tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6992777392666903722024-02-07T15:01:30.181-05:00BusTropicalNext stop: LifeBusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.comBlogger165125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-27687438698183812462023-01-20T00:16:00.000-05:002023-01-20T00:16:23.313-05:00The end is nigh (or, It's a blessing)<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu4Rjptr-nUTdwnG0StqtTo52F7hbsMJuoJm7xOV9bJlaSq1KAVlRLVx3lOtxn1uEnCR4Sr8iqsoWV0HT6topZV2PdpVfNRARUN3M0R94OVRTDVyT6O_2riWcuJyghXrVF_vEx4mesxQ7S_opeNposc6uiJYyzbXw_od3IHJfd1JABZg2mPc9FhXXIyw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="320" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu4Rjptr-nUTdwnG0StqtTo52F7hbsMJuoJm7xOV9bJlaSq1KAVlRLVx3lOtxn1uEnCR4Sr8iqsoWV0HT6topZV2PdpVfNRARUN3M0R94OVRTDVyT6O_2riWcuJyghXrVF_vEx4mesxQ7S_opeNposc6uiJYyzbXw_od3IHJfd1JABZg2mPc9FhXXIyw" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div> <br />{Continuing the Covid chronicles}</div><div><br /></div><div><br />New normals bring newness all over the place. The previous workday had brought us back to Dixie Highway, that old part of town that was finding its way through the changes the pandemic was bringing upon us. Today I was on the Atlantic Boulevard route, with five round trips between the ancient grime of the east side and the swept streets of master-planned suburbia.</div><div><br />April was fresh and gave us the blessings of Spring in South Florida: Bright, warm sun paired with a cool breeze. Some clouds massed to the west as I began a ten hour bid that would last well into the night. For now, it was just after lunch as I arrived at the Pompano station to relieve another driver. Her face mask prevented me from recognizing her as she exited in a blur, mumbling about <i>"the lunatics and drunks"</i>.</div><div><br />A few years had passed since last I drove this route, and vivid memories of the brutal afternoon shift remained fresh. Times were different now, so I reserved judgment and would take it as it came.<br />Half an hour and one left turn later I was taking a break by the new fire station on Coral Ridge Drive. Further south, this street is known as Nob Hill Road. Once it enters Coral Springs city limits, it gets a new name. And just as there is no actual hill named Nob, there is certainly no ridge of coral in this place ten miles from the sea.</div><div><br />People trickled on soon after beginning the journey back east. Masks were still optional, but steadily became more common. A handful boarded at University Drive, our first timepoint on the schedule.<br />Between Riverside and Ramblewood, purple orchid trees lined the street with their gentle glory before a small bridge leading into the sleepy bedroom town of Margate. Here, the buildings are older than the city we'd just left. Or perhaps the fading paint and jalousie windows just make them look older.</div><div><br />The intersection with Lyons Road is especially close to the Turnpike ramp, making for unusually spread out bus stops. A young man still a block from the bus stop kicked it into high gear when he saw us bearing down on him, knowing the next bus wouldn't be through for another hour on this reduced schedule. His spirited effort was impressive as we passed him, and I pulled over at the stop giving him a chance to join us.</div><div><br />Twenty minutes along the road a familiar bristly gray head came into view. It was my old friend Steve, a legend on other routes but never seen before at a stop on this route. Normally at this time of day he'd be enjoying a nap on some beach beside a lifeguard stand. With the necessary reduction in bus service he couldn't risk getting stranded for the night, so here he was at a busy stop, taking in the action with anxiously wide eyes. A dozen people passed in front of him to board, including a woman hauling a wire cart loaded with her weight in food. No time to say <i>Hi</i> or <i>Bye</i> to Steve, we had to keep it moving.</div><div><br />We took five minutes to stretch at the Walgreens on the east end, then spun it back westbound. The Atlantic Boulevard bridge over the Intracoastal is a dicey activity, with narrow lanes designed before the advent of modern transit buses. Shifting gears from the singular focus required by that aging span must have been the reason the gentleman who boarded at the next stop didn't register as someone familiar. The white beard and thinning hairline were an effective disguise. The khaki cargo pants should have given him away, but that was overwhelmed by the mouthwatering goodness in his Pasquale's take away bag. He discussed the tasty meal with another passenger, and the voice started triggering some long-forgotten memory. It wasn't until he exited that it all came together. My pal Al, formerly a regular on Route 50, walked over to the front door and tapped on the glass. His appearance had changed since we last crossed paths several years before, but the same friendly guy from east Pompano shone through as we smiled and pointed in long overdue recognition, followed by a thumbs up before pulling back into traffic.</div><div><br />Western suburbs pulled us onward to the layover, when I took note of a couple remaining passengers out cold with exhaustion. With more and more places closing for the lockdowns, our buses had become mobile motels. One of them slept through the entire trip back east, where I woke him to make sure he was ok. He wanted to ride back the other way again, so off we rolled.</div><div><br />Five minutes in, we reached US 1 with its notorious bus stop situated like a risk manager's nightmare. This stop is unlike any other in the county: posted right on the corner at the traffic signal, in the turn lane. This would be fine if the bus was turning like the traffic stacking up behind it; instead it must wait for the light to change, then nose its way back into the westbound flow. Popular with panhandlers, the bench there has supported many a hangover recovery. On this visit, four cold cases of Heineken boarded, clamped in the swinging hands of two gentlemen. Time was ticking if they were to make it back to the halfway house for curfew. Unable to slay all that brew on their own, they offered up the green lizards at two bucks a pop. This was now the heat of rush hour, with a bus full of folks heading home after the work day, so naturally this impromptu happy hour found some thirsty customers.</div><div><br />The cabin emptied and refilled in cycles as we tracked westward, and at the end it was just me and the sleeper yet again.<br /><span> "We're getting to be best friends, since you're spending the day with me," I joked, though it wasn't far from the truth.</span><br />"It's a blessing," he replied with a sheepish smile, and I knew that was the truth.</div><div>When he exited after our next trip, it appeared we might be parting ways, but he was just making a pit stop at Walgreens and soon returned.</div><div>"This is gonna be my last trip," he announced. Profuse thanks came my way when he finally said farewell at the transit center. "We may be able to do this again, as long as the buses are free!"</div><div>The temporary lifting of the fare had brought him a new found liberty.</div><div><span> "See ya later!" I bid him before taking off.</span><br /></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>Slogging through the University Drive intersection, the remnants of afternoon congestion gave us a closing finale before the bedroom community tucked in for the night. Before the light could turn red, we rolled through in slow motion, bringing into focus a young man standing on the corner. He held a home made sign of scrap cardboard, with a message in bold block letters:</span></div><div> <b>THE</b><b><br /></b></div><div><span><b><span> END</span><br /></b></span></div><div><span><span><b><span> IS</span><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><b> NIGH</b></span><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>A month earlier, it would have been easy to write off the dire predictions of a teenager in the suburbs. However, things had lately veered off into the decidedly unknown, so perhaps it was best not to discount even the smallest signs of the times.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>That stop emptied the cabin, and remained so till the end of the line. Out here the traffic load had subsided and I could catch my breath again. The next trip east was a breeze and we neared the western end when a young man on board asked if we were going to the beach. Unfortunately he was going the wrong direction, and there were n more buses on this route going that far. When he grasped the situation, he changed his mind and wanted to go downtown. His agitation grew as we continued deeper into the sleeping neighborhoods, and further from where he wanted to be. I calmly reassured him there would be one more chance to connect with a bus heading to Central Terminal. That connection would happen on our final trip, also the final 42 eastbound for the night. We got to Powerline Road with just enough time for him to catch the last 14 heading south.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>One other passenger had joined us on this trip, back at University, another young man rapping lightning-quick verses to himself in the upper deck.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>After ten hours and ten trips across the county, I pulled in to the Pompano station and made sure the headsign read NOT IN SERVICE before returning to the garage. Off with the sign and off with the rest, that was enough for one day.</span></span></span></span></div>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-23113916686548676522021-09-20T08:12:00.003-04:002021-09-24T00:43:34.816-04:00Dixie hustle<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrxjFxeOk_2vFFTbNJAufkwFCWVGeeXfxH3xCY_odXChokeasJr72Wszr52-5CsXG60x0fd0RSsvPK-ZFdShGY_YEoxP0Bahc3ii7iOMhNXwnQThIleCSoImLSJXtOFpksySYJmuRb2q5/s1080/50-precast.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="1080" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrxjFxeOk_2vFFTbNJAufkwFCWVGeeXfxH3xCY_odXChokeasJr72Wszr52-5CsXG60x0fd0RSsvPK-ZFdShGY_YEoxP0Bahc3ii7iOMhNXwnQThIleCSoImLSJXtOFpksySYJmuRb2q5/s320/50-precast.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Daily we slid into new territory as the first global pandemic of our lifetimes took hold and could no longer be ignored. It crept into all corners of our routines and forced us to confront a common enemy. This was a war against the unseen, which made for an unsure response.</p><p>Our new selection of routes had begun only the day before, cutting short a selection that should have lasted months down to a single week. Reduced demand due to lockdowns and social distancing required bus service to be adjusted accordingly. Society was slowly buying into the concept of "flattening the curve" which was being promoted by national public health experts. My own responsibilities weren't nearly as crucial, at least not obviously so. The County expected us to provide essential service to our passengers, and it was an honor to continue serving them admirably.</p><p>Today was also a homecoming of sorts, as I returned to the Dixie Highway route after a lengthy absence driving around other parts of town. Based out of the Copans Road garage, Route 50 services the area north of Central Terminal from downtown Fort Lauderdale to Deerfield Beach and all points between.</p><p>This springtime was developing into one quite unlike all the others we'd known before. Even South Florida, with a climate fostering year-round growth, takes a breather during the winter months. The abundant rainfall of summer becomes a distant memory as our sandy land dries out and almost everything with roots goes dormant until the moisture returns. The human inhabitants also take a break, enjoying the lack of humidity after months of swelter. Eventually the planet makes a certain number of rotations and like clockwork the seasonal processes continue. Nature wasn't altering its routine, bringing us the blessings of a sunny day, blue skies, and a few clouds on the horizon. The community however, was increasingly entering a season of discomfort. Now I would see firsthand how Dixie Highway was adapting.</p><p>Just past noon I took over the bus at Northeast Transit Center, the bus station in Pompano Beach perfectly situated at Dixie and Martin Luther King. Across the street is the legendary Florida East Coast Railroad, which had recently seen the return of passengers with the introduction of Brightline express service between West Palm Beach and Miami after a fifty year hiatus.</p><p>Mr. Clitus handed over the bus on time for me to continue the northbound trip he'd begun way south of here. Also boarding at that time was my friend who used to work at Poverello thrift in Wilton Manors. He was no longer working there after a falling out with management, so I'd have to find another inside source for upcoming sales.</p><p>With the transmission shifted into Drive, we rolled out of the cozy little terminal and onto the baked-in grease of Dixie Highway. Almost from the jump, the onboard smoke detector began to pierce my skull with a high-pitched tone that couldn't be ignored. It can temporarily be silenced, which I did after not seeing any smoke. The process is a bit inconvenient and often requires standing up. Still, it was less inconvenient than an actual fire on the premises.</p><p>Five minutes later an unusual shape in the bike lane shuffled in our direction. It wasn't a runner but rather a walker, an older man propelling himself forward with a cane. It's my policy to brake when people enter my path of travel, especially senior persons putting out full effort. We weren't in a hurry at this time, so I pulled over and we waited.</p><p>Meanwhile, he wasn't the only shuffler in the street, or even the most eye-catching. On the other side by Sunkiss plant nursery, a young lady in black knee-high stockings sashayed in the middle of a lane. Her revealing look was balanced with respectable glasses to give a studious impression. Love for sale is a common sight on this stretch, though generally not so creative this early in the week. The underground economy was adapting to the times.</p><p>Occasionally the term 'concrete' is used to describe something solid and stable, but the old concrete plant up by the crooked palms was testing that claim. The silos and diagonal conveyors had been there for decades, but were now being unceremoniously dismantled to make way for an enormous warehouse complex. The hulking shell of the new construction with its tilt-up walls spanned in stark contrast behind the decaying ruins of the plant. Large-scale redevelopment along this route is historically sparse, so the freshness of it was hard to miss. The forlorn right-of-way along the FEC RR up in Deerfield was also getting a face lift with the addition of a black-slatted metal fence fitted between masonry columns. The trains have been running through there for over a hundred years, but in recent times that sad stretch of track has had a significant number of fatalities. Whether suicide or accident, the new barrier would help improve safety and appearance.</p><p>The recovery time at the end of the line was lengthier than I remembered from the past, though the guy yelling at me felt familiar.</p><p>"Hey! Can I get on, man?" he wondered with his head poking through the back door.</p><p>Of course the answer was yes so I rolled with it and offered a couple squirts of hand sanitizer after he loaded his bike on the rack.</p><p>The layover there is on Martin Luther King and Hillsboro Boulevard, so after the few stops on that street I made a lazy left on 4th Street by Pineview Cemetery and cut back over to Dixie. Neighboring the cemetery are a handful of modest houses, as weathered and worn as the grave markers next door but still vital machines for living. Speed humps were added since my last stint on this route, presumably safety measures for the nearby school.</p><p>Two other bicycles had joined the one belonging to the head-poker so all the slots were full from the jump. Naturally, a fourth bike awaited us soon after banging a right on Dixie. I sympathized with the cyclist and let him know when the next bus was due.</p><p>An old friend waited for us at Sample Road. Only the day before, Steve the bus fan greeted me with a clenched fist at Central Terminal. Now, way uptown in Pompano he was my friend again, ready to ride around town with me. Any previous friction was ancient history.</p><p>Just after the freight rail spur near the blimp hangar, we entered the edge of Pompano's red light district where ancient vices are alive and well. Rolling on our way to the transit center, women in racy outfits displayed their wares at each side street for several blocks. This show of desperation made it obvious the health department's guidance on social distancing had put a pinch on the oldest profession.</p><p>Not having driven the full length of the route in awhile, it was good to settle in to the old highway. Each city this street passes through has its own character, and the whole thing fits like a shoe you've worn for years. From Deerfield and Pompano, then to Oakland Park and Wilton Manors before ending the trip in downtown Fort Lauderdale, the texture and detail accumulated over generations is both comforting and mesmerizing.