Professional Driver's Career Ends

Two little vignettes.

One: Johnnie is the son of the trustee who is in charge of my work, and he is chancellor of the exchequer, i.e., he drafts my checks.  So I have just dropped off the Lake City contingent and we are headed toward the appliance store, about two miles yet from this point.  Johnnie is out of his seat.  Again.  Pestering the girls who ride on to the last stop.  Again.  “Sit, John!  Now!”  I am eyeing him in the mirror.

 He turns back to the girls, as though he is oblivious of me.  “John!”  Nothing.  I slow the bus, pull to the side of the road, pull out the “Stop” sign.  I turn in my seat, call the youngster by his full name.  “You will sit, or you will get off this bus right here.”

“You can’t do that.  My dad will fire you.  Good riddance, too.  You’re a jerk anyway.”

“Off”  I got up and headed toward him.

“Okay, okay.  I’ll sit.” 

“No, you won’t. You will get off.”  He did, tears streaming down his face.  I shut the door, pulled in the arm, and started down the road.  I am a jerk.  Stopped a block down the street, waited while Johnnie caught up.  “Am I going to have trouble with you again?”

“No, sir.  I’m sorry, sir.”

When we got to the store, I went in to talk to John.  I accepted Johnnie’s apology, but I wasn’t about to let him get in the first word with Daddy.

Two:  We are nearing the end of the school year.  It is a beautiful May afternoon, and I will soon have this mixed bag of experiences behind me.  I have a job lined up in Indiana, and I’ve not seen parents or sisters for nine long months.  So, as I turn onto 98th NE and stop to let the charges off, I am in a pretty good mood.  “Good night, now!  See you in the morning!”

I put her in gear and start down the hill.  One block, two.  I touch the brake, I push the brake, the pedal hits the floor and no slowing occurs.  Fortunately, I know how to double-clutch, downshift, use the engine’s compression as a brake.  Down to second,  twirl, twiddle, gas pedal, downshift to first.  We are slowed now, and reach the bottom of the hill.  Fortunately, there is  now an incline before we reach Bothell Way, which is always a very busy highway.  Safely make the stop, the turn, and by very careful, and if I may say so, judicious driving, we limp on through Lake City and to the appliance store.

I park the bus, go in to report to John that his bus has no brakes.  He is not happy, but he gets his delivery van, and we take the last two kids to their stop, then he drives me back to campus.  “Well, he says, I don’t know what to do.  But I think I have to let you go.  We parents will have to get our kids to and from school.  There certainly isn’t enough money to take that beast in to the shop.”

“So my stint with you is over, then?”

“Yes.  You’ve done good work for us, and we appreciate it.  I’ll mail your check tonight.  You should have it before Friday.”

I did get the check.  It bounced.  I learned what “NSF” means.  In Indiana, I talked with my banker, and we tried to run the check through again, which was the only thing he could offer me.  It bounced.  I still have that check.  But I surely could have used that eighty dollars back in 1955.

Double Trouble

Over the course of my career I have encountered several sets of identical twins.  In most cases a few days of acquaintanceship with a pair of twins would give me sufficient time to observe them closely enough to find some distinguishing characteristic.  They may have been born identical, but exposure to their worlds made its marks.

Calling a person by his or her correct name is quite important, especially if they are students in one's class.  I mastered this ability.

In one case though, and this case occurred during my bus driving days, I would never have sorted two little girls into the correct nomenclature bins, had I not had some help from one of them.  At my Wallingford stop there awaited the bus seven-year old second graders, Corrina and Katrina by name.  Recall that this was the Fifties, and mothers were still in the dress-my-identical-twins-alike fad.  These girls were always dressed alike, same shoes, same hairdo, even to the ribbon in the hair, should they be wearing one.  After watching them for a week, I realized that I was never going to be able to tell them apart, their mannerisms were so like one another.

One day while we were waiting the mandatory two minutes at the Lake City stop, I said to the girls who were seated in the front seat, "How am I ever going to tell you apart?"

"Oh," replied one of them, "you're not.  No one can tell us apart except Mama and Nana.  Even Daddy gets us confused sometimes."  How encouraging.  And how challenging.

Two days later at the same stop, one of the girls slipped over to me and whispered in my ear, "I'm Corrina, and I'll help you tell us apart."

"How do I know you are not Katrina trying to pull my leg?"

The girl got an offended look on her face and said, "I'm a Christian girl.  I would never lie to you."

"Would your sister lie to me?"

"Oh, my, yes.  She is a big fibber."

So I called over to the girl who was still seated and said, "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

Tinkling laughter, like the first notes from a music box.  "I might.  Or I might not.  You will never know will you?"

"Your sister says you would."

"How do you know she's not lying?"

