Sonnetoptics.net

Police to criminals, from left to right politically from Asian to African, South American to Icelanders they all have been on my bus. Over the years I have met so many people and cultures and belief systems that I feel like I’ve been at the UN. In fact in one bus load of Route 72 you may indeed have the entire UN represented.. maybe not everyone maybe just the Security Council.

 It’s funny to have people from China, Sudan and Russia all talking on the bus at the same time along with the two languages from the US, English and horribly bad English. It’s a strange mix on the bus but over the years some outstanding things have happened even with people you can’t understand. 

Route #57 I drove this run from Beaverton to Forest Grove and it has a high proportion of Hispanic riders. There was one family I will call the Aces, Every day the Aces went to work on one trip one way while their kids hopped the bus the other way on my return trip going to school. I gave them a hard time and told them their parents told me to watch them. These kids were already well behaved but when I mentioned their parents they were angles, even going so far as keeping other youths in line.

Years later I was back in that neighborhood and had a drunken passenger trying to bring his open container on the bus. I could not understand him because he was speaking Drunk Spanish or Drunkish. I tried to tell him over and over he could come on and I would get him home but I could not have the open container on board.

Out of no where the Aces showed up on their way to a wedding. They were dressed immaculately and there were brothers and sisters and grandmothers and grandchildren. They saw me in trouble and the women came over proceeded and brow beat that poor drunken guy. Now this drunken guy would have punched anyone that got in his face but not women and drunk he could see that was not the way to go. He turned into a sheep and dumped his drink and got aboard. If you ever want to hand out a free ticket do it for those who help you out they all got day tickets.

I don’t drive in that neighborhood very often being stationed across town but I have big love for the Aces.

Route #72 The Jerry Springer Run: I have no reason why but I have a soft spot for the Russians. I have no genetic relationship with them but there is something about the older men and women who get on board my bus. I can usually pick them out instantly. I have learned greetings and good byes in Russian. I have learned that Orthodox Christmas is on another day then Catholic Christmas. I have lots of fun with them and love to see their eyes light up when I great them in my, no doubt strange accented, Russian greetings.

I even have a nickname with them that stems from my hair. If I let my hair grow out of its usual buzz cut a strange feature of my head becomes apparent and that is a ridge of hair in the middle of my head that bristles straight up giving me a fake-hawk look that is so loved by hipsters everywhere. For the last ten years this hair feature has had many names. I always kept it hidden with a series of flat top and crew cuts but I have been letting it go a bit more so from time to time it sticks in stubborn defiance of coming and liberal application of heavy hair gel. To the Russians I’m Akula  or shark. I only knew the word because I read hunt for red October five times and an Akula is a class of Russian Submarine.

Last year in the horrible “once a thirty year ice storm” that gripped Portland I was waiting at a stop to take over a bus. The driver was an hour late and though I was dressed warm, I was not dress one hour in freezing cold snow and thirty a mile an hour wind warm. I saw my bus and ran for it like a kid after an ice-cream wagon in July. Then I heard a frail weak call from someplace behind me. “Akula! Akula!” I paused and looked back. There stood a small stooped Russian woman holding my computer bag. I had set it down so I could jump around and get warm in the shelter and in my excitement I had left it there. She had got off the bus I was getting on and saw me walk right away form my computer satchel

I ran back and thanked her over and over. She smiled a gold tooth smiled and every time I see here now she reaches over and touches my green carrier for my laptop and say “Goodt” I want to hug her.

Route #9: they were from the Philippines but spoke English very well. I had signed the nine and was on a split so I worked the morning rush hour had a few hours off and worked the evening  run. I like the 9 because it goes through my old Ainsworth stomping grounds a neighborhood that has seen it’s ups and downs but is seeing lots more ups now days.

 I remember a time when shooting were so rare that one time when I was in middle school we heard gun fire we ran towards it…like…well like kids chasing an Ice cream truck in July.  Years form then in the heyday of gang violence we all learned to dive for cover when you heard shooting but hey this was the early 80s so we ran to check it out.

We found a neighborhood tough laying there bleeding one policemen trying to help him and get a statement at the same time. Down the street his girl friend literally holding a smoking pistol looked on as another policemen was asking her to relinquish the fire arm from her hand. She was smoking a cigarette and looked as if nothing had happened. She gave up the pistol without a thought as if handing over a something she couldn’t have cared less about.

“What happened Scotty?” the policeman asked. He was the kind of guy that was always having issue with the police so they all knew his name.

“The bitch! Shot me!” He sputtered. Blood pumped from the hold in his back.

“What were you doing Scotty?” the policemen asked.

“Running! Man! RUNNING!.” Said Scotty and then he slipped away. His last words a punch line for some Policeman’s “No shit there I was” story 

I only mention this grave story of Irony because that house is still there and the Philippine family called it home. At first there were some contentions between this family and myself. The father liked to wait in his house and stay warm in the morning and when he saw me coming he would dash out and run in front of my bus so he could slow me up and reach the stop.

I kept telling him that I would not pick him up if he ran in the DEATH ZONE in front of my bus. I knew he understood but he played the “I no speak English card” every week I kept threatening and he kept smiling.

 One Saturday I was rolling up the road empty and zip, out dodges a girl of twelve in a red dress. I slam on my brakes as hard as I could knowing I was empty and no one would be hurt. The bus skidded and stop without contacting the girl, the girl on the other hand seeing the bus screeching at her froze and fell over crying. No contact with bus but she was scared to death.

I leapt from the bus and ran to help her. I looked up and out came the Philippine father who thanked me profusely for not running his daughter over and with a sudden bust of English understanding promised that he would never run in front of the bus again. He shook my hand and promised over and over.

 It never happened again. He would come out of his house and wave to me. I would wave to him and he would cross behind my bus and I would happily wait the few seconds it took him to get in. Seconds I have to spare for those who are safe.

 What did happen is we became friends and for the last three weeks of that sign up every Saturday he would be at the stop with a plate of Lumpia (not sure if that’s the spelling) see after that we became friends and he found out I loved Philipino food. Three Saturdays in a row a huge paper plate of Lumpia all for me. SCORE! 

  There are some things we all understand no matter where we are from. The power of a smile, the tone we use all speak for us even if the words we use are not understood. Overtime a smart bus driver (Not always me I tell you) will learn to use them as the key to get his job done and to make people happy even if you can’t understand a thing.            

Fairness is also universal and most people know inherently if they are being treated fair or not. Some like to get away with things but that is not determined by race or culture. As a Reverend pointed out one Sunday after watching a kid trip on his baggy pants while running for the bus. “The stupid apple falls in everyone’s back yard.”

            The above does not happen every day, over three years that I have been driving the bus these are the exceptions but over all the Melting Pot of mass transit works fairly well and sometimes, if your lucky it works out very very well.

Roll easy my friends. Roll easy and smile.