</p><p>Steve was quiet during the miles of hand-painted store signs, auto garages, warehouses, and old city centers. That made for one talky man by the time we reached Central Terminal, mostly complaints about the president extending lockdowns till the end of April. While he gave me an earful on why that was an inconvenience, my co-worker Kevin wandered over to interrupt at an opportune time. A skilled guitarist when he's not driving the bus, K-Man had to sideline his rocking out while recovering from something that required a medical brace to immobilize his arm. Whatever the reason, he was stationed for the moment at the terminal on light duty. He'd been a semi-permanent fixture on the route I was driving today, so maybe it was habit that brought him over to our bus bay for a bit of camaraderie. Of course I had to tease him about when he wanted to go bowling.</p><p>With nothing better to do, Steve decided to ride back up with me, mumbling his final complaints about everything being closed. </p><p>Getting back into Pompano shortly before the transit center, a young man came up front with a confused stare as he looked out the windshield.</p><p>"How far into Palm Beach County do you go?" He asked flatly.</p><p> 'We don't.' I replied with matched flatness.</p><p>"Good thing." He continued, obviously relieved by my terse answer. "I'm not tryna go there, and I'm not allowed to go past it."</p><p>Apparently the judge put a limit on his travels, and he wasn't familiar enough with our municipal borders to know where one county ended and the next began. The bus was nowhere near defying the court, so he could breathe easy.</p><p>The Goodyear blimp hangar is the dominating landmark north of the Pompano terminal, a behemoth of sheet metal that dares you to look away. Yet my interest was focused on a more temporal feature just past that, but before Copans Road. There, beside the double-tracked Florida East Coast Railroad, is a lengthy side track where unused rolling stock is staged until put back into service. It's so close to the street that it seems close enough to touch, unlike the overwhelming hangar isolated behind barbed wire. Freight cars parked on this side line for more than a few hours have a tendency to acquire colorful art on their fading skins. Today we didn't have the large canvas that a standard shipping container provides, only the long, thin edges of several flat beds. Some local tagger accepted the challenge and applied his spray paint signature to each one - yellow gold on black rust.</p><p>Back at the top of the route we got another decent break, not that we needed it on this sleepy Monday. Steve got a few more concerns off his chest and signed up for one more trip back south with us. Again he was considerate and didn't attempt any distracting conversation. Instead, I was greeted with the curious chirps of a warbler that perched on my curbside mirror at Oakland Park Boulevard. That was the highlight of this sleeper southbound, and I fully expected a five-star review from Steve upon our arrival at Central Terminal. Instead, it was his final opportunity to pour me the fresh ire he'd been brewing. Somewhere along the way, he came across an updated headline that the governor had extended state-issued lockdowns till the middle of May, one-upping the president by a couple weeks. This pandemic was getting to be a major inconvenience. We wished each other well as our paths separated in Bay A-6.</p><p>There was still another round trip on this shift and things had gone so smoothly I couldn't rightly call it work. I finessed the gas pedal and left downtown in the rear view. Make that side-view, as buses don't have a back window. Mirrors are a bus driver's eyes, and in my right eye a man was answering nature's call as we sat a minute at the Pompano station. Using the open rear door for cover, he left a trickle on the tire.</p><p>My final trip of the day was just as unremarkable as the others. Another courtesy stop for an elderly woman who just wasn't gonna make it to the stop; a mutual wave to road supervisor Laurie in Pompano; and picked up Joe at Commercial Boulevard, a regular on other routes who followed me over here.</p><p>As I wrapped it up at Central Terminal and headed back to the garage with NOT IN SERVICE on my headsign, I thought back on this return to the old part of town and how it was adapting to a new normal. On this once-humming thoroughfare during a time of constant change, nothing was happening.</p><blockquote><p></p></blockquote>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-8328547143701695142021-08-14T19:58:00.004-04:002021-08-14T19:58:44.148-04:00The view down here<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKfkEVCj0hW7MPwgRHmSEF9rNZzIziywI-JJApcEQGDHw9mrtBPqqyxx9goLXquC4dias0eegjCsesF7Es501FOAvBlAB-2UYLaK9cgY8jcAZ8EvxbH3Q8HmTy60JNsCGEXjeGYkb9ele/s1080/11-westlayover4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="1080" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKfkEVCj0hW7MPwgRHmSEF9rNZzIziywI-JJApcEQGDHw9mrtBPqqyxx9goLXquC4dias0eegjCsesF7Es501FOAvBlAB-2UYLaK9cgY8jcAZ8EvxbH3Q8HmTy60JNsCGEXjeGYkb9ele/s320/11-westlayover4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Sunday. The first day of the week and the first day of our new COVID-19 Pick. Our previous selection had lasted only a week until prematurely curtailed by a global pandemic. We'd have to adjust on the move in order to meet the conditions now thrust upon us. Mother Nature didn't bat an eye however, and this new day brought sunny brightness and warmth, along with a few signature clouds of a South Florida sky.<p></p><p>This would be an afternoon shift on Route 11, a twisted alignment from an earlier Broward County when routes attempted to cover as much ground as possible. To that end, we would be rolling along the posh coastal skyline, then veer inland where the regular folks lived.</p><p>During my continuing research into the history of local transit, I've discovered this route is virtually prehistoric, with early versions going back over fifty years. The bus itself was also a bit long in the tooth, a fifteen year old beast determined not to give up the ghost. Before rolling into service, I readjust the mirrors and seat to my requirements. The driver's seat uses air pressure to rise, so I tapped the toggle switch to bring it up. Instead of my knees straightening out, they went into a V-shape as the seat hissed at me and dropped to the floor. This wasn't my usual position, but the mirrors were good so I put in a request for road service to keep folks from waiting unnecessarily.</p><p>Soon after departure we rolled east over the Intracoastal, the legendary inland waterway that flows parallel to much of the the Atlantic coastline. Its storied history involves military exercises and rum-running, but today it was teeming with pleasure craft. My concerns about delaying service were allayed as we continued and didn't encounter the traffic or regular ridership of a normal Sunday. This meant we arrived at time points early and had to wait for the scheduled time to leave.</p><p>The sweet old lady who had been a regular on this route during previous months made an appearance on Galt Mile before Oakland Park Boulevard. Now that passengers were boarding through the rear door, she didn't notice that her favorite driver was at the wheel. Well, she noticed when I passed her stop, which was a safety hazard of dust and debris thanks to the construction site next door. She relaxed and smiled when she saw me in the driver's seat, and shouted up thanks for stopping in front of her apartment building. </p><p>A minute later, the wall of condo towers that hid the ocean for the previous five miles gave way to public beachfront. The scene was postcard perfect: Sailboats cruising the calm blue-green expanse, gentle ripples lapping an empty beach. That's right, not a solitary barefoot upon the sandy strip famous the world over. It was now off limits, and police were strategically positioned to ensure it remained so. Orange cones and yellow tape cordoned off the curbside parking that would otherwise be in heavy use on a day like this. Motorcycle officers perched on their bikes, blocking beach access while shaded under royal blue FLPD canopies.</p><p>While mesmerized by the surreal scene, I encountered more cyclists than ever for a Sunday. It was nothing organized, no <i>Tour de France</i>, just folks out for a ride swarming the entire length of A1A and spilling over on to Las Olas Boulevard. Since no one could enjoy the direct beach experience, the mere sight of it would suffice. They were the only real hindrance to contend with, and weren't enough to delay our arrival at Central Terminal.</p><p>We enjoyed a rare lengthy layover at the terminal before heading into those less-glamorous sections of the city which will never make it on a postcard. Neighborhoods like Washington Park and Roosevelt Gardens are off the beaten path, but the bus gave a direct link from the outside world to the house parties underway before the return of work week drudgery. </p><p>Rolling up 21st Avenue by the open expanse of Osswald Park soothed my heart, then broke it a block later. The daycare was closed for the weekend, so fortunately there were no children present as we passed the vacant lot next door. A young man in his late 20s wearing odd sport glasses emerged from the bushes, adjusting his pants upward. That was innocent enough, until he was followed by a sad shadow with shabby blonde hair. Some five years earlier that golden crown had been shiny, framing a fresh, clean face. The woman I picked up back then was brimming with vitality that beamed out behind sporty sunglasses. Now this fallen daughter's complexion was blotched and puffy from rough living. Sunken eyes averted any direct gaze as she made her shameful exit from the overgrowth. Addiction can be a hell of a life, and I hoped she'd be one of those who escaped its grasp to find rebirth on the other side. Out here on the street there are no closed doors to hide the wayward paths of our neighbors. Just outside our window, humanity is a pulsing sea of need - and our feet get wet walking its shore.</p><p>No storm can darken the skies forever, and the ache of promise lost was more than replaced with a blessing at the end of the line. My friend Ron sauntered out of the shade of a yellow tab, with a smile as warm as the Jamaican sun and the island accent to match. Ron was a regular on the Dixie Highway route, friend and saint to any bus driver willing to accept his invitation. This time he was waiting for another route, driven by another driver friend, but we used the layover time to talk transit and for him to share stories out of Miami.</p><p>Times were certainly changing, but at least one Sunday tradition hadn't been snuffed out. The smoke pits at <a href="https://bigboyzbarbeque.com/" target="_blank">Big Boyz BBQ</a>, on the point of the triangle before Sistrunk Boulevard, blanketed the neighborhood in the mouth-watering aroma of smoldering wood and slow-cooked baby backs.</p><p>Downtown traffic was nonexistent about now, and a desperate panhandler at Andrews Avenue had scribbled a facetious message on his cardboard sign:</p><p>2 - UGLY - 2</p><p>PROSTITUTE</p><p>The pale blue sky over the Galt was also devoid of activity, no clouds around. Signs of life resumed north of Commercial Boulevard, with countless dog walkers and their micro-pooches designed for condo life.</p><p>We'd be back this way in about twenty minutes, after our recovery time at the end of the line. That break isn't for the driver's recovery, but to get back on schedule if delays put us down. With the light traffic and ridership, running late wasn't an issue. As sleepy a Sunday as it gets, we started up our final trip west to cruise the beach and Las Olas one last time.</p><p>Barely a few stops in, and a familiar passenger from the Federal Highway route waited expectantly. He had two accessories I'd never seen him with before: a bicycle and a face mask, though the bike certainly fit the mood of the day. The trademark style of loose linen tunic with dangling tzitzit was a spiritual balance to his earthy observations about human behavior.</p><p>On we glided, again beside the strollers and their fur babies, a smooth and silent phantom. The westward-marching sun hopped over the wall of towering cubicles and penthouses, and made us a shadow on the asphalt.</p><p>Las Olas Boulevard told us our day at the beach was over, so we cut a right to chase the sun. First we made sure to pick up a man on the corner who boarded with a fishy pungence that activated every scent receptor. His distinctive aroma led me to believe he earned the day's catch the hard way, most likely from the side of a day tripper berthed nearby.</p><p>My crying nostrils passed on their revolt to my eyes as we crested the Intracoastal bridge and the ever-pacing sun leveled out to blind me for the next mile. Blessed relief arrived at 13th Avenue when the shade trees rescued my corneas.</p><p>Central Terminal sheltered us for a modest break as I tucked the bus into the designated bay. Seizing the opportunity to make a pit stop, I was met with a fist directed toward me by a grimacing older man. It was my old friend Steve the bus fan, acting displeased. Between gritted teeth he complained about my number blocking his texts. We figured out the problem and made a good connection.</p><p>Most any other time of the week a train delay would not be welcomed as an obstacle in my path. This day was different, and the squealing beast on rails saved us from running hot with several minutes of moving art as the blur of fading graffiti slid past us.</p><p>Our tires dampened the humming tracks as we rolled over their elevated right of way and onto Sistrunk Boulevard. About halfway down, the 11 angles onto a side avenue into the hidden heart of the northwest quarter of the city. Just past <a href="http://bettyssoulfood.net/" target="_blank">Betty's Soul Food</a>, there was the makings of a block party as cars jammed the shoulders of the road. It was unlikely to get too massive this time, but still made for a tight fit with the bus.</p><p>Folks steadily emptied from the cabin and headed home for the evening, leaving me with an empty bus before I reached the end. To me, there's nothing sadder than a bus with no passengers, and this old girl took the melancholy up a notch with a growing list of defects. Besides the floor-level seat, we could now add a mute announcer, streaky windshield, and a back door that buzzed like a hornet's nest whenever it popped open.</p><p>The bus and I continued our mutual social distancing for the final trip, a partial journey that finished at Central Terminal. A young man boarded soon enough, ending the drought. He was my only passenger for the next twenty minutes, then it was just me again. A few sharp turns through the neighborhood and a lazy left on to Sistrunk in my empty bus which was timely since the once-living city had reverted to a surreal ghost town under the sodium street lamps.</p><p>Half a dozen blocks later, Venus rose to the rescue under those dim beams, materializing beside a bench as I neared 15th Avenue. That isn't a designated bus stop, so I assumed she was waiting to jaywalk once the bus passed. Using the consideration of a seasoned bus operator, I slowed lest she make a move it would be impossible to recover from. She did indeed make an unexpected move: she flagged the bus. I don't recall ever making a courtesy stop there before, so this may have been the first and last time. It wasn't the time to leave someone stranded simply because they were unfamiliar with the system. She boarded with questions about bus connections to the south part of the county, options which were sparingly few at this point. She thanked me for the information she needed to make a decision going forward. I was also thankful: to her for not finishing the day with empty seats, but also to those who filled them earlier, along with all the sights and smells as I rolled around town. Our future was increasingly uncertain, but there were certain to be more moments reminding us how important the little things are. It was only the first day of the week, and we'd get the hang of living one day at a time before the weekend.</p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-60574141294537522552021-06-21T10:05:00.000-04:002021-06-21T10:05:32.247-04:00They need you<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjdL3kHM2LW-3_cZ8sl-YWvd22fTp2kv0-qP9zDg3BTP1ltktl5Zc80PmYtHIX-_mDGzDZ4BcStflKj-RnMDiYNS2RDo37zhyphenhyphenY2bE417vG5nxWZ1Eb6OtBKyV9fseUSQGYl2UvjWQR7nM/s1080/72-sawgrasssunsetline1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjdL3kHM2LW-3_cZ8sl-YWvd22fTp2kv0-qP9zDg3BTP1ltktl5Zc80PmYtHIX-_mDGzDZ4BcStflKj-RnMDiYNS2RDo37zhyphenhyphenY2bE417vG5nxWZ1Eb6OtBKyV9fseUSQGYl2UvjWQR7nM/s320/72-sawgrasssunsetline1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The only new normal we were settling into was constant change. Each day seemed to bring new policies, behaviors, and adaptations. This was the first week of new runs, picked at a time when we thought we'd be doing them for several months. Instead, it was not only the first week, but also the last. Today was my day to make a selection for the COVID-19 Pick, slated to begin in a couple days. The length was yet to be determined - it could be a month or it could be the rest of the year. This was still March, when nature would resume its annual growth cycle, while transit service would be reverting to a time of shorter operating hours.<p></p><p>Even so, the day was bright and warm with a few scattered clouds. At the road relief spot Miss Carla passed me control of the bus, like a slow-motion relay race with a sixty-foot baton. She also relayed the news that bus operators filled the radio waves all morning with reports of their buses being full. Fares had been lifted, and it seemed the whole town heard the buses were free. This would not be conducive to social distancing - a term new to our daily vocabulary, yet intuitively familiar.