Forced Busing

There is a critical personnel shortage where I work. Hence the paucity of posts. Twelve-hour days spent behind the wheel are not conductive to creativity.

Only those of us too old or too far down the road of long-term unemployment remain; the younger and more employable of us having taken advantage of the rebounding economy and ditched the high-stress squalor of public transportation for greener pastures.

There is a dream-like quality to logging nearly three-hundred miles in urban traffic. Details and individual stops blur and become part of a larger, impressionistic canvas of repeated motions with no specific time or place.

Only the next address on your computerized manifest exists.

Then come the jarring intrusions of reality.

Dispatch, equally-stressed by a shortage of operators, is flooded with angry calls. Responding to outraged patrons, they insert themselves in your manifest and alter your course.

On a good day, this presents an opportunity to play hero as you swoop down out of the sky like the proud bus-eagle you are and rescue a rider from the social embarrassment of tardiness.

On a bad day, this saddles you with still-more stops you can't possibly perform in a timely manner without breaching the time-space continuum or altering the laws of physics. (Like any other bus driver-slash-physicist, I regularly search for wormholes.)

It is a frustrating little drama which finds the aggrieved customer playing the squeaky wheel and you an insufficient dollop of grease. This is likely the reason I am unusually fond of individually packaged moist towelettes.

Then the noisy thrum of the diesel engine and the mechanical whir of the transmission as it slogs through its gears yet again distances you from the evolving crises coming over the radio and the incessant stream of road construction.

You are once again a single, anonymous cell in the vast bloodstream of humanity. You set about delivering your passenger to their desired destination, not unlike the bit of oxygen headed to a muscle which ensures its continued function.

There is a brief sense of purpose.

Lions and Tigers and Unions! Oh My!

You have, in the optimistic parlance of the day, reinvented yourself as a bus driver. There is great exposure to risk and liability. Stress. And a wondrous assortment of unusual smells. There are no benefits—unless you count the olfactory stimulation.

Applicants must undergo extensive background checks, as you have regular contact with children, the elderly and the developmentally-disabled. 

It would be a public relations disaster to have a sex offender stopping by the local high school or assisted living facility. Or someone with domestic violence complaints collecting residents at a shelter for battered women.

And who wants that? 

Not you.

So yes, it's tough getting in—like a country club.

Not surprisingly, the help wanted sign out front is permanent. But despite the rigorous entry requirements and the risk, the pay is low. Turnover is high. There is a very peculiar dynamic at work here.

If there is such a thing as a living wage, yours would be on life-support. It is a frequent topic of discussion, or more specifically, grousing, among your co-workers.

While the grizzled types with whom you work enjoy the semi-autonomy of being on the road, they wonder why call-takers, nestled inside cozy cubicles with very little exposure to risk or liability aside from the occasional raised voice, make more money.

It doesn't add up.

But neither does your co-worker's refusal to consider the union option—until you realize the majority of them are pick-up-truck-driving, climate-change-denying, dyed-in-the-wool Republicans.

And if unions aren't the first step to a socialist hell, they are mafia-run crooks. Just ask a teacher. Or a cop. Or LeBron James. They'll tell you.

In the eyes of your co-workers, it is better to accept the status quo. Or continue to grouse. Either is preferable to incipient socialism. You wonder if they recognize the similarity between their circumstances and the income disparity ravaging the country.

You doubt it.

The important thing is you/we/they don't unionize. That would be destructive. And socialist. Just ask Rush Limbaugh. Or Fox News. Or the boss. They'll tell you. 

You attempt to impart the idea there is no prison so confining as closed-mindedness. But despite your co-worker's demonstrated ability to receive information on evolving traffic conditions over the company-provided radio, this falls on deaf ears.

Owing to the nature of the position, it appears that for the time being you have little choice but to take this sitting down.

Ten-four.