Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Back on our feet again
A different light had gone out this bright morning: José Fernández, ace pitcher for the Miami Marlins, had died in a boating accident off Miami Beach at age 24. Unsavory details would emerge later to tarnish the shine, but we still mourn our local hero. Several determined crossings of the Florida Straits followed by deportation, and heroically saving his drowning mother in the process, added to the legend behind the perpetual easy-going Cuban smile. Life goes in cruel circles sometimes, like Jaco's brutal coda on Wilton Drive, mere blocks from his childhood home. The same waters that brought José to his new life were also the setting for its end.
Starting out the shift, a regular from the University Drive route was waiting for me. A quirky older woman, always nervous about getting stranded somewhere. She'd dyed her oily lank hair and the gray roots were working their way back into view. She was short on the fare which made her more nervous, so I reassured her it wouldn't be a problem.
At State Road 7, the regular with his Mickey Mouse floppy hat boarded.
"This is my last Sunday. I got fired from my sign job. It's illegal now." He was on shaky ground at this shock, and unsure of his next step.
'You're a sign waver? That's not illegal.' I was sure the First Amendment protected this.
"They just passed an ordinance..."
'In Margate? Maybe try another city, like Pompano?' I suggested, looking for another option.
"I'm looking at Pembroke Pines." A drastic move to a south county city.
The somber news made for a quiet trip eastward. We arrived at his stop and he made sure to shake my hand: "In case this is my last Sunday."
'Don't give up, hang in there.'
Cruisin' back the other way, at Rock Island a red PT Cruiser pulled up in the next lane with a five foot ham radio antenna sprouting from the center of the roof. At the red light he was obvious as he peered over at me with his scraggly white beard and ponytail.
"I used to work at BCT, wanted to see who's drivin'!" He explained with friendly sociability. "I used to be a driver, then a mechanic on road service." Apparently he loved buses enough that he bought an old one and was converting it into a motor home.
'Must get great gas mileage!' I joked about this eccentric project.
"Well, if you sleep in it every night, you save a lot of money."
We'd finished our first round trip and spun around for the next, when the sky opened up about halfway through. The downpours were heavy throughout Pompano all the way to A1A, where they were extremely heavy and flooding the streets. A morning that began with a serene dry calm had devolved into frenzied, blinding monsoon. East of the Intracoastal the storm sewers were maxed out, excess rainwater burbled up like mini geysers through the lift notches in the manhole covers. At the layover, not one person dared exit the bus and endure nature's wrath.
The clouds drained themselves dry by the time our next trip was underway. A little west of US 1, at her usual stop under fat old oak trees, stood the slight Indian girl with an endearing smile and enviable cascading jet black hair that covered her entire back. An enormous umbrella shielded her from some invisible Totoro shaking raindrops off the dripping branches.
It was now our final eastbound journey, and a man boarding must have misheard my greeting since he immediately began reminiscing about some streets in the Bronx ("Jerome Avenue!"). The mood took a creepy turn when he mentioned a documentary called Faces of Death. He was convinced we'd talked about the movie a couple weeks previously, but I certainly had no memory of that discussion and chalked it up as another passenger confusing me with one of my 'twin' bus driver co-workers.
The Banks Road stop always gets some play on this trip, and a familiar grinning face met us as we pulled up. The type of guy who is your friend at first sight, he wore a new accessory: a bulky medical boot. With his girlfriend there to nurse him along and provide moral support, he ventured out with his injury.
'How's the foot today?' It's quicker to comment on the obvious when we don't have time for lengthy conversation.
"Meh." He shrugged. "Wanna see the scar?"
'Not really. Scars freak me out.' Though a collection of them is certainly a sign of an active life.
His random offer hung in the air and I took him up on it when we got to their stop. He peeled down a white sock to reveal the 5-inch wound. It came about during a drunken episode, and the humor of it outweighed any embarrassment in the telling. I wondered whether this man's malady was the end of another cruel circle, and where it began. Perhaps this event was the beginning, another instance of Life knocking our feet out from under us. And another opportunity to get off at our stop, hobble forward, and not look back. Well, maybe a glance - and a grin.