</p><p>Like the previous day, I again caught my leader at the eastbound relief point after we'd changed direction out west. Normally this is where drivers change shifts, just as I'd done across the street. His dozen-plus people again boarded my bus, and the addition nearly had us at capacity. The cabin would thin out in a few miles once we passed Powerline Road, making more than enough room for the slight-statured man I'd been picking up all over town for years. A former commercial fisherman who gained his sea legs trolling the icy blasts off Alaska, he'd long since thawed out in our subtropical paradise and no longer wished to relive those days. He beat me to the punch and yelled out "YO!" in recognition. Face masks were rapidly becoming commonplace, making it difficult to recognize people you were otherwise familiar with. I called back and we were good.</p><p>We flipped it around for a mid-day westbound, leaving the salty air of Galt Mile in the rear-view. Normally, this trip starts out light until we reach Andrews Avenue about fifteen minutes in. This time there was a crowd waiting to board at Blessed Sacrament, between US 1 and Dixie Highway less than ten minutes from starting. Even more were milling outside the church, arms laden with boxes from a food give away. many of those boxes now boarded my bus. A few enterprising folks took maximum advantage of this generosity and heaved up their wire carts piled high for the pantry.</p><p>The bus was filling up, but there's always room for one of my regulars. Especially when that regular is Jay, who is joined at the hip to his bicycle but disconnects just long enough to put it on the rack when catching the bus. We made room for him up front as he boarded at Powerline. He thanked me for the watchband I'd given him as a belated Christmas gift, the same kind I use and which he'd admired in the past. The watch discussion soon changed gears to the news of the day and the growing impacts of the spreading virus. He was not only upset at the government's response, but the public's nonchalant attitude.</p><p>"Americans won't take it serious till there's blood and dead people in the streets." He morosely prophesied. "The whole country should've been shut down for two to three weeks till the thing passed, then care for the sick."</p><p>This dark mood was out of character, and I tried to steer him back to his normal positive demeanor by commending him for cycling and staying active. He downplayed the compliment with a comment about diminished lung capacity before switching to a good report on the generosity of motorists as he 'waved sign,' slang for panhandling. After exiting, he cut across traffic on his bike, then waited out the light cycle in the median. While out there in the middle of the torrent, he twisted his torso to look back my way, yelled out "Hey!" while holding up his watch hand with the new band and flashing a bright smile.</p><p>Halfway into the ten hour shift, we were making yet another westbound trip, now in late afternoon. The Allied Kitchen & Bath marquee has a different message on each side, so it's best to pay attention as you pass.</p><p>BE SOMEBODYS</p><p> ROCK TODAY</p><p> THEY</p><p> NEED YOU</p><p>A solid reminder that we can support each other on this journey. Immediately past that we arrived at Powerline and I immediately recognized Sebastian, a former co-worker who'd worked his way up from maintenance at Central Terminal to join the ranks of bus operators in the driver's seat. He had since left the driving corps and was now on a different path. Though I gestured to him through the windshield, he didn't notice and boarded without acknowledgment. For now I could support him by getting this bus down the road.</p><p>One stop later, after cruising under the ever-expanding I-95 overpass, a familiar cyclist from a previous trip awaited. It wasn't Jay, but this gentleman was no less resourceful with three heavy boxes of power tools in tow. Though we now used the rear doors to board, this called for an exception and I invited him to load everything up front. Between putting the bike on the rack, then lugging in a weed whacker, leaf blower, and pressure washer it took several trips to get everything on board. The effort had taken its toll as he appeared beside me half an hour later, sleepy-eyed and wondering if we'd passed his stop. Yes, we had - but he wasn't in a hurry and decided to ride back around on our rolling motel.</p><p>At this time of day, the sun had descended to just the right height to activate the reflective strips on the front of my uniform. A safety feature to make us visible to others in dark conditions, it was now glowing back at me in the windshield, a bar of light obscuring the vehicles ahead. This design oversight was more annoyance than hazard, perhaps intentional to keep us on our toes.</p><p>After a lengthy layover at the mall, I awoke the tools guy to let him know we'd be leaving. Exhaustion had reduced him to a fetal position in the front row of seats behind me, and he'd need to sit up for us to get moving. I'd been in the seat myself for seven hours at that point and could sympathize, so I didn't give him a hard time. Back in training, our instructor told us a sleeping passenger is the biggest compliment for a bus driver; it was proof of a smooth ride.</p><p>Our final eastbound trip, approaching the busy side of University Drive, everyone boarded as usual. Then one more figure emerged from behind the bus shelter. It was the hipster from <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2021/03/can-you-believe.html" target="_blank">the other day</a>, scurrying aboard with wide eyes. He had been quite vocal the last time, but was perfectly silent today.</p><p>The tools guy decided almost two hours on the bus was enough and decided to exit when we reached Deepside. The same lengthy process it took to load up was now executed in reverse, as he took several trips to deposit the large boxes on the sidewalk before retrieving his bike from the rack.</p><p> 'Got your hands full!' I piped up with an impressed tone.</p><p>"Yes. It's gonna make me money and I'll get a car."</p><p> 'It's gonna happen.' I agreed with him.</p><p>"Yessir." He replied in that way you often hear with those formerly enlisted in the armed forces. His salute after reclaiming the bicycle would be confirmation enough for me as the new entrepreneur fell back into the flow of the boulevard.</p><p>We grew as the sun shrank behind us, casting our shadow ever longer. The passing minutes and miles stretched our profile on the road out ten, twenty, fifty, then a hundred feet or more before it all merged into one on the streets of gold.</p><p>Since this was the final trip east, it was also my last chance to read the west-facing marquee sign at Allied Kitchen:</p><p>NEVER GIVE</p><p>UP ALWAYS</p><p>BELIEVE IN</p><p>YOURSELF</p><p>More welcome encouragement, especially for those doubtful they were capable of the message on the reverse side. Things we rely on in life may fall apart, and not giving up may mean picking up the pieces and moving forward.</p><p>One gentleman was doing just that as I pulled up to him at Dixie Highway before the tracks.He was barefoot, but not for lack of footwear as he held a pair of sandals at his side.</p><p> 'Could you put those on, please?' I requested, for his safety.</p><p>"They broke. I just gorilla-glued them, so I can't wear them or they'll flip."</p><p> 'Interesting.' I pondered his situation. There were no immediate threats he might step on, and the bus was nearly empty at this stage, so I let it go.</p><p>After a ten minute break on the east end, it was time to glide west and wrap this up after starting nine hours earlier. The trip began empty, but that only lasted for the Galt Mile loop and the two stops on A1A, as a guy hopped on at the first stop on Oakland Park Boulevard.</p><p>The old routine at Dixie played out like clockwork as we sat out another train delay. This one required three engines to haul a thousand cargo containers to their next destination. The load may have been too much as it crawled along in no particular hurry. Six minutes later we rolled over those pounding tracks one more time and resumed our steady crawl across the county. Oakland Park Boulevard is normally one of our busiest streets, but with all the lockdowns the congestion had thinned out nicely, at least in the right lane.</p><p>A familiar face on another route appeared after 441. The former boxer via Jamaica, I'd met him on the 88, a suburban route otherwise devoid of boxer-types. His distinctive bass-baritone combined with an extreme islander accent sounds like a punch-drunk Shabba Ranks and requires a full effort to decipher. Fortunately, he's not much interested in a two-way conversation, so a good listener gets by fine. A bit of extra fortune for me this time as another older man from the island boarded at the same time. They proceeded in a tag team spitting match of unintelligible patois. The only word that emerged more than once was "virus" as they clicked on the same frequency. The older man exited first, but the syllables continued as if he were still there. The retired fighter left a few minutes later, and soon after the bus was all mine again.</p><p>The day is long but the time is short. We'd all done our part for this day, not disrupting each other's orbits too much as we'd rotated through the cosmos of the bus. A season of ill winds had begun its sweep. We would have to adapt, stay strong, and be rocks of stability. And though we see the shadows grow, never give up.</p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-82973804310399392272021-04-06T19:18:00.004-04:002021-06-14T15:54:00.886-04:00Miracle on wheels<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArFsfuuOdUlfoVVlJwO9QFOBj6aUPij12imcplJeAlLsdB5vQuTgubDUz2hRYchPNZBamTqrhv7xqkAEF8zSkunr_VlriWuTVB8oKouOJQ2y8JKtTY7bGrZsf_liYwARIV73BthMEkTQD/s1080/72-andopb2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArFsfuuOdUlfoVVlJwO9QFOBj6aUPij12imcplJeAlLsdB5vQuTgubDUz2hRYchPNZBamTqrhv7xqkAEF8zSkunr_VlriWuTVB8oKouOJQ2y8JKtTY7bGrZsf_liYwARIV73BthMEkTQD/s320/72-andopb2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Calendars are great tools, but their usefulness only goes so far. Example: The calendar told us it was Thursday, but since I was off duty the previous two days, this was in effect my Monday. We had just begun a new set of routes and schedules, and I was mentally settled in for several months of doing the Oakland Park Boulevard route five days a week. Each new day seemed to bring more unexpected behavior through my doors, and that's saying something in this line of work. I took it all in stride and sought to adapt along with everyone else, but it was still a blessing to take off a couple days to recharge my batteries.<div><br /></div><div>When I returned to the garage energized for a new work week, I found my coworkers studying new run selections. The schedule I thought we'd have for months had been reduced to a week, another casualty of the coronavirus. A COVID-19 pick was slated to begin starting next week and we'd have to make our choices immediately. No one saw this coming, but with all the lockdowns of businesses, offices, churches, and other gathering places ridership had plummeted accordingly and we would be operating on a reduced level of service. We stood ready to provide essential travel as we entered a new normal.</div><div><br /></div><div>Upon arriving at the relief point to begin my shift in the seat, I learned of some new policies on the bus. Passengers were now required to both enter and exit through the rear door only, so as to limit exposure for the bus operator. Since the farebox is located by the driver, all fares were temporarily suspended. The onboard announcer also had a new message encouraging social distancing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Passing folks at the bus stop just enough to line up the back door for them to board would take some getting used to. A driver already sits in an area isolated from the passengers, now it was almost impossible to even say hi.</div><div><br /></div><div>The novelty of it all distracted us from this loss of sociability, and we reasoned we could tough it out a couple weeks until things leveled off. We'd flatten the curve and return to more familiar turf. Heading west on the hazy, warm boulevard with no traffic kindled feelings of nostalgia for an earlier, quieter Broward County. The world was growing colder, but we'd always have the Sun and good memories to warm us.</div><div><br /></div><div>Out at Sawgrass Mills mall, we wouldn't be needing all sixty feet of the bus for the handful of passengers boarding there. One of these was a talky fellow, instantly familiar with everyone he encountered. New in town, his stuff was stolen and he was looking for a soup kitchen. The first one that came to mind was All Saints Mission on Powerline, a long trip from way out here. This could be a good pairing for him in other ways, as he was a muralist by trade and the soup kitchen walls featured distinctive art that might need a touch up. Even his pen had been stolen so I gave him a spare to take notes.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was plenty of elbow room on the bus until just before State Road 7. There sat my leader, broken down and awaiting road service. All of his passengers waited with him outside, ready to board as we pulled up parallel. About a dozen climbed on and I wished the driver luck as we continued in service.</div><div><br /></div><div>Without that bus ahead of us, the cabin filled steadily as we headed east, with no less than two mobile scooters aboard simultaneously. A man in one of them was sociably chatty much like the muralist, discussing various topics with anyone nearby. He looked to be middle-aged, yet that didn't stop him from striking up a conversation with a young man half his age, and his girlfriend. The couple had a rolling cooler in tow, entrepreneurs of the street hustling cold drinks. Theirs was the original clear beverage: water. Only it was self-bottled and touted as high alkaline. The older man was eager to support the younger's business venture and bought a bottle on the spot. He expressed satisfaction with each sip, which made the young man's day and led to more sales. The scene had an air of orchestrated promotion, until the duo exited with a lightened cooler. Once the doors closed the man in the scooter wondered aloud if it was toilet water, a bit suspicious of the DIY packaging.</div><div>"My throat is dry," he complained, thirstier now than before.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we grew accustomed to the new boarding procedure, it was kind of nice only having to monitor a single point of entry. Most people caught on quickly and seemed to know the drill. It was a bit more lonely for me, not being able to easily greet everyone who boarded. I consoled myself with the reminder that this would only be temporary, and in the meantime I could look at it like operating a train.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few hours into the shift and we headed west again. Par for the course, we got caught at the Federal Highway red light. This placed us right next to the Coral Ridge Mall parking lot, where a few people were hanging out. A woman with a baby stroller cut a familiar profile and as she turned into focus, I recognized her immediately. It was Catherine, a regular on a different route for many years. The pink stroller was an accessory I didn't expect.</div><div>"I got a new puppy! Her name is Miracle." She shouted over, showcasing her fur baby in the buggy.</div><div>"I was just in Houston," she continued. "We had two and a half good days before we had to hole up in the hotel." Yes, the entire country was shutting down, and she returned to a less than ideal situation.</div><div>"I'm not working, but my boss is still paying me." She told me before the light turned green and we waved good bye.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to Daylight Saving Time, golden hour now took place about 7 PM, a surreal sight at our backs as we cruised eastward. No blinding yellow light piercing in this day. Just a red hot glowing disk floating behind low clouds on the coral horizon. A thick atmosphere muted the sunset so that I could look directly at it via the mirror, a mesmerizing sign of cosmic shifts underway.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Sun said good night as we began our final trip of the shift. It had been a day of changes both at the garage and on the road. A woman boarded at the east end layover, anxious to get to Target. Soon after we got going, the fiery fumes of an adult beverage wafted up to my nostrils. She hurried to the rack displaying schedules, then spread a few a few on the floor to cover her spilled contraband.</div><div><br /></div><div>She exited and my regular the tennis devotee entered. He was a bit on edge as he explained the virus was making everyone overreact out of fear.</div><div>"My friend wouldn't fist bump me," he exclaimed, perhaps taking it as an insult.</div><div><br /></div><div>While he brooded about the lapse in etiquette, we sat at Dixie Highway, delayed by one of those mile-long freights the FEC RR is famous for. The endless line of rusting cargo containers had travelled around the world to head south adorned with fresh Florida graffiti.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Sun had long set when I reached the end of the line, switched the sign to NOT IN SERVICE, and headed back towards the garage after nine hours in the seat. The new moon cast no light on our path as the thin sliver resembled a giant eyelash.