response as he hoists a heavy backpack to his sholders and heads for an empty seat in the rear.

Boarding continues with most passes regestering.

"Sir, ISIS this your pass?" the driver stops a man obviously in his 30s.

"Yeah, why?" comes the reply.

"It's a youth/senior pass, sir. You appear to be neither. May I see the pass?" Passenger hands over the pass.

"What is our name, sir?"

"Mark," he replies.

"This pass was sold to Ruth Alvarez. See, the name is written on the side of the pass. I have to confiscate it. How do you want to pay?"

"You can't do that," combats the passenger.

"Sorry, sir this is not your pass."

"Ok, its my girlfriend's pass, can I board anyway?"

"Can't do that for you sir, you must have a valid pass to board. Tell your girlfriend to pick up her pass at the main office downtown."

"I've got to get to an appointment and I can't walk in this heat."

"Sorry sir. Next in line." There is no offer from others on board as the man turns into the hot afternoon.

A woman with a cart of groceries runs her card and makes her way slowly back prompting a younger man to rise from his seat to allow her a place.

A young woman with two children in tow boards, barking orders and directions to the youngsters as she fumbles for appropriate fare.

Several final passengers run their fares and the bus is boarded.

Closing the doors, the driver prepares methodically to depart. Just as he begins to press the accelerator the radio blares, "We have a runner, running toward route nine." The driver stops his forward progress, opens the door, and awaits the straggler.

"Thanks, driver," huffs the bedraggled passenger, "Thought I had missed you. Are we going to make our connections in Clifton?" driver smiles, considering the irony of the moment, she enters and pushes her way by several empty seats to an open place in the back corner.

Seconds still ticking, the driver closes the forward door and pulls into line with circling buses leaving the terminal.

And so it begins. Eleven, routes, and eleven drivers (four Para Transit), similarly beginning their afternoon vigil, serving exhausted passengers for some 150 square miles this sultry summer afternoon.
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Reviews

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

Reminiscent of Wilder’s “The Bridge of San Luis Rey”, minus the deaths. Love the eloquence and realism of your exceptional writing in this deceptively ordinary story of ordinary people moved by fate to be waiting for or on the bus at the same time, seen and presented through the eyes of the overworked driver. Great weaving of authentic dialogue, interaction, frustration, nuance. Well-penned Allen!