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Valerie called her lunar-hour regulars “the Last Bus Club.” On any given weeknight, she’d have eight or 10 familiar faces. Covid had shifted the Last Bus Club’s demographics — now a majority of her riders were people for whom “state of emergency” was a chronic condition. Riders like Marla, who had no car and needed medicine, tampons, food. Marla had wheeled up the ramp at the Chávez stop, a soaking Rite Aid bag on her lap. “You’re it,” Valerie had said, kneeling to secure Marla’s chair. “New rules. Can’t have a packed bus.”
Some of her colleagues called the riders “cattle,” but she’d never gone in for that. Did she love her riders? The way some of the older drivers claimed to love their regulars? “I love these benefits,” she said to Freddie. She worked this job because it was the highest hourly wage she could make for Teak. “You’re saving for retirement? I’m saving for my embolism,” she joked.
“How many good people do you think there are in the world?” Freddie had asked her in the break room. She’d answered without hesitation: “Twenty percent of them. Some nights, 11.”
Piss bus. Fire in the shelter. Loud and Verbal. Loose dog on Rex and 32nd. Pass up throwing rocks. Weather. Possible Covid rider. Even before the accident that stopped Time, it had been quite a week.
Lots of sharks swimming alongside the fish in this life. Some of her regulars, she did care about — gentle men like Ben who just wanted to get out of the freezing rain, Marla in her spray-painted wheelchair, knitting webby red yarn “dragon wings” for her grandson. No cash fare at the moment, and these nights she didn’t bother pressing people if they didn’t have a Hop card.
A good driver’s biography is a thousand pages of nonevents and near misses. Valerie counted these shadows as blessings.
“I just want to get back on the road,” Valerie said. She couldn’t afford another SIP. They went on your record permanently, and if you complained about unfairness, it was another strike against you. To put her benefits at risk, during a pandemic?
2 comments:
Some excellent writing here:
Valerie called her lunar-hour regulars “the Last Bus Club.” On any given weeknight, she’d have eight or 10 familiar faces. Covid had shifted the Last Bus Club’s demographics — now a majority of her riders were people for whom “state of emergency” was a chronic condition. Riders like Marla, who had no car and needed medicine, tampons, food. Marla had wheeled up the ramp at the Chávez stop, a soaking Rite Aid bag on her lap. “You’re it,” Valerie had said, kneeling to secure Marla’s chair. “New rules. Can’t have a packed bus.”
Some of her colleagues called the riders “cattle,” but she’d never gone in for that. Did she love her riders? The way some of the older drivers claimed to love their regulars? “I love these benefits,” she said to Freddie. She worked this job because it was the highest hourly wage she could make for Teak. “You’re saving for retirement? I’m saving for my embolism,” she joked.
“How many good people do you think there are in the world?” Freddie had asked her in the break room. She’d answered without hesitation: “Twenty percent of them. Some nights, 11.”
Piss bus. Fire in the shelter. Loud and Verbal. Loose dog on Rex and 32nd. Pass up throwing rocks. Weather. Possible Covid rider. Even before the accident that stopped Time, it had been quite a week.
Lots of sharks swimming alongside the fish in this life. Some of her regulars, she did care about — gentle men like Ben who just wanted to get out of the freezing rain, Marla in her spray-painted wheelchair, knitting webby red yarn “dragon wings” for her grandson. No cash fare at the moment, and these nights she didn’t bother pressing people if they didn’t have a Hop card.
A good driver’s biography is a thousand pages of nonevents and near misses. Valerie counted these shadows as blessings.
“I just want to get back on the road,” Valerie said. She couldn’t afford another SIP. They went on your record permanently, and if you complained about unfairness, it was another strike against you. To put her benefits at risk, during a pandemic?
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