</div><div><br /></div><div>Along the way, on the darkest stretch of Flamingo Road made darker by the trees, stood two figures. One was considerably taller than the other, and as my headlight beams washed over them it appeared to be a man with his young son. They waved their arms for attention, fearing their bus would miss them in the darkness. Unfortunately this wasn't their bus and when the father realized I wasn't stopping, all but one of his extended fingers went down. His shirt read <i style="font-weight: bold;">#1 DAD</i>, and hopefully the low visibility and height difference would keep that label intact for his son.</div><div><br /></div><div>An eventful day came to a close, with imminent service changes and immediate policy revisions. Yet some things refused to yield their old ways: the trains would keep running, the moon would continue its celestial cycles, and people would drink from the well of Life till their thirst was satisfied. Everyday miracles would still occur, regardless what the calendar had to say.</div>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-57130841927926033672021-03-23T18:38:00.003-04:002021-04-06T16:36:08.509-04:00Can you believe<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0shrsWxnL9WAxfkoZ32VbsK_GnbXaBtZ8JPNHTY-_VkiuVtsNzJYm4bxCLoaCH24rStNxeHfNJSTU7XKW4NEinG2gRbU2pb52WTbmvyzrueRK2A-M0VUYPmPduOnY9yhpB0SY1BjgibJo/s1080/andrewsbridge-cranes1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0shrsWxnL9WAxfkoZ32VbsK_GnbXaBtZ8JPNHTY-_VkiuVtsNzJYm4bxCLoaCH24rStNxeHfNJSTU7XKW4NEinG2gRbU2pb52WTbmvyzrueRK2A-M0VUYPmPduOnY9yhpB0SY1BjgibJo/s320/andrewsbridge-cranes1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Wise ones have said that what's old eventually becomes new again, and we'd see if that was true this sunny warm Sunday in March. As long as I've been doing this, we've always started new Picks on that day. This normally happens three or four times a year, and it's a chance to start afresh, a welcome reprieve if the previous months took a toll on you. That's the 'new' part of this equation. The 'old' part is that we are again on the 72, the same route we just did yesterday to finish out the old Pick.<p></p><p>The bus itself was a bit long in the tooth as well. A 700 Series just a tad past its expected service life, but not about to retire. Getting it ready for a day on the road, the only glitch that came up was a card misfeed on the farebox, preventing it from printing passes. If this was to be our biggest problem today, we were off to a good start. After grabbing a handful of extra passes from another bus in the yard, I pulled through the gates for a bit of Sunday driving.<br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">Halfway into the first trip, the familiar towering silhouette of a man with a walker became clearer. A regular on BCT since long before I began driving, he was wearing a mask for the first time on my bus, though it was hanging on his neck.</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Can you believe, Driver, what's goin' on?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 'Hard to believe,' I replied. 'But I guess we better believe it.'</div><div style="text-align: left;">Lockdowns and mandates were being issued by the hour, and many food and sanitary staples were becoming scarce as fear led to stockpiling. He was on his way to the grocer, to score some ground beef the butcher was reserving for him.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Along the way, the farebox fixed itself and decided to start printing passes, so we were now glitch-free. The only other quirky feature of this bus became obvious once I'd left the garage: the air compressor was extra hissy, which gave the impression it was razzing every other vehicle passing by.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A fresh bridge delay at the Intracoastal ate in to my recovery time at the end of the line. there was still plenty enough to get out of the seat for a few minutes before turning it around. These Sunday runs are generally laid back anyway and can be peaceful enough to negate the need for a break.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The next trip held to that pattern, since we were smooth and on time all the way across the county. The first round trip in the books, we started our secondtrip east from Sawgrass Mills mall. About ten minutes down the road, another familiar face in those parts boarded. He wears a rotating collection of various t-shirt designs that all read TENNIS, an appropriate selection as he plays it every chance he gets, and frequently boards with a racquet. The physical activity is paying off well into middle age with an energy level younger guys should be envious of. Today he was concerned because his usual court was locked up for the foreseeable future in order to discourage group gathering during a pandemic. It's good to have connections however, and there was another court where his friend knew the gate guy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That interaction was the highlight of the trip until just past the halfway mark, when thunder rolled in from the rear flank. Four <a href="https://www.nationwidebikelife.com/" target="_blank">Bike Life</a> scouts leading the way for more to come were going east like us, but doing it in the westbound lanes. A dozen more showed up a few blocks later, shaking brainwaves within a hundred yards. They were followed by another six a bit further, till the convoy fizzled out with a few stragglers on dirtbikes and ATVs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Oakland Park Boulevard had quieted back to a lull by the time we reached Andrews, when the Music Man blessed us with a rare visit. Toting a bongo and tambourine, he's considerate enough not to play them on the bus.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Another decent little break on the beach end, during which a man showed up with his own bed. It was actually a sleeping bag, and he was trying to get somewhere on west Atlantic Boulevard. Right here he was closer to the Atlantic Ocean, so I informed him where to get off my bus for a connection to his destination.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Due to the loop at that end of the 72, there's only one stop on Galt Ocean Drive so out of courtesy I waited for a runner to reach us before continuing. We made the turn back on to Oakland Park proper and as it was now the 5 o'clock hour, the setting sun resumed its task from the previous day of broiling my lap and belly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At a stop before Andrews Avenue, a young man of about thirty boarded with a trim hipster beard. He flashed a ten dollar bill, but like every transit company out there we don't make change on the bus. He was apologetic about it, but I don't leave anyone behind so this ride was a freebie. A few minutes later he could be heard talking aloud, as if on a phone call. The catch was, no phone was visible. Not a smartphone to the ear, no headphones, or even earbuds to be see, yet there was definitely a conversation taking place. It was an external display of internal stream of consciousness flowing into song lyrics, preaching, and a colorful word salad.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even easy Sunday shifts must come to an end, but first we needed to cover our final trip back east across town. Three people boarded at Sawgrass with their bags of afternoon goodies, several more joined on the way to University Drive. This was rapidly becoming the busiest trip of the day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A little more than halfway through the trip, our tall friend from earlier reappeared, finished with his errands. He wasn't going far, but limited mobility made the bus a necessity. Plus, he's the son of a bus driver so he's a lifelong fan of public transit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This longtime regular has a default vocal volume close to booming to begin with, but when we arrived at his stop and he let loose with a loud defensive tone, it was still out of character for him. Apparently another passenger directed an offensive comment at him, not a wise act toward someone twice your size while in a confined space. Yet it was happening before our eyes and ears as this man who I've only known as thoughtful and helpful was instigated into raising his voice, then his fists, then a bottle of soda. This was my cue to park the bus and open the doors. As I tried to get his attention and redirect the fiery energy, another complication stepped into the picture. A homeless woman who camps at the bus stop shuffled over to the front door, asking with the sweetest voice and tooth-free smile if anyone left a pass on a seat. She's advanced in years and unwittingly endangered herself by blocking the doorway at a most inopportune time. For her protection, I got out of the seat and coaxed her to the bus shelter, fishing a spare pass from my shirt pocket. This opened the way for my upset friend to exit with dignity, after which I didn't hesitate to hop back in the seat and shut the doors. The sources of friction were now separated, no physical harm had occurred, and we were back in service.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sundays signal a new week, and this one began a fresh schedule of shifts, a chance to leave the past behind. We use these calendar changes, both as a society and as individuals, to mark times of change. The times ahead would bring more change than we'd been accustomed to, and Life would remind us there's really nothing new at all.</div>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-84589654862694011882021-03-13T17:24:00.001-05:002021-03-13T17:24:26.433-05:00Surrender<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnH2B_L_bqGjwpEb7ggwKwqnUD2jKL1iyD7XbC6KQRmAE9xnUvT8AgNQtYBprkHc89UqLKiO8iIoNei-Mry_o6Hf92ORpOMCLMML5gF5IIM8itBtqimgtC0_LJf2gzIH3QErGhtAsYH6J/s1080/72-galt2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnH2B_L_bqGjwpEb7ggwKwqnUD2jKL1iyD7XbC6KQRmAE9xnUvT8AgNQtYBprkHc89UqLKiO8iIoNei-Mry_o6Hf92ORpOMCLMML5gF5IIM8itBtqimgtC0_LJf2gzIH3QErGhtAsYH6J/s320/72-galt2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In training class we were instructed from Day One to 'expect the unexpected'. Those words of wisdom were proven daily as the machine of the city chugged along, grinding all of its moving cogs under the pressure of modern life, greased with the will power of people who never give up.<p></p><p>Up until recent days, that machine was running on all cylinders. A booming economy with a seeming abundance of job opportunities, coupled with the leisure of visiting Spring Breakers, also brought along the frustrations of inconvenience and friction with so many people moving rapidly in close proximity. Societies of the distant past record a history of similar spans of frenetic human endeavor, abruptly halted by natural intrusions into the normalcies we construct around us.</p><p>While the previous week had been a lesson in patience and the futility of effort as we contended with crushing congestion, mechanical delays, and encounters with the beautiful chaos of humanity, now we had entered a time of increasing lockdowns and the prospect of mass quarantine.</p><p>The day before, the city of Fort Lauderdale took the unprecedented step of closing all access to the beach at the height of Spring Break. The irresistible stretch of sand that swarmed of students from frigid northern towns was now off limits to everyone, including locals who spent millions on their coastal abodes. For the first time in a hundred years, everything east of the sidewalk belonged to the birds and nesting sea turtles.</p><p>Into this new normal we rolled on a Saturday. Today would be spent on Oakland Park Boulevard, one of the busiest streets in the county. The eastern segment ends at the Atlantic Ocean but offers only random glimpses of it through the wall of luxury highrises lining the seaboard.</p><p>Miss Marcella showed up to the relief point on time - and also for the last time, since we'd be starting new schedules tomorrow. If I didn't give her the best farewell a coworker could give, it may have been because I wasn't really sure it was her behind the movie star sunglasses paired with a new accessory obscuring her face: the now-common N95 mask which at that time was still a novelty.</p><p>This shift always started with us going east, and a bridge delay at the Intracoastal pushed back traffic before the span. All these people heading to the beach with thoughts of relaxation were in for a big disappointment.</p><p>Soon it was time to head back the other way. A man was waiting at the bus stop on Galt Ocean Drive, prepared to board like a text book transit passenger. There was also a woman about thirty feet away from the stop, standing under a shade tree. Following the gentleman's cue, I made a text book stop at the posted sign. The woman hurried over and brought a teapot tempest with her. She was upset, claiming I passed her on purpose. This triggered a response from the man who'd been waiting diligently, and they proceeded to argue with each other.</p><p>Perhaps it was the closed beach and other sudden changes to daily life, that would create such friction on an otherwise beautiful day. More signs of the times awaited at Federal Highway. During election season this corner is a draw for supporters to promote their candidates. Half a dozen TRUMP flags were mounted on cars backed up to the street in the Coral Ridge Mall parking lot.</p><p>This westward journey was quieter than usual, and we had no problem keeping the bus on time. That is unusual for this route, and it was an eerie sensation to find ourselves a bit early between time points. The surreal combination of light ridership on a workhorse route and light traffic on a routinely congested thoroughfare reached its nadir when we arrived at the end of the line.</p><p>Sawgrass Mills is promoted as the largest outlet mall in the country, and a typical Saturday would create a bustling hive of activity. Today it had become a ghost town. It was completely closed and the parking lot was empty. A sign on the locked doors explained that after discussion with health officials, the mall would be closing for the sake of public safety. This was a shocking development and presented a stark vision of the 'new normal' that had begun. It would be especially difficult for those dependent on steady commerce for their livelihoods.</p><p>A single woman boarded there, a far cry from the dozen I would regularly see. We arrived at University Drive in time to catch a red light, a welcome delay on a day such as this. It also gave me a chance to observe my surroundings more thoroughly. <br /></p><p> THE TIME IS</p><p>FULFILLED AND THE</p><p> KINGDOM OF GOD</p><p> IS AT HAND</p><p>This message was aimed at passing motorists, on an unmanned placard resting on a folding chair. Such enigmatic messages may be common at various corners around town, but this was a new one for this intersection. The absence of a person holding the sign only added to its mysterious nature.</p><p> </p><p>After the light, a familiar man in a wheelchair boarded, quickly positioning himself and declining securement so we could get rolling. He wore his trademark ballcap with hook clip on the bill, and soon hooked my ear with updates on what he'd been doing. Before he left, he was excited to give a music suggestion. "Vitamin S' by Baby Cham, he recommended. "But be careful who you play it around!"</p><p>Somehow on my first trip east I'd missed the Allied Kitchen marquee sign after Powerline Road. I'm always curious to see the message on the ever-changing display. This time I'd catch it:<br /></p><p> SURRENDER</p><p>YOUR WORRIES</p><p> YOU WILL</p><p>FIND STRENGTH</p><p>Again the good folks there didn't let us down. The world as we knew it was rapidly changing, and those words of encouragement would be necessary in the coming weeks. We finished the trip at the beach with an empty bus, something else I would soon become familiar with.</p><p>With a decent break we left on time for the final trip of the day. The late afternoon lowering sun was cooking my lap and lower torso, where the pull shade couldn't protect. Being a Florida boy, I know and appreciate this feeling. Not for any cheap thrills, the simple power of light reaching across 93 million miles and touching us so tangibly.</p><p>Now that we'd reversed direction, we could see the flip side of that Allied sign:</p><p>EVERYONE</p><p> CARES</p><p>WHEN ITS</p><p>TOO LATE</p><p>A considerably more somber message than its counterpart, but upon reflection perhaps just the other side of the same coin.</p><p>As we intentionally crawled across the county to avoid leaving time points early, a couple passengers appeared at stops they normally wouldn't be seen. Everyone was being roused from their comfort zones these days.</p><p>Instinct and hunger brought a buzzard swooping down on fresh road kill in the form of an iguana carcass at 94th Avenue. Nature has no worries to surrender. My own would take a bit more effort to release, as I drove an empty bus to the end of the line.