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| For Those About To Drive [We Salute You]
Having driven school buses for many years, and motorcycles for many more years before that, the concept of waving to oncoming drivers of similar vehicle-type was not new to me in 2006 when I was first hired by Grand River Transit. With that said, it has taken me these two years to decide where I ultimately stand on this seemingly insincere routine of waving to each and every GRT driver, each and every time you might pass by him or her on the road. In the beginning I waved religiously simply because I thought that that was the communal expectation. However, as time passed I began to notice that some of the drivers were not returning my wave. I found this lack of conformity perplexing on one hand, but perfectly logical on the other. As I attempted to weigh the value of being a waver vs. a non-waver--I actually went through a period where I experimented with not waving to anyone--I soon discovered that being a non-waver also required me to avoid eye contact, which was actually more of a distraction to me than if I had simply waved back. There was also the mild concern that I would actually offend someone by not reciprocating his or her greeting.
This topic clearly has two sides, arguably balanced between logic and sentiment. To the non-wavers let it be said that I completely understand the apparent lunacy and unarguable redundancy of waving to the same driver three or four times within a two hour period, which can easily happen depending on the route you are driving. Clearly I can understand and appreciate how the non-wavers came to this “all or none” solution--in this case, none. I can picture the non-wavers now [you know who you are], eyes hypnotically glued to the road; hands that couldn’t be pried from the steering wheel without a crowbar. I’ve learned to spot these drivers from a distance and have become respectfully obliging to his or her apparent wish to be left alone. Some days though, I like to wave at them extra frantically, just to see if I can make them flinch. Honestly though … how hard is it to lift one or two fingers off the steering wheel, especially if you know that it’ll make another driver’s morning?
What the wavers lack in logic they easily make up in sentiment. I mean, who can honestly resist the double “thumbs-up” of John Doe when he’s having an exceptionally good day, or the unobtrusive nod of the Rooster as he flies down King Street. I think it’s important to decipher what the wave is and isn’t. The wave isn’t an invitation for that driver to show up at your cottage unexpectedly some weekend [at least I hope that’s not what it is], or an expectation that your name will magically appear on his or her Christmas card list. As one driver explained it to me, it’s not so much a wave of friendship as it is a salute of solidarity. A simple gesture of union and commonality that tells the other driver, “Hey, I’m out here too.” As professional drivers we’re all in the same boat basically, so if lifting a finger in salute [not that finger] helps to ease the frustration of Mainline, or helps to spur the morning more quickly into afternoon, I don’t see any reason why we should hold back.
I was going to leave this last bit off, but someone [a non-waver, I bet] will invariably bring it up, so here goes. Obviously, safety is our chief concern and should always take precedent over waving [or anything else for that matter], but we all know that there is ample opportunity to acknowledge one another on the road without jeopardizing safety. That being said, it remains each to his or her own. Just don’t expect a Christmas card.
Marty 
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| Riding Public Transit 101As you may or may not know, I am a public transit operator. For the
most part, I love my job. The routine is relatively diverse, so far as
jobs go anyway; I don’t have a shop foreman or office manager
constantly looking over my shoulder. I am the captain of my ship and
the passengers are my cargo. Generally speaking, the people who ride
the bus are friendly and unobtrusive—just regular city folk trying to
get to and from school or work as conveniently and economically as
possible. And then there are “the others”. Those on the margins of
society who are riding the bus for one basic reason—they don’t (or
can’t) own a car. And why is that? Why can’t someone own a car? One of
two reasons: They don’t have the mental, physical or financial
wherewithal to maintain one; or they are so fucked-up that no
reasonable judge, lawyer, doctor or social worker could possibly
concede that they are responsible enough to drive one. And what's their
alternative? Welcome to:
Riding Public Transit 101
If you are waiting at a bus stop that serves more than one bus route, and the bus that you are not waiting for approaches, take one giant step back from the bus stop while shaking your head, “no”. This simple gesture tells the bus driver that you do not want that particular bus, without the driver stopping the bus and opening the door while you stand there and stare at him or her—wasting everyone’s time except yours.
When you step into a bus, acknowledge the driver in some fashion, however slight. For example, you could make eye contact or nod or smile or simply say “hi”. The driver is not a vending machine or a cyborg—he or she is a human being and deserves the simplest social considerations, just like you.
If you are talking on your cell phone while boarding the bus, politely pause your conversation whilst paying your fare. The same applies if you are wearing headphones or ear-buds. The polite thing to do during any human transaction is to remove them briefly in the off chance that the person you are transacting with may actually have something to tell you.
