441 Breeze is generally a rough-n-ready roller coaster ride up and down State Road 7, there have been days when it runs like a lazy cat slinking its way between napping spots. Mornings are the best time for this most unconventional limited-stop route to resemble a regular local-stop route, whereas afternoons are a frenetic blur of traffic and full bus capacity.
My morning run on the Breeze started at Turtle Creek in the early a.m., just before the rush hour crush was getting warmed up. This stop is popular with patrons and workers of the Seminole Casino across the street, an ever-growing glittery complex built on desperate dreams. I snuggled the 60-foot artic beside the curb and popped the brakes to wait for our departure time. The head sign is set to change automatically at the prescribed time, so passengers are often inquisitive when it only reads NOT IN SERVICE.
"Are you in service?" Asked a full-bellied man who emerged from the shadows when I swung open the doors.
'We sure are! How's it going this morning?'
"I had a bad morning. I lost $220 at the casino, after getting up to $465."
'So you didn't come out ahead?'
"No, I got cleaned out. How am I gonna get to Vegas now?"
'It's another day.'
"It's gonna be a rough month."
'There's always next month.'
"Yeah." Stunned and dejected, he took his seat as I stepped off. The bus was an island of light in the dark morn, and this unsettled gentleman seemed to appreciate the solace he found there in the midst of his own darkness.
Traffic was noticeably not an issue this morning, a welcome break from the standard onslaught. Red lights were making us run a little late this time, since we'd arrived in that domino effect where every light turned yellow as we approached. An early drizzle slicked the streets, then the sun dried them off.
Heading south, the enormous yet tedious roadway expansion project in Hollywood creates a transitional segment, where the scenery and environment steadily decline and deteriorate into a melange of aging strip malls and decades of built up grime. Around 177th St, in the midst of that hell of steaming streets and struggle comes a simple blessing: the wafting scent of baking sweet bread. It is a farewell kiss as tangible as Golden Glades, the labyrinth of asphalt ribbons we entered soon after.
Laying over at the Golden Glades Park and Ride, I was met by a sociable man in a cream-colored dashiki of fine stitching. A djembe drummer from Senegal, he showed me a video of himself performing a concert. As an aside, he proudly let me know he was a cousin of the singer Akon. Now he was in town to give drumming lessons at a school in Lauderhill, and requested my assistance to find the right street. The fierce rhythm of his music made an impression, and it kept me company as our wheels carried us through the threads of a million lives, the greatest concert of all.
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
"Does anybody really care if you miss the bus anymore?" She asked herself, reminiscing over the bygone days of looking out for each other.
"I'm 73 years old. I raised three sons to have good manners and good jobs. At my age, I feel I finally figured it out."
Monday, June 19, 2017
We'd completed a trip and were heading west over the Turnpike as the sun was rising behind us. A mother Muscovy duck with a fluffy yellow brood of ducklings waddling before her in the far left lane were blocked by the median from completing their crossing to a nearby canal. The morning crush of cars had accumulated, pinning them next to the extremely long barrier, which could easily be mounted by the mother but was too much of an obstacle for the tiny legs of her offspring. A considerate motorist took the errant family under their wing and protected them from certain destruction.
Our first visit at the east layover a sweet homeless lady wished me "a Jesus God-blessed day" and took her sweet time exiting. A crowd of freighters listed off the coast, biding their time before heading into port.
Heading into Sawgrass around lunch time, news vans lined the streets, sprouting a crop of telescoping antennas like metallic reeds. Endless queues of cars covered 136th Ave. A helicopter hovered over the scene, focused on the BB&T Center. At the mall, a man lounging in the courtyard explained that then-presidential candidate Donald Trump was in town for a rally at the arena.
Now en route, the vague presence of someone moving to the front appeared in my peripheral vision. This is usually the sign of someone looking for their stop, or looking to socialize. The middle-aged man beside me was both. The vitals came out first: homeless, going through trials, just got out of jail. His monotone expression was half conversation, half contemplation. A native who only recently returned, he was getting the hang of the social services available to him. His description of taking hours to secure a bed in a shelter veered toward the conspiratorial: "The Sheriff wants to know where all the homeless people are." A cameraman by profession, he boasted of being able to work the video camera at any event. The sickly sweetness of stale wine became pronounced as he lamented not being in Rio with his buddies filming the Olympics, readily admitting fault for not being prepared for the opportunity. He said aloud what street he was looking for, but made no request to let him know when we got there, before drifting into the cabin. The street came and went, but he didn't exit. When we got to the layover, I discovered him sleeping deeply. After waking, his friendly monotone became an angry loudness at me for letting him sleep through his stop. All I could do was offer to take him back around. He was content with that, and I was able to direct him to the feeding site he was looking for.
At the Hill, a young man walked on, casual and oblivious. Dazed and silent as a statue, an especially pungent fume enveloped him. He stood perfectly still staring into the cabin as the flow of passengers went around him like an island in the stream.
Even when things are partly cloudy, the light will find a way through. When we got to University, the glow grew brighter. My old friend the security guard was there, a familiar face only when I drove this route. Her unkempt hair, arms loaded with groceries, and obvious exhaustion were signs of a woman determined to do right by her child. A couple years earlier, we'd discussed work life and she laid out her career plans with bright hope and excitement. The grind over the intervening years had taken its toll, though her spirit stood strong and resolved.
On my last trip, somewhere west of Powerline Rd, an older man boarded, grinning and flashing a county employee ID hanging from the lanyard on his neck. He looked like someone I already knew, but his name escaped me.
'Which department are you with?' I asked out of curiosity.
"Transit. 29 years!" His answer was proud and clear.
Then I remembered: Cooper, facilities manager at the Ravenswood garage. His winning smile made an impression on anyone who met him. It is always an honor to spend time with those who have dedicated so many years to BCT, and I was fortunate to have this brief interaction with just such an institutional mainstay. Mr. Cooper would pass away only a few months later, shortly after retirement. For this day however, he was ebullient and vigorous, with a satisfied assurance he had served his community well.