<br /></p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-29708802698661616902021-02-02T12:49:00.003-05:002021-02-02T12:49:46.962-05:00Doctor's orders<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1j1p6zyyXGzZJ1Z7R57dciiVgp5FhOAQ9vmAvSf1KRZnRYzUTCvS6I7sqAgGHr8Lr8d9bcv2QIfL6kv7Pp6SChhtYQipRakkQehQD5STLUdis6bbhc-aZK90Ok84BcD-6O-Pn6Ieh7TO/s1080/breeze-coronasky1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1j1p6zyyXGzZJ1Z7R57dciiVgp5FhOAQ9vmAvSf1KRZnRYzUTCvS6I7sqAgGHr8Lr8d9bcv2QIfL6kv7Pp6SChhtYQipRakkQehQD5STLUdis6bbhc-aZK90Ok84BcD-6O-Pn6Ieh7TO/s320/breeze-coronasky1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Bus operators routinely drive multiple routes over the course of their work week. Sure, there are straight runs, when we can do the same route, at the same time, Monday through Friday. My preference is for variety, and after a couple exciting days on the beach and inner city, today had me on the 441 Breeze. A decidedly inland route where salty air is merely a memory, we'd be cruising up and down the central spine of Broward County. It may not have bikinis and cookouts, but it's still a throbbing thoroughfare of Life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Mr. Derrick brought me the bus on time. My pull out time coincided with the changing traffic signal, which kept us trapped to the side until the tsunami of vehicles subsided. When the tide turned in our favor, we eased into the artery like a 60-foot blood cell flowing south. The onboard announcer was mute today, and I'd have to summon my booming bus voice to reach the back seats when calling out stops.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">An elderly man with a shiny aluminum cane waited for us at Sample Road. He wore a face mask paired with blue nitrile gloves. This was before mask mandates were issued by the County, so such combinations were an unusual sight. The gentleman was self-conscious about this and felt compelled to explain with two simple words: "Doctor's orders."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">'Better safe than sorry.' I replied with reassurance.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Two things are certain in this world, and the woman in a Lady Liberty costume after Atlantic Boulevard reminded us of one of those things. She stood outside Liberty Tax with her placard and waved back as I gave her a couple toots on the horn.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Life is a breeze on the Breeze, and we were never more than a few minutes late. The Breeze is also limited stop, which means bypassing many local stops in between the major intersections. This can confuse passengers unfamiliar with the difference. We serviced the stop at Griffin Road and wouldn't be stopping again for a couple miles, when a man pulled the string. Even though there was a language barrier, he expressed that he wanted to get off. By now I'd switched to the middle lane at cruising speed. Doing my best to explain the situation to him, I gave him a transfer to take the local route back to his stop.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Travel with ease on the 441 Breeze</i>, I imagined a potential tagline for this route. The marketing department can use it if they like, pro bono.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Broward Boulevard is the halfway time point on this route, and also our County's namesake after a one-term governor who vowed to drain the Everglades over a century ago. A cyclist exited there, along with his well-wishes: "May your corona come in bottles."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These were the early days of the viral spread, and our updated vocabulary still had a sense of humor. His light-hearted wish was welcome levity after the previous days of grinding it out on another route. Today's shift was smooth like the undrained River of Grass - or those cold bottles the cyclist referred to.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Rolling through Lauderhill, I let out a couple love taps for the stalwart sign holder after 26th Street. He leaned behind his upright sign touting a special on oil changes, his stoic pose as reliable and timeless as the shade tree which sheltered him beside the streaming roadway.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Commercial Boulevard eventually appeared before us, and time was on our side. Miss Lita was laying over there with her Route 11 bus, the very route that had vexed me mercilessly before the weekend. Today was Monday however, so I was happy to hear the beach traffic was good for her. We both were having good days, recharging our batteries for the draining days that were sure to return.</div><p></p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-4232482978568503332021-01-12T18:37:00.006-05:002021-01-12T18:51:36.636-05:00Let's rock & roll<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCe6LY0BhkMmbgikgtyVHS2uOIoP7BEPoD25gOuMsvYDmPLOZx9uGxyNyQUHFn2Km9cATe5cdZCrFxDNxWPZnhmd608U6w_QyLCY11M-7RXDxPBYMhB0UjogAVNuoJyoEcfqtjTY_pEYW/s2000/11-rubenmural1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCe6LY0BhkMmbgikgtyVHS2uOIoP7BEPoD25gOuMsvYDmPLOZx9uGxyNyQUHFn2Km9cATe5cdZCrFxDNxWPZnhmd608U6w_QyLCY11M-7RXDxPBYMhB0UjogAVNuoJyoEcfqtjTY_pEYW/s320/11-rubenmural1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><u>COVID Chronicles</u></i></p><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><i>All the stories on the blog up to recently have been about the time before 'pandemic' entered our daily vocabulary. Although those stories and others deserve to be told, I am skipping ahead in the timeline to share stories from this unique moment in our collective history. These new chapters will document the early days of life under lockdown and the ways we've been adjusting since. Stay strong. Bless you all.</i></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">-----</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">It's a good policy to leave the troubles of the past in your rear view mirror. Still visible, yet gradually growing smaller with distance. In bus driving, we don't often have the luxury of dwelling on the past when the present makes its presence known in new and imaginative ways.</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Today was the same route as yesterday, however when the bus I was taking over showed up on time, it brought a new hope. Clouds were moving in this afternoon, but it was bright enough for sunglasses.</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">We were still accepting fares at this time, and though the farebox took money in ok, it emitted only an unpleasant raspberry when a day pass was expected. Fortunately the driver of the 83 bus laying over behind me was kind enough to issue a few to see me through the shift.</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">The traffic at the north end wasn't terrible, an improvement over the previous day. The passengers were in no hurry on this side of town, gentle sea breezes have that effect. Two cyclists at stops a couple miles from each other needed assistance with the bike rack, and we soon found ourselves falling behind.</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">The first choke point appeared after Sunrise Boulevard, when one lane was blocked so <a href="https://www.urbanpopsoul.com/" target="_blank">Ruben Ubiera</a> could station a manlift as he worked on his latest masterpiece. A riot of tropical color featuring fiercely delicate betta fish and bursting hibiscus blooms flowed over the entire length of the skywalk connecting <a href="https://www.marriott.com/hotels/travel/flllw-the-westin-fort-lauderdale-beach-resort/" target="_blank">Westin Hotel</a> patrons to the beach. Perched above the street directly under the span, the artist worked his magic. I gave a couple love taps on the horn as I glided by, to express support without startling him. We shared waves and carried on with our work.</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">After the sublime sky bridge, the only obstacles to contend with were the masses of Spring Breakers. When they weren't jaywalking but actually using crosswalks, they bravely trusted oncoming vehicles to observe signs posted giving priority to pedestrians.</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Context is everything, so while the plentiful parade of skin at the beach was intended to impress, a more graphic display on Sistrunk Boulevard caused us to recoil. A woman came rushing at us from a side street much like someone attempting to catch the bus.She approached without caution, not respecting the enormity of the machine, so I braked accordingly. Her pants had slid down and her rear end was exposed, the face wide-eyed and vacant, clearly under the influence of a fearful psychosis. I kept the doors closed for everyone's safety. As quickly as she arrived, she turned and hurried off. Bystanders observed out of curiosity, giving her a wide berth.</div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">The obstacles continued as we made our way north by the warehouses on 23rd Avenue. A semi truck was backing up to a loading zone, paralyzing the narrow stretch. Sometimes the harder we push forward, the more we're reminded to slow down. If we push hard enough, something comes along to stop us in our tracks. So, like clockwork the bus decided to die as we crossed Commercial Boulevard and came to a silent stop beside Caporella Park. No warning lights, no buzzers - and no restarting. It was thirsty for more diesel and we weren't moving until road service came to our assistance. <span style="font-size: 13.2px;">The passengers transferred to the next bus and continued to their destinations.</span><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"> In the meantime, I'd sit out rush hour with the curious ducks waddling over from the pond.</span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">Gassed up and reset back where I was supposed to be in the rotation, we had a chance for a fresh start. This dynamic town wasn't about to let me glide through the shift that easily. A bridge delay on <a href="https://lasolasboulevard.com/" target="_blank">Las Olas</a> was the first salvo of a trifecta that would remind me of how arbitrary our schedules can be. The bridge funnelled us onto the crawling boulevard, a single lane trickling like sand in an hourglass. At this speed we could vicariously enjoy the sights and sounds provided for the entertainment of outdoor diners and their Friday night reveries. A lengthy train delay after leaving Central Terminal ensured we'd be late the rest of this trip. When we reached the final stop, I stayed in the seat and kept it moving.</span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">The trip back east rolled smoothly now that timeliness was off the table. By the railroad tracks on Sistrunk, I picked up my barback friend from <a href="http://lulusbaitshack.com" target="_blank">Lulu's Bait Shack</a>, our usual conversation abbreviated to a simple fist bump. A young man at Central Terminal with a cross tattoo under his left eye needed a ride to the beach, and was impressively polite about it. Back on Las Olas, half a dozen bikers in <a href="https://www.gideonsusa.com/index.php" target="_blank">Gideons MC</a> leathers escorted us in a cloud of rolling thunder. They buffered us from an SUV that was intent on cutting to the head of the line as each light turned green. Never did see the kid with the face tat get off, he just disappeared. We may speak to each other with silence, gestures, and ground-shaking tremors, but we get our points across.</span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">For the last trip of the day we started only a few minutes late and I was confident that we could finally get on time since it was now late night and traffic wouldn't be an issue.</span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">An older man in a wheelchair boarded at the start point, the same spot where I'd begun eight hours earlier. He was a bit tipsy and needed my help not to miss his stop. It was Friday after all, and not unusual for folks to start their weekends on a high note. The night regulars emerged from the shadowed bus stops. The <a href="https://www.lowes.com/" target="_blank">Lowe's</a> guy who clocks out just in time to catch the bus, and then the security guard on the way to his graveyard shift. Reserved and quiet, he contrasts with Woody, the man whose post he's taking over. Animated and anxious about missing his connection, he boards with an announcement.</span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">"One on, one off. Alright, <i>let's rock and roll</i>!" </span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">H</span><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">e stands up front clinging to the stanchion</span><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">s, the anticipation building with each obstacle we encounter until he bounds off the bus in a blur of navy blue.</span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">Our wait at Central Terminal stretched to fifteen minutes as we waited for the other routes to file in from all over the county. Everyone boarded with relief not to be stranded after their long day and we set out on the final leg, usually an uneventful journey through sleepy neighborhoods. Except it was still Friday night and mandated curfews were not yet in effect, so we shouldn't have been surprised to find ourselves in the midst of a block party shortly after turning off Sistrunk. This block party exceeded most, with hundreds of people milling amongst endless cars parked along the street. Squeezing a 40 foot bus through the mass was a game of inches and unlimited patience. Sound systems boomed with a thunder that put the Gideons to shame. As we inched to the intersection to make our turn, flashing blue lights cut through the darkness. Two cop cars closed off 8th Street, their wailing sirens occasionally heard between bass lines. Eventually the bus gets its due respect thanks to sheer bulk, and the cruisers parted so we could break free. It seemed the entire community felt a change was on the horizon, and gatherings like this would soon be rare.</span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">Midnight was nearly upon us as we cruised toward the finish line. The final stop was in sight when more flashing lights came into focus. We needed only to make a right turn on to State Road 7 before switching the headsign to NOT IN SERVICE. That turn would be delayed by a crash scene involving at least four cars, along with police protecting the perimeter. It looked like a tow truck was preparing to remove the main vehicle blocking our path, but they were in no hurry so I secured the bus and walked into the morass to seek answers. An officer had no answer to the question of the road opening, but he did provide a solution by spotting for me so we could reverse and go through the CVS pharmacy parking lot. There were still a handful of passengers on board, and we picked up a couple more who were left behind when their bus bypassed the crash. They all received courtesy stops as I rolled back to the garage. Our sign said we were out of service, but the grateful people inside knew otherwise. The time to shut down would come soon enough. For now, let's rock and roll.</span></div>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-30147460315416533792020-12-13T19:54:00.000-05:002020-12-13T19:54:00.873-05:00Beach blur<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhcPNAoNh1TS1tTfSDoBDE5pOK5QIlNYHCCzAc7fOFrFZ2eHvKo5WZLOIz6XqdXilVqzJd0dshT1r_XcDN9zYubdUIpypmELYdJTpzm3qLlsvxbENSYG3NTfBPERrYCTD50s8dZHbfKYVT/s1080/11-westlayover3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhcPNAoNh1TS1tTfSDoBDE5pOK5QIlNYHCCzAc7fOFrFZ2eHvKo5WZLOIz6XqdXilVqzJd0dshT1r_XcDN9zYubdUIpypmELYdJTpzm3qLlsvxbENSYG3NTfBPERrYCTD50s8dZHbfKYVT/s320/11-westlayover3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><u>COVID Chronicles</u></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>All the stories on the blog up to now have been about the time before 'pandemic' entered our daily vocabulary. Although those stories and others deserve to be told, I am skipping ahead in the timeline to share stories from this unique moment in our collective history. These new chapters will document the early days of life under lockdown and the ways we've been adjusting since. Stay strong. Bless you all.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">-----</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A bus driver's schedule often doesn't resemble your standard Monday-to-Friday the normal world uses. My "Monday" was actually Thursday and involved a ten-hour stint on Route 11. I've written about this <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2020/08/allowed-to-cry.html" target="_blank">multi-faceted route</a> before, how it's a long one that primarily covers the beach road before heading downtown and the northwest section of Fort Lauderdale proper. The main difference this Pick is that it was early March and Spring Break was underway. The beaches were still open and no mask mandates were in effect.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Miss Sheila drove several of us bus operators in the crew van to our relief point at Federal Highway. I was not the first one scheduled to leave, so I waited it out in the van. When the relief time cam and went, I started getting concerned. It usually arrived early and it's never fun to start a shift in the hole. The driver finally showed up and I hopped in the seat, not needing to ask why the delay. I was familiar with the A1A parking lot created by 100,000 college kids. The other driver mentioned the bus stalled out a couple times, so that only added to the lateness. The bright, sunny, clear day and the crowds such a combination attracts would be the biggest factors until night fell.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Starting out about twenty minutes down, the best I could do was just keep it moving. We rolled down 14th Street Causeway over the Intracoastal, and made the tightest of turns onto A1A. A regular who's a chef (and part-time DJ) waited at one of the first stops. With beach towel in hand along with a five o'clock shadow, he clearly wasn't heading into work. Big sunglasses hid his eyes, but a big lazy smile said he was feelin' good.