If you require a transfer, politely ask for one while paying your
fare—don’t just stand there like a mental patient waiting for your
pills. Transfers aren’t door prizes—they don’t get handed out for just
any reason. And please don’t just point to the transfer holder—open
your mouth and say the words, “transfer please”. Unless you don’t speak
English, or are mentally retarded, it’s the least you can do.
If you do not have the exact fare, tell the driver! Don’t just throw a handful of pennies and nickels in the fare box and walk on by. Most drivers will let you ride for free if you don’t have the correct fare, but no driver likes to be duped. The fare box automatically counts the change, so you aren’t actually fooling anyone; you are simply setting yourself up for a potentially embarrassing scolding in front of the other passengers from a burly, 290-lb., bearded bus driver. And that’s just the female ones.
Once you board the bus, pick a seat and sit down as quickly as possible. The bus will be merging back into traffic within a few seconds, so unless you want to go reeling down the aisle like an epileptic at an exorcism, sit-the-fuck-down. No one wants to see that shit.
Before you leave your home, find out where you are going and how you will be getting there. Unless your destination has a large, neon arrow pointing to it, I probably don’t know where it is. I’m not your personal assistant, nor your chauffeur. I don’t work for MapQuest or the Yellowpages—I’m a bus driver. If you provide me with an address of where you are going, I will probably be able to get you to the bus stop nearest to it. I don’t know where “Reptiles-R-Us” is, and I don’t know which bus goes by “The Hungry Greek Diet Centre”. Do your homework before you leave your house!
If it’s past 11 p.m. and you are under the age of twenty, you shouldn’t be pushing a baby stroller. So unless you live alone, and you have been out to the clinic for an emergency methadone injection, the baby should be at home in bed. No one wants to listen to your crack-addicted baby scream while you wipe dried blood from your nose. Go the fuck home already!
The new, “low-floor” style of bus is designed to accommodate those mobility carts that you see so many people riding around in. Assuredly, they serve their purpose well, enabling seniors and the physically challenged to go about their lives as routinely as possible. However, unless you actually can’t walk more than a block, you shouldn’t be riding around in one—they aren’t go-carts. And the irony is, the more you insist on needlessly riding around in one, the more likely you will actually need one eventually. Get off your ass before it’s impossible to even have a choice.
When you ring the bell for your stop, please do so well in advance. A city bus is approximately thirty tons of glass and steel, flying down the road at speeds in excess of 30-50 mph, requiring at least 300-feet to stop safely. Keep in mind, it’s a bus, not a helicopter—the pilot can’t just “set ‘er down” because you were daydreaming.
If my sign reads, "OUT OF SERVICE" when I pass you at the bus stop,
please don't take it personally by flipping me the finger. Not every
bus that passes your stop is your bus, the same way that every
minivan that passes you isn't your mom.
Marty  | | |
| The Lake
The blackness of the lake’s water confirmed its depth—a bottomless abyss so cold it could barely sustain life. The razor-thin horizon of the ominous steel-blue sky gently pressed against the surface of the lake. Along its shores nothing stirred save an occasional gust of raw wind that rattled the autumn leaves and threw them violently into a muddied palette of orange and crimson on the ground. Cattails and bulrushes stabbed out of the marshy sponge-land adjoined to the lake’s still depths. As silent as the abyss seemed to be, its soggy surge was crafty, relentlessly inching inland, slowly invading the sand and soil. Slender whips of the overhanging willow slapped at the marauding water in a bid to protect its turf. A solitary hill hunkered in the east and stood guard over the lake, seeing all, but saying nothing. Monochrome clouds, heavy with rain, floated near the hilltop like wounded zeppelins, as slivers of lightning infused the sky with light, trying to outrun the chasing thunder. Atop the tallest of the pines sat a crow, its head seemingly jointless as it swiveled robotically near 360 degrees. From its perch it could see the forgotten dock barely afloat near the lake’s furthest shore. Rickety from years spent alone—its cottage companion long vanished, a victim of a single, merciless bolt from the quiver of Thor. Only the stony foundation remained—the crow’s last reminder that it had once shared the lake with others. Remnants of a trail wound its way from the foundation to a patch of weedy brambles--threshold to the impenetrable forest beyond. And what lay beyond remained beyond, held in check by timber centurions, the moroseness of the lake forever sealed. | | |
| Anyone still here?Just checking... 
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