When I dropped them off that afternoon, the second girl out the door said, "Goodnight, Mr. Lacy.  Remember, I'm Corrina and I will help you."  The mother was standing at the door, so I ventured to ask her if this girl was, indeed, Corinna.  She affirmed that she was.

When the girls boarded the bus the next morning, one of them gave me an exaggerated wink as she passed me.  I noticed a mark above her right eye which looked like this:  ).  She had used her mother's eyebrow pencil to brand herself with what she imagined was a "C" I think.  Each morning the rest of the week, when the girls boarded, the mark was visible, and I got a big wink.

Monday, though, was different.  Mondays are somehow always different.  I drove up to the bus stop at Wallingford, opened the door, and two little girls, primly dressed in sailor outfits, even to the hat, stepped aboard.  There was a ) over the right eye of each girl.

But only one of them gave me a big ol' wink!

From our front step, July 1, 2014.  9:16 p.m. EDT

The Wheels on the Bus . . .

The dorm was new this year.

The building I lived in the previous year.

The building behind which the bus was parked.

Bus.  Close, but not accurate.  Couldn't
find a picture of a '33.  This is a '37.

The early morning walk across the quad and across a very busy thoroughfare gave me time to awaken sufficiently to be ready to run the checklist before starting the bus.  On board, contact! And we are off.

The students are in grades one through eight.  I have only twenty-one passengers, and although the route is a 22-mile round-trip, I have only six stops.  It has been arranged that neighborhood clusters meet at a pickup point.

I drive across the Fremont Bridge, drive through Fremont and make my first stop in Wallingford, picking up four kids.  Out 45th NE to Roosevelt, right on Bothell Way.  Stop.  Five kids.  North on 15th Avenue NE to 98th Street NE, turn right, stop, pick up three children.  East and down the hill-- did I mention that Seattle is very hilly?  Steep hill, too.  Left on Bothell way to Lake City.  Stop in LC, collect five children.  Then on to the store which is operated by the trustee who is my employer, where I pick up his children, two.  Over to Aurora where I pick up the last two passengers at 125th.  Book it to North Queen Anne Hill and drop these urchins at their school door.  Must arrive no sooner than 8:35 and no later than 8:42.  Anyway, that was the theory.

Now, if all has gone according to plan, I have just time enough to drive the bus down the hill, make the mile back to campus, park the bus and run to class.

At 3:00 p.m., I must drop whatever I am doing, rush to the bus, get it up the hill, and be at the school door at 3:15, for the darlings are dismissed at 3:20.  The evening route is identical to the morning drive, except we start at the school.  First on in the morning, first off in the evening, and so on, thus every child rides the same distance, and all get to see the entire route every day.  And the driver gets to see it twice.

"Hey, Mr. Driver!"  Directly in my right ear.  "Hey, I gotta pee, right now.  There's a station."  Said just as we pass the station at Northgate.  She is the last stop, and the rain is coming down rather hard for a March afternoon.  Aside:  I have since learned through much experience that the female of the species always "gotta pee" just past the exit.

"Sweetheart," I croon, "it is only two minutes to your stop."

"You stop right now, or I'll pee on the floor."

I didn't.  And she did.  And she didn't get her panties wet, either.

Bus Driver

Long before I decided to be a teacher, I was a school bus driver.  No, really.  I was in my junior year at Seattle Pacific College.  A parochial school about a mile up the hill needed a bus driver.  I got the job.  What did I know?

The logistics worked quite well, even though I probably had no idea what "logistics" were.  I lived in a men's dorm about two city blocks from Royal Brougham Pavilion, a new athletic/classroom facility on the corner of Nickerson and Third Avenue West.  The alleyway between this building and the ship canal led to access of a vacant area to the north of the pavilion which was large enough to accommodate a parked school bus, and the generous powers-that-be allowed me to lodge my vehicle there when it was not in use. 

My class schedule was such that I could walk the two blocks to my bus, run my route which extended to Lake City and ultimately East 135th Street, then back to drop the kiddos off at their school on Queen Anne Hill, back to my parking spot, walk to class.  Be back at the parochial school at 2:45.  Sweet.

Big deal.  Yes, it is a big deal.  As a third-year college student trying to make my way in academe, I needed the money.  And that was to become an interesting issue.

The vehicle itself was a 1933 White School Bus, which may seem to be quite ancient looking through the lens of time, more than sixty years past.  But at the time, it was only twenty years old. And had had twenty years of hard use.  In terms of longevity, the bus had seniority on its driver. Another potentially interesting issue.

Among the children on my route was the son of the trustee who hired me and held the purse-strings.  This youngster was on the cusp of adolescence and deep into Knowitall Pond.  Interesting issue.

I thought to tell the entire tale in a matter of three or four hundred words, and yet I note that, as I approach that marker, I have told nothing of the tale, have merely set the backdrop.  Perhaps we can get some actors on the stage another day.  Say, curtain time: next Wednesday.