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">We finally reached The Strip south of Sunrise Boulevard, the most popular stretch of beachfront. A couple teen boys who boarded uptown didn't dare blink now, lest they miss the scenery of collegiate thongs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Check out those water-malones!" one announced without shame.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Red-blooded young men may never change, but the times were stirring others out of their comfort zones. As soon as we turned on to Las Olas, an unmistakable downtown denizen was waiting to board. In so many years, I've never seen him stray from his home turf, yet here he was where the road ran into the ocean. Some mumbling and a handful of change would suffice as his greeting, I invited him to have a seat, shocked at his presence as a passenger. It may have been regrettable for the other passengers as he felt compelled to blurt a four-letter expletive loudly and repeatedly.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Three other #11 buses passed us on Las Olas going the opposite direction. Two would have been a sight, but three within a 10-minute span were proof the route was broken today and the schedule could be thrown out the window.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Soon after leaving Central Terminal, the bus decided to stall out on Sistrunk Boulevard just before Bass Bros. Market, as the previous driver had warned. It restarted a minute later to the relief of everyone aboard.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Rolling our way up 21st Ave we came to a young regular who seemed a bit anxious.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Bro! What happened!? I've been waiting <i>two</i> hours!" He had to share his upset.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I'd been in the seat about that length already, and rather than recount the reasons for our delay, I chose to sympathize with the young man.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">More congestion at the end of the line was the perfect capper to a trying journey, and ensured that the deficit I started with was now doubled. No breaks for this driver, we serviced the last stop and kept it moving.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Every new trip is a chance to be reborn, and hopes were high that things would stabilize after the first one. Like clockwork, the bike rack filled up at Oakland Park Boulevard which meant the next bike would be out of luck. Making our way through Roosevelt Gardens, sure enough a bike tire came into focus. An older man held on to it, and fortunately the rest of the bike wasn't with him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Back over beachside on A1A, the road flowed nicely once we cleared the Strip. Big Jim leaned on his walker by the curb, anticipating the bus door pulling up to him. I complimented his floral shirt, the man was stylin'.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Where the public beach gives way to condo towers, I picked up my regular under the sea grapes. A sweet little older woman, whoever has her as their grandmother is lucky as can be. She wasn't upset, but genuinely wondered why we were late. This stop is out of sight of the chaos we left behind, so I said simply: "Spring Break" and she understood.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Again, there would be no break at the end as we kept it in motion, whittling away at the schedule. The sweet lady hadn't wasted any time doing her errand and waited for us on the return trip.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Robert, thank you for coming back." She greeted me the second time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> 'That's what I do.' I reminded her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"They don't always come back..." she replied with an air of sadness.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> 'Well, let's not jinx it,' I implored her, well-acquainted with all possible reasons a bus may discontinue service.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There's nothing sadder than an empty bus in service, but to be empty from Sistrunk to the western end of the line was surreal. My leader soon revealed himself a short distance ahead, doing all the picking up. Our next trip would see a return to normalcy. The evening hours were upon us and the earlier heat had subsided.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">On State Road 7, a young man made a funny gesture as I pulled up to him, his mischievous grin gleaming in the night. After he exited, an old woman using a wheelchair boarded, making a timid complaint about a bus passing her as I pulled her chair on board and set the brakes, while she made her way to the upper deck.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Wake-up calls come our way frequently, and I got a jolt as an errant taxi drifted into our lane on A1A. A tap on the horn alerted it to back off and from there it was smooth sailing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After seven straight hours in the seat without a break, I finally had time to catch my breath at the end of the trip. There were still a couple hours left on this lengthy shift, but the party people were off the street and in the clubs so there would be no more surprises tonight. We could cruise peacefully into tomorrow, when we'd do it all over again. For now, young men and women could enjoy each other's company, blissfully unaware of how their frivolity would soon be coming to an abrupt halt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-42430857589433919752020-10-15T16:07:00.002-04:002020-12-03T14:47:25.153-05:00Doin' something else<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGJz8PxdOmmSjlQcSbTTIX2LVW78Vu7qLASOjwfUCOv23CkzbJHko0gN_f__S0ikYLXzztwOpcvfSfE4ZLFTymorqalG_BvTkg8FszL_9Ti25G8hoP0P0EekaUp1v8Sd0vEJn0ClyeYH2/s1080/breezeglades4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGJz8PxdOmmSjlQcSbTTIX2LVW78Vu7qLASOjwfUCOv23CkzbJHko0gN_f__S0ikYLXzztwOpcvfSfE4ZLFTymorqalG_BvTkg8FszL_9Ti25G8hoP0P0EekaUp1v8Sd0vEJn0ClyeYH2/s320/breezeglades4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><u>COVID Chronicles</u></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>All the stories on the blog up to now have been about the time before 'pandemic' entered our daily vocabulary. Although those stories and others deserve to be told, I am skipping ahead in the timeline to share stories from this unique moment in our collective history. These new chapters will document the early days of life under lockdown and the ways we've been adjusting since. Stay strong. Bless you all.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">-----</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A bright Spring day with lots of clouds. That's how we do it in South Florida most of the year. I drove myself and three other drivers in a taxi from the garage to our relief point for an afternoon on the 441 Breeze. It would just be a few trips, but they were fairly long: from Coral Springs down to Miami Gardens, about 30 miles one way.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The previous driver delivered the bus plenty early, so I had time to do a proper walk-around inspection and adjust the mirrors. When the appointed time arrived, I shifted into gear and merged into traffic for the start of a nearly two-hour trek down south.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Breeze is limited stop, generally only at major intersections along 441. It's easy to keep track of where you are and you're unlikely to miss a stop. We marched right down the line: Sample Road, Copans Road, Coconut Creek Parkway to start us out. After servicing Atlantic Boulevard, I beeped out a love tap for the Statue of Liberty. It was tax season so a woman stood by the street in her costume, waving a sign for Liberty Tax.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Down at Oakland Park Boulevard, the left lane was closed for road work. This forced traffic in the other lanes to get over. We were still in the middle lane when one car cut ahead of us like it had no brakes, so we missed the light. That makes the bus late, but also gives more people time to get to the stop. A dozen plus boarded there and all three bike rack slots were filled. I helped an older woman pull her fully-loaded folding cart on the bus and someone called out: "You should be the mayor, you help everyone!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">An hour later we arrived at the end of the line in Miami Gardens. The Park & Ride facility is nestled beside Golden Glades, a massive interchange where numerous highways and surface streets converge from all directions. We had a little wait, and I boarded one woman who was already there since she'd be more comfortable in the cool cabin. She may have been the only passenger from the start, but we got company going back north. The crowd of folks transferring at Miami Gardens Drive with their blue-inked Miami-Dade Transit transfers; the benches at Ives Dairy Road lined with people waiting for other buses (though we waited for a runner in his red <a href="https://www.donnascaribbean.com/" target="_blank">Donna's Restaurant</a> uniform); then Countyline Road before re-entering Broward County and its stops: Hallandale/Miramar, Pembroke Road, Hollywood Boulevard and all the rest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">An <a href="https://atomik.bigcartel.com/" target="_blank">Atomiko</a> orange that wasn't visible on the trip south was now smiling back at us from the wall of Metro Signs at Plunkett Street in Hollywood.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The school crossing guard at Riverland Road waved as she must at every bus. Most of them don't, so I'm sure to wave back for those that do.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just about an hour and a half later we're back up to Atlantic. Not sure if the Liberty lady was still posted across the street, but it had been a smooth trip and we were only about five minutes down. With three more stops before the end, we'd make up that time easily.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While at the Turtle Creek layover, my friend Rockland appeared. A sometime-DJ and fulltime hustler in a good way, he had a mixed bag of news. Just out of jail over a misunderstanding, he lined up a construction job in Little Havana for the next morning. It was an early start, so he was heading down to spend the night there. First he wanted to panhandle up here for a couple hours, hoping he'd cross paths with a generous winner leaving the casino.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I pulled out empty for my final trip, which isn't unusual when leaving that layover. Passing the Sample stop because it was empty was unusual, however. There's nothing sadder than an empty bus that's still in service, and fortunately the dry spell was broken at the next stop as a regular in his <a href="https://www.bravosupermarkets.com/" target="_blank">Bravo Supermarket</a> cap boarded. Heavy congestion after Atlantic didn't affect us as we switched over to the middle lane and bypassed the Southgate back-up. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Another decent crowd got on at Oakland Park. It may have been there, or a couple stops later when a woman labored aboard.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Whenever I see you, I think you should be doin' something else. You're too intelligent for this. I mean it." Her deep, weary eyes told me she truly did.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> 'You're the best.' I replied, and meant it too.</div><p></p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-26834282915953369802020-09-30T15:14:00.004-04:002020-09-30T15:14:41.906-04:00Whatever happens<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Q0FNcyfB7PWXYN7gg7m-IdS4XUQ5NqGI3xSMzWU6tcHqpdoRr1Ed6xG-Cim3jXUyfJZR2nuUQCGGAfaC89xFTgyBA5i8vGJvRL7jYokg280cr1v7Ko5dVQuEJkp1bO1OmrrWD2k3bR25/s1080/40-sunrise711-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Q0FNcyfB7PWXYN7gg7m-IdS4XUQ5NqGI3xSMzWU6tcHqpdoRr1Ed6xG-Cim3jXUyfJZR2nuUQCGGAfaC89xFTgyBA5i8vGJvRL7jYokg280cr1v7Ko5dVQuEJkp1bO1OmrrWD2k3bR25/s320/40-sunrise711-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The previous <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2020/04/small-blessings-or-open-heart-surgery.html" target="_blank">shift on Route 40</a> had been an epic effort in futility and perseverance in the midst of chaos. From starting out late to an endless stream of delays. Sometimes those delays are the stuff Life is made of - and where are we really going in such a hurry anyway?</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Today's shift on the notorious 40 started about the same as that other one, including getting the bus late. Now, I've done my share of delivering the bus late to the relief point myself, and been on the receiving end of an impatient driver's ire. I resolved long ago to take these <span style="text-align: left;">times in stride and not give another driver a hard time over something that's out of their hands. So long as the equipment is intact and everyone's safe, it's all good.</span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">The first few hours were a push to keep from falling further behind and amazingly we eventually got got back on schedule about a third of the way in. Sure, there were a smattering of potential time killers: the bus wasn't announcing so I did it Old School; a vehicle transporter pulled in front of us ever so slowly at an inopportune time; an ambulance downtown triggered the lights to change so we missed a cycle; a street fight at Government Center; lost passengers; and a mass of cyclists all did their part to slow us down.</div><p style="text-align: justify;">While I was grinding through the workday, beachgoers lounged lazily on the sand, soaking in the sunshine and sipping cool drinks. No resentment on my part - it's good to know someone is out there having a good time without a care in the world. We all get to enjoy the salty ocean air equally.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">When we got to the end of the line, a guy who boarded at the terminal showed no signs of exiting. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Do you go on Sistrunk at all?" He asked, obviously unaware there are two 40 buses at the terminal, an eastbound and a westbound. He'd boarded the former when he needed the latter. A common mistake, and a reminder to always ask the driver if the bus is going to your destination. He didn't seem in a hurry, and the view out the window was fine.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So we turned around to head back, essentially on time now. Naturally that meant we were due for a delay, and we found one at the 17th Street bridge, one of three drawbridges on this route. This signature bridge that greets visitors to Port Everglades is one of the largest in the county, and speed is not a feature. It took even longer since vehicles were stuck on the span thanks to the infamous congestion on that street in the afternoon. Transportation planners have publicly admitted nothing more can be done to alleviate the gridlock there. Except perhaps get more of those drivers on transit. From the sttep slope of the birdge's incline we could enjoy the view of moored yachts at Pier 66 and a single freighter at the port itself. The clear vantage of downtown's skyline to the southwest was dominated by the construction cranes of ICON Las Olas, at that time the tallest tower under construction at 455 feet.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We rolled throught he surging city core and emerged onto Sistrunk Boulevard for our misdirected passenger. I'd made up about half the deficit from the bridge delay, but I was still late getting to Sunrise Boulevard where I caught my leader bus. He spotted me and went into Drop Off Mode all the way to the end at Lauderhill Mall. Once there, he got instructions to get back on schedule. That meant he left empty while I had a busload out of the mall, including a wheelchair.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Despite the heavy start to this trip, we were on time and rolling smoothly. At the fire station before the Swap Shop, a young man in a Publix uniform boarded asking what happened to the bus before ours. I apologized for the wait and thanked him for his patience.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Several folks begged for rides at Central Terminal: a teenager needing to get to work on 17th Street and two homeless men saying the shelter told them they could get free rides to the feeding on the beach. Everybody rides my bus, so it wasn't a problem. At least they took the time to come up with a story.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Once we got to the Galleria at the end, I was able to get out of the seat for the first time this pick, since all previous visits had found me running too late to take a break. After a much-needed ten minute stretch, we headed back.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">At Bahia Mar, there was only a handful compared to our ususal post-feeding crowd. The others must have taken another bus. Now we had an elderly man in a wheelchair. Also a younger man in his 30s with long thin dreads. His woman and infant child were with him and I could see the brokenness in his eyes as he asked in a heartfelt and humble tone for a ride to Central Terminal. Welcome aboard, have a seat.