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I drove transit bus for 11 years. Yes,
35- and 40-foot buses . . . punching transfers, making change and absolutely
hating it. Now there is nothing wrong with being a bus driver or doing
any other kind of work. Any work is honorable if it is done with pride
and in the right spirit. I, however, did it without either of those and
my war stories would make most people laugh but I am not proud of much
of my performance.
It wasn't all bad. I drove through the
North Shore suburbs of Chicago, mostly on Sheridan Road along Lake Michigan.
These are some of the most affluent and gloriously landscaped neighborhoods
in the whole Chicago area. I watched the seasons turn and the sunrises
over the lake and had plenty of time for thought and contemplation. There
were many wonderful moments and while I did appreciate the pluses, I allowed
the minuses to all but blot them out. There I was, driving a route that
a Chicago Transit Authority driver with 25 years seniority probably couldn't
get, and I called my bus my rolling torture chamber.
As The Monthly Aspectarian grew
from a newsletter into a magazine, I swore to myself that the very minute
the magazine could support my family, I was gone. I'd be on the bus one
day and gone the next. No notice, no goodbyes, just gone. Well, the day
arrived. It was in the late summer and Matt, our third child, was due
in early October. I thought "Gee, we have a kid on the way, and great
insurance benefits, and maybe I'll stick around for a few more months."
There were always these well-tended flower
beds around the Linden el station . . . and, of course, flowers mean bees.
As you may know, in the late summer and early fall as pollen production
drops off, the bees seek sugar sources elsewhere. It was not unusual for
bees to follow soda pop cans or a woman's perfume onto the bus.
There is a new station there now, but
all of the buses that leave Linden still turn left up 3rd Street when
they leave. So there I was, that bright and shining morning, making that
left turn that I had made thousands of times before. The left turn that
I used to say I could have made blindfolded using the bumps in the street
to guide me. There I was making that left turn and swatting at a bee buzzing
over my head with a rolled up newspaper - when I heard this loud Whumph!
Looking down, I saw the car that had
been signaling a left turn but had taken a right pushed up onto the corner
and bent like a boomerang. As I opened to door to get out to see if the
driver was okay, the bee flew out the door with me. I'm sure I heard it
laughing all the way back down the street to the nest.
I drove that bus back to the barn knowing
full well I wasn't supposed to because I knew it was the last time I'd
be behind the wheel of #8120. And true to my vow, I was there one day
and gone the next. There are many who have aided in so many ways in the
evolution of The Monthly Aspectarian and once again I thank you
all. But this is the first time I've acknowledged in print the assist
I received from my little black and yellow buddy.
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