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">A Florida East Coast RR freighter doubled our five minute deficit after leaving the terminal and ate up any break time I hoped to see at the end. Two engines, those trademark camel-humped quarry cars, and endless containers presented a rusty moving barrier to our forward progress.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Our last trip of the day, we'd entered the quiet cruise of evening. I pulled out of Galleria with an empty bus and stayed that way for nearly ten minutes, unusual for even for the time of night. It was just me and the one passenger until we got to Pier 66. There we picked up one of its longest residents, who always pays with a row of quarters. This bus gets him over the bridge to the bars and restaurants that 17th Street is famous for. Today is his birthday and he's ready to celebrate. He's grown a little bitter over the years, tells me he's had it with the USA and is moving to Monaco.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Burning off a few minutes at the terminal, an older Jamaican gentleman shared something nice from a day he rode my Route 2 bus.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"I was shot, and you gave me a ride." he recalled. I meet a lot of shot folks and didn't exactly remember that encounter.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Crossing over Sunirse Boulevard, the drive-in movie screens at Thunderbird punctuated the darkness. Race cars exploded as we passed.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Somewhere before we made the last turn on to 441 to finish the route for the day, a woman walked up to prepare for her exit. She emitted a positive vibe with a smile and bright eyes behind glasses.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Always smile whatever happens." She encouraged me in a lilting accent.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">'I like that." I replied, and took her advice. The equipment was intact, everyone was safe, and it was all good.</p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-18391867805049234552020-08-24T07:30:00.052-04:002020-08-24T07:30:05.429-04:00So slow, so fast<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpNmoZRmpFn0SFPACQH1n5L0hDZ61pPhcucrMGTO0PKg5fRgy5jFsR2kuol8doDI4Jbh-N3SYmXjtGRcD71jSC3248V7nRxMEzGoBnxNQ5dKTZeA4UwQY-bUj-NcRUFmdjqPkBWWuvespZ/s1080/19-lhill-planter1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpNmoZRmpFn0SFPACQH1n5L0hDZ61pPhcucrMGTO0PKg5fRgy5jFsR2kuol8doDI4Jbh-N3SYmXjtGRcD71jSC3248V7nRxMEzGoBnxNQ5dKTZeA4UwQY-bUj-NcRUFmdjqPkBWWuvespZ/s640/19-lhill-planter1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Less than an hour into a late night on 441. The evening was young, yet late enough that rush hour was over. We'd made the first of several trips north, just a few stops left before crossing the county line into Palm Beach. An older woman boarded at Johnson Road with no greeting or mention of the fare, only a judgmental comment about the blank headsign on the front of the bus. This was followed by general disgust about poor bus service, and somehow related to a quote she recalled from an 80s business book:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"There's no shortage of money; there's a shortage of ideas."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Clearly she believed there was a lack of focus in the way services are rendered.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"People are distracted today, and don't spend time thinking," she went on, as she loosely connected a short-sighted approach with the fact there would be no bus for her to catch in a couple hours when she needed it most.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We made the Sandalfoot loop in Boca Raton and slid into the layover slot. A 20-something guy wearing a backpack to accessorize his colorful hipster outfit wandered on board before I could leave the seat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I lost my backpack on a 19 bus," he started with a soft-spoken manner, looking at me through smart glasses and impressive thick shoulder-length braids framing his face. I might have begun to point at the backpack he already had, but that was too obvious.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It has a firearm inside," he explained, whispering the confession.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I advised him to call Customer Service and offered him a ride south, but he was going north.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's like life went to shit so fast..." he thought aloud as he stepped back on to the sidewalk and drifted away.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That disturbing encounter was left behind when I got back down to Lauderhill Mall and bumped into a regular. The shift was about half over and we were into the 10 o'clock hour. My friend caught my bus to hit a bar uptown.. We took the good times on the road as we left the bus terminal and turned on to State Road 7. A couple stops in, an obviously inebriated gentleman boarded with a vacant smile. He stood up front, presumably not to miss his stop. His vision must have been blurry, since he stood too close to my friend and stepped on the toes of his new boots. That flipped a switch in this man who had been joking only a moment before. He got dark fast, reaching in his pocket and threatening to pull out his pistol. He was disrespected and demanded an apology. I worked to calm him down, pointing out the offender was drunk and didn't do it on purpose. He calmed down till we got to Oakland Park Boulevard, where he exited and stood just outside the door, taunting the hot-stepper to get off too. The other guy was still oblivious of his wrongdoing, so I offered up the apology the situation demanded, and thanked him for his patience to boot. Sometimes the best way to de-escalate a tense moment is to just close the door, so that's what I did.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The toe-cruncher remained aboard and needed assistance locating his stop. I was happy to remind him when we got there, he gave me thanks and a fist bump. It was as if the trouble he'd initiated never even happened. It's like life went so fast...</div><p></p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-56559809250124579462020-08-22T18:14:00.005-04:002020-09-03T13:13:53.644-04:00Allowed to cry<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv88wkhKY6QIss5VZA6KRAieyYggpWmVdHFJgNoqmuXLpbGDCVP1vyTCqfzGsPiIYuD1zCO0VqQKUtSbCYYdrqTXlOCux2t-CCoD5_mVmX9NUbNUQm_3wz5kKwAhcjJ215d7T8FTWPA7H0/s1080/11-claridgetree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv88wkhKY6QIss5VZA6KRAieyYggpWmVdHFJgNoqmuXLpbGDCVP1vyTCqfzGsPiIYuD1zCO0VqQKUtSbCYYdrqTXlOCux2t-CCoD5_mVmX9NUbNUQm_3wz5kKwAhcjJ215d7T8FTWPA7H0/s640/11-claridgetree.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2020/04/small-blessings-or-open-heart-surgery.html" target="_blank">a rough start</a> to our new selection of routes, it was a blessed relief to have a day or two of slow shifts behind the wheel. I may have even been hoping for a little boredom when I hopped in the seat for an afternoon/evening run on Route 11. This route covers different parts of the County than my <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2020/07/one-good-saturday.html" target="_blank">previous day on the 62</a>, but the general route structure was similar: Long from end to end with lots of turns and no true dedication to a particular street. However, a considerable length of it services A1A, the beach road, so drivers can be forgiven for an occasional glimpse at the natural beauty of our subtropical paradise.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We started at the west end, heading east. Las Olas was bustling on a crisp January afternoon. Leggy beauties displayed the seasonal fashion of thigh-high hemlines, floral prints, and stockings. Countless yachts filled the tight canals around the finger isles, aquatic yard ornaments showcased by their mansions. Atop the Intracoastal bridge, a couple cops were taking their report for a bad fender bender; no tall ships would be passing through anytime soon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The lazy nature of a Sunday afternoon and too much time on the schedule meant we got to the beach a bit early. It was the halfway point so we had to wait, and while we sat burning off those minutes a young lady came up wondering why. She was going to be late for work and the Uber app wasn't working. I sympathized with her and reminded her there were earlier buses. It wouldn't help her now, but I hoped it didn't ruin her day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We glided up the world famous Fort Lauderdale Strip, a slow roll through abundance, comfort, and tranquility. Sometimes Life is about timing, and the time was right north of Oakland Park Boulevard. I crossed paths with two classmates from our days of training as new hires with the County. Suresh on the 72 and Steve on the 55, all of us doing the bus driver wave. Our schedules and routes take us on different paths, but at least part of the journey would be ours to share.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A couple blocks of reminiscing was enough, as I picked up a mother with her teenage son and daughter. They waited patiently at one of the distinctive colorful bus stops you only find in Lauderdale-by-the-sea. And that patience would come in handy. Near the end of the trip, Mom came up and told me in broken English where they needed to go. It was the other end of the route. So if they were in a hurry, they got on the wrong bus. They seemed fine with the situation, judging by the girlish giggles as the son told jokes on the long journey back. Laughter transcends any language gap.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The trio took the grand tour of a wide swath of Broward County by the time we got to the last stop, passing through multiple cities and visiting places usually unseen by tourists. I had about 20 minutes to stretch, and drifted over to the homeless woman camping in the bus shelter. She was familiar to me from other parts of town, but we hadn't had a chance to chat before. It was impossible to have a two-sided conversation with her, so I just listened. She wasn't explicitly asking for anything I could give her, so I lent her my ear. In a calm, flat way she wished aloud someone would give her a key to a house, so she wouldn't have to experience homelessness for one night. Her makeshift headwrap was a halo on her silver hair as she told me how everyone is owned by Satanists, so she doesn't trust their intentions when they assist her. By then it was nearly time to go.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> 'You're welcome to ride with us, if you want.' I offered her the only assistance I had at hand.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I have nowhere to go," she replied with sublime resignation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> 'Good night to you.' I wished her well as I readied to depart, torn no small amount at leaving someone's drifting mother to fend for herself out here.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our last trip of the day, even though on a Sunday, is no time to lower your alert. Especially if previous trips went smoothly; it can't stay quiet forever.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On 21st Avenue, I picked up the legend of that street. Alternating between vicious verbal cruelty and fervent street talk, she's a classic Earth mother and just as volatile. Fortunately today the gentle version boarded our bus. Perhaps the $20 she just made while panhandling cheered her up. the bus filled with the fumes she was running on, now she was off to the corner store to refuel.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Let me off at the store, Bus Driver," she requested. It wasn't a designated stop, and not exactly ideal for a courtesy stop, so I was hesitant to oblige. Luckily an angel on her shoulder changed her mind.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"No! Let me off across from the church, so I can pray on my way to the store."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now we were at an actual bus stop, a couple houses away. The church is across the street.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I love to pray, but church people look at me weird," she went on, smarting my nostrils with high-test vapors.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> 'Don't worry about them,' I encouraged her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Tell your mama she raised you right!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> 'Thanks for that,' I returned with sincere acknowledgment as I closed the doors.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Another woman on the bus commented snidely about mixing god and alcohol. Still, you have to be thankful for the good spirits when they visit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Five minutes later we were in The Greens, a low-income housing community nicknamed for its paint color. A woman was hassling three boys playing by the bus stop, giving them an earful like a mother hen. The ceaseless chatter continued on the bus as we slid down Sistrunk Boulevard. She settled for a pass to make her next connection when she learned a pass for the next day was impossible. That released a torrent of thanks and gratitude the rest of her trip, though it had the same vibe as the meandering jabber we'd heard up till then. It was an impressive performance of observation, insight, and even confession.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I wasn't allowed to cry at my house," she chose to admit as she exited. This was the dry season for our region, and a season in her life. The rainclouds disappear during those months, and talking would substitute for tears here in the heart of broken promises and unrealized dreams.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back on Las Olas, the horn of plenty overflowed as three clean and classy women speaking German boarded. They would ride way uptown, where the air is fresh and the street is clean.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">No sooner did we turn on to A1A for this last beachside trip than a kicking leg caught my eye. A young woman with rolling suitcase had her hands full so she found a creative way to flag us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> 'You know how to stop a bus.' I commended her amusing signal.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Some drivers don't see you when you wave your arm." She explained, not wanting to get passed by a bus that comes every hour. She was a leisure traveller, simply riding the bus till it didn't go any further, then dragging her baggage along with her into the calm quiet night. The shift had been quiet too, making all the scheduled turns, along with some new stops you won't see on the route map - yet deserving not to be passed by.</div><p></p>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-5385793006279334742020-07-09T07:30:00.001-04:002020-07-09T07:30:00.429-04:00One good Saturday<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjeLXYVBnAUmGd_LgIx6X7MUngPKmPnbDAX0bZiyvcQTjRZnePHIpvmTIAQagjHU6GWWr-ayP0M9tEj51lFtkRUeyt7E19ihmSZbT16F2Ln8EQYYMDE4AHEK4ey759TpcTqndZXHkLQ_vY/s1080/62-westlayover1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjeLXYVBnAUmGd_LgIx6X7MUngPKmPnbDAX0bZiyvcQTjRZnePHIpvmTIAQagjHU6GWWr-ayP0M9tEj51lFtkRUeyt7E19ihmSZbT16F2Ln8EQYYMDE4AHEK4ey759TpcTqndZXHkLQ_vY/s320/62-westlayover1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The first week of the new pick was coming to a close, and after an <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2020/04/small-blessings-or-open-heart-surgery.html" target="_blank">epic shift on the 40</a>, it would be nice to have a peaceful Saturday afternoon on a far quieter route. Route 62 fits the bill. It's a more or less east-west route in northern Broward County, but also has a considerable stretch of north-south coverage in the northwest part of the county. In many ways, it's a holdover from earlier years in Broward Transit's history, when routes were designed to cover as much ground as possible and weren't necessarily dedicated to a single main street. It promised to be a quiet day in a quiet part of town, a welcome reprieve from the brutal previous day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The first hour rolled by smooth as you like, setting the pace for trips to come. Out where Kimberly Boulevard ends at 81st Avenue, I spotted my friend Francois on the opposite sidewalk, pointing my way. His beaming smile may have come from spotting me first, not exactly fair since I was in the most obvious vehicle on the road. But it always makes my day to see a familiar face when driving a route, so I pointed back and called his name out the window.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The next trip brought a little more excitement when the quirky older woman who I only run into in Coral Springs showed up. Slight in stature, and thus easily overlooked, I could only smile when her trademark barrage of nervous questions began coming my way. The majority of the questions don't require an answer, but my acknowledging them seems to put her at ease.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Almost halfway into the trip, I picked up a long lost regular from previous runs on the 60 in a much different part of town. He was my Jamaican friend who pushes train cars loaded with <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2018/03/gotta-do-something.html" target="_blank">rock at Matco</a> Industries in Pompano. Those days he tended to seem weary after the day's work was done, but today he was revitalized telling me about his newborn son turning two months old. He was out apartment hunting to find more room for his growing family. He used to have a car, but let the bank take it when they jacked up interest rates. When his boss heard about it, he gave his hardest working employee a scooter. Just needed to transfer the title.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The day was winding down, just a couple hours left in the seat when we got to State Road 7. An elderly man waited in a wheelchair, a medical boot on his left foot. The advanced years had given him wisdom on life, war, soldiers, and drug addiction. Oh, and a philosophy on love: "You just need one good woman." He talked and I listened the entire way to his destination on this one good Saturday.</div>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-2514002841783436032020-06-18T07:00:00.001-04:002020-06-18T07:00:06.309-04:00Small blessings (or, Open heart surgery)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0RPHNH9iET3BzYgemaUf3sd91XpcqjgFlZm3A7T8YJtf5bMr9FESJD6eu2AN9NTw0uYqnJBI_H7HUPBa5qSNTU5jetNdNLPFeKHmzEOt8qzUIyqd3rXTjWuvUJCpzw7qJ-vlkBmBO5RnJ/s1600/40-sistrunk1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1080" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0RPHNH9iET3BzYgemaUf3sd91XpcqjgFlZm3A7T8YJtf5bMr9FESJD6eu2AN9NTw0uYqnJBI_H7HUPBa5qSNTU5jetNdNLPFeKHmzEOt8qzUIyqd3rXTjWuvUJCpzw7qJ-vlkBmBO5RnJ/s320/40-sistrunk1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><i>[Intro note: It's been almost as long as it takes a baby to be born since I last posted a story here. I could make excuses about how I took a break during the holidays, then the world stopped during the COVID-19 quarantine, and subsequent social unrest. But I'm not one for excuses so I'll simply pick up where we left off. Sure, our world has changed dramatically in the intervening months, but our shared histories are still of great worth. So long as that's the case, the story must be told.</i></div><div><i>Hopefully any memory of the hiatus will be obliterated by this epic saga of a day on the 40, back when it was the stuff of legend. Take your time, don't rush it. There's no hurry. Enjoy and bless up, Broward County.]</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>---</div>
Even though I drive the bus <i>for</i> work, I also ride it <i>to</i> work. This allows me to begin fresh-faced, relaxed, and prepared for the challenges that await. I chatted with my coworker Jacqui as she drove us uptown, confident it would be a straightforward afternoon on the 40. This was the first day of the new pick, when all that is old becomes new, and the route was <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2016/02/farewell-40-for-now.html" target="_blank">familiar to me</a> as it covered so much of my lifetime stomping grounds.<br />
<br />
Checked into Dispatch, located the two other drivers I was sharing a taxi with, and headed down to Central Terminal. We arrived a little late, but still on time since this was the notoriously late 40 - and it would not disappoint today. It showed up about 15 minutes in the hole, I hopped in the seat, rolled up Andrews Avenue, cut a left onto Sistrunk Boulevard and was ceremoniously greeted by clanging bells and flashing lights. A travelling art gallery of graffiti chugged by on the rusty cars of a FEC freight train. With two engines leading the way, it looked to be a long one so I popped the parking brake to wait it out. The first hundred cars were piled high with their white mounds of Miami limestone, the second hundred were standard shipping containers with logos faded from sailing the world. I lost count after that.<br />
"Oh my god. I could <i>been</i> there by now." A young lady in the back vented her frustration with the delay. Her boyfriend joined her by attempting to insult me with a personalized slur. It's not my job to infringe their freedom of speech, so I focused on the task of operating the bus, which was delayed even longer since the crossing arms remained down five minutes after the train had passed. We detoured to another crossing and got back on route. The girl apologized as she exited, and even wished me a good day. I told her to take care.<br />
<br />
That fifteen minute deficit at the start of the shift had more than doubled by the time we got to the end of the line at Lauderhill Mall. That meant no break, just time to service the stop and begin the next trip east.<br />
<br />
We were at the pull-in bus stop on 38th Avenue, barely into this new trip, when I heard the sirens. Looking all directions, but seeing no sign of a patrol car, I spotted a minivan in my side mirror. It was racing our way, swerving between other cars, the front banged up, and mirrors dangling uselessly. The van's windows were down, giving a wide open view of several teenage boys inside. They whipped a screeching turn onto 19th Street, and we stayed put. Hot on their tails, an unrelenting stream of police cars were in full on pursuit. Their department insignia said they came from Lauderhill, Fort Lauderdale, Broward Sheriff's Office and anyone else in the vicinity. When the caravan reached 50 units, it seemed like a good round number to stop counting.<br />
<br />
The coast was clear, so we made the same turn and followed the action. At least for a few blocks. All the players in the drama we'd just witnessed had disappeared, but now a red car was parked in our lane just short of the next turn. Another car to our left prevented us from going around.The driver of the red car jumped out to taunt the occupants of the other car, and a heated argument ensued in the middle of the street, giving all of us on the bus a front row seat. An older woman on board lamented how dangerous it was "out there".<br />
<br />
By some miracle we'd made up a few minutes on the way to Central Terminal. Not enough to give me hope of catching up, but at least it was the right direction. The route would soon regain those minutes, and many more besides. Any inkling of momentum was snuffed out by the chaotic congestion downtown.<br />
<br />
This trip called for a side shot into Point of Americas off 17th Street, a cluster of condo towers at the inlet to the port. Not every bus goes in there, and this confused an older gentleman who wondered if the route had changed. I reassured him it hadn't.<br />
<br />
The street transitioned into A1A, opening up to the beach, and the busy yet peaceful activity on this side of town was in sharp contrast to the frenetic madness we'd already encountered. Daylight was beginning to wane, the ocean was calm and gentle, freighters floated a mile offshore.<br />
<br />
A young lady waited at Las Olas, speaking clear English with a vaguely European accent. The peace and comfort outside the bus followed her aboard as she walked through my door. She was going to South Beach, down Miami way. This was not a good place to start such a trip by bus, so I let her out at the next stop with instructions for catching a bus the other way.<br />
<br />
Sometimes in our hurry we need to be reminded to slow down. The easy pace of beach life would have been sufficient, but our reminder came in the form of a bridge delay on Sunrise Boulevard, within sight of the end of the line at the Galleria. When we finally cleared the bridge, the bus was 40 minutes late.<br />
<br />
Again, no time for a break at the layover. I stayed in the seat and picked up an older couple originally from Tacoma, Washington, on the other side of the country They were fond of ecotours, excitedly describing whale sightings in Alaska and alligators in the Everglades.<br />
<br />
About 10 minutes down the road we caught up with the bus ahead of us. I passed her to help service stops. At Holiday Drive across from the former Yankee Clipper (now B Ocean hotel), a lively bunch of construction workers waited. Their weary clothes and trusty hard hats were coated with the dust of the day yet didn't diminish the excitement to be on their way home.<br />
<br />That other bus caught me a few minutes later in front of Pier 66. It turned out I was actually <i>her</i> leader and she'd somehow passed without my notice. I was still more than half an hour late and we needed to separate our buses, so I went into drop off mode. We started picking up passengers again about 20 minutes later, but the fact I was still half an hour down confirmed any attempt to get back on schedule was an effort in futility.<div><br /></div><div>So again we got no break at the end of the line, just time to pick up everyone at Lauderhill Mall and head back east. At Central Terminal, a wide-eyed young woman boarded and we got out of there, trying to get some momentum going. Naturally, the Andrews Avenue bridge would choose that moment to go up and delay us a few more minutes. Once we finally got over the bridge, the woman asked another passenger if we were going to Lauderhill. It's a common mistake for people boarding the 40 at the terminal to board the one going the wrong way. Please ask the driver when you board, regardless of what the headsign reads. We finished the trip, and by skipping yet another chance for a break, were now only 20 minutes late to begin our next west bound.</div><div><br /></div><div>Somehow the golden girl going to South Beach was waiting for us again after all that time. At least now she was going the right direction. She stood up front behind me, sightseeing. That's when the glorious chaos arrived. At Bahia Mar, that docking site of the infamous fictional <i>Busted Flush</i>, a crowd waited to board. Their bellies full and spirits high after a feast provided by the charitable chef Arnold Abbott and his Love Thy Neighbor crew, this salty sea of humanity swept in through the door. A wheelchair, a walker, rolling luggage all flowed in relentlessly. The blonde had no choice but to ride the wave into the cabin as the tide rose up front. An especially sociable gentleman brought up the rear, shook my hand, and made his way to the back row, talking to everyone along the way. The noise subsided and we got rolling again. A gentle voice whispered nearby, "I am here." It was the blonde again, laughing about the funny man.</div><div>"All these crazy people!" She marvelled.</div><div> 'Crazy people? Wait till you get to South Beach!' I tried to play down the rush of excitement, knowing full well this madness was a force of nature.</div><div><br /></div><div>In short order we had a standing load, before A1A turned into 17th St. We got to US 1, the blonde exited for the next leg of her journey south, and <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2015/09/cold-40.html" target="_blank">the old Brit</a> limped aboard. Still trim with groomed gray beard, he struggled more than usual thanks to some fresh wounds. He'd been assaulted recently and had several broken ribs. While he needed to talk about it, we needed to go, so I asked him to stand close and tell me what happened. There were no available seats anyway, so his options were limited. His shaky voice expressed disappointment and betrayal as he recounted the vile incident, adding that his phone was stolen the night before.</div><div><br /></div><div>We followed the S-curve by Broward General, turned onto Andrews Avenue, and serviced the stop in front of the hospital. A middle-aged man wearing a patient wristband tentatively approached the open door, wanting to go somewhere uptown. He would have to take our bus to Central Terminal and switch to another. When I encounter folks released from the hospital, and they happen to be disoriented or unstable on their feet, I dial up the concern.</div><div> 'How ya feelin'? Did the nurses treat ya alright?' I inquired to ease his anxiety.</div><div>"Yeah." He finally answered, flatly. "I had open heart surgery."</div><div><br /></div><div>The bus emptied out a bit at Central Terminal, workers making connections to the flurry of other routes passing through. In no time we were back in motion, now almost 40 minutes late. My follower caught me at the end of Sistrunk Boulevard, told her I'd stay in service till the end of the line at Lauderhill Mall and phone Dispatch from there. She booked it to get herself back on time while I continued picking up passengers.</div><div><br /></div><div>On 38th Avenue, site of the earlier police chase and just blocks from the Hill, a young man about 20 with a puffball snowcap was waiting. He was on the phone, but was kind enough to pause the conversation to greet me.</div><div>"No fare. My girl left me on Uber." He tried to explain. We only had a few more stops so I told him to have a seat. Another passenger noticed and commended me for blessing the kid.</div><div>"Small blessings become big blessings, Drivah." He philosophized with a squeaky Jamaican accent.</div><div> 'I hope so.' I heartily stood in agreement.</div><div>The kid stayed up front, continually begging for a courtesy pass. Persistent, but not nasty about it. I asked if he was in sales with that persistence. He chuckled.</div><div><br /></div><div>We finally arrived at Luaderhill Mall, the end of the line, but not the end of the shift. There was still a full round trip left on my schedule, but I'd been in the seat for more than six hours non-stop and needed to make a pit stop. After taking care of business I called Dispatch for a reset since I was nearly an hour late. I was instructed to deadhead to the Galleria, cutting out an entire eastbound trip. It didn't put me back on time, but it was close enough and the final trip was a breeze now that the frenzy of the day had subsided. The ocean lapped gently at the coast and the city settled down for the night.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I got back to Lauderhill Mall, the kid with the puffball cap was still there hanging out. He asked if I could take him around the corner since I was going that way anyhow. Told him I couldn't, the bus was now out of service. There would be plenty more buses to take him where he needed to go, it was time to share the small blessings with them. This bus was heading home.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-7555321070031242019-10-06T21:43:00.000-04:002019-10-06T21:43:27.046-04:00Sunset on Sunrise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A bus driver can pick from a variety of shifts. I was back on afternoons nights with a mixed run for the week, or a "variety pack" as I call it. This keeps me in touch with various parts of town over the course of a week, preventing too much familiarity over the next several months.<br />
<br />
This was Tuesday, still early in the week yet a kind of sweet spot where folks are focused on productivity. My day would consist of a ten hour shift going back and forth on Sunrise Boulevard, serviced by the notorious 36. Three of us drivers took a taxi from the motor pool at the garage and headed down to Lauderhill Mall to make relief. While there waiting for my bus to arrive, I bumped into my old classmate Vianca. We started with the County at the same time, and I have a fondness for all of those who were in our training class.She had long since transferred to the south garage, so this was a pleasant chance to catch up and wish each other well.<br />
<br />
My bus arrived on cue, I hopped into the driver's seat, made my adjustments, and booked it out of there. We rolled west and thought I'd made out pretty good with the after-school crowd when I picked up over a dozen students across from Plantation High School. They smiled as I complimented their t-shirts and other signs of self-expression. Most were going all the way to Sawgrass Mills Mall at the end, perhaps for part-time jobs or just to hang out with friends.<br />
<br />
The shift had barely begun and I had yet to do a full round trip since I'd taken over in the middle of the route. Now we could begin in earnest, doing a full trip eastbound from the mall. Still early enough that traffic wasn't a delay, but just in time to get buried by the second wave passing through the school zones. By the time we emerged into an open stretch, we had a full standing load. Our cabin at capacity, we skirted along Deepside before cresting the hill of the Turnpike overpass. Changing lanes at the opportune moment and letting the rush of gravity propel us downward, a sea of young eyeballs looked ahead, unblinking.<br />
<br />
We pulled into the Hill seven minutes down, but thanks to the scheduled recovery time we pulled out back on track. Made our pick ups at the Swap Shop and other usual hot spots along the way. At 7th Ave, my <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2016/01/blessed-and-highly-favored.html" target="_blank">blessed and highly favored</a> friend awaited. His pronounced limp as we exchanged fist bumps didn't seem like much of a blessing, but he was still mobile and thankful for that.<br />
<br />
A bridge delay at the Intracoastal set us back a little, but left me few minutes to get out of the seat after crossing from the Everglades to the Atlantic. That break would soon be a distant memory as we headed back west. This was the height of rush hour on a street infamous for its congestion. The next fifty blocks were three lanes of solid gridlock. The mass of cars and trucks finally broke apart and flowed better after Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard, opening up a stunning sunset vista. The flashy bright colors and glowing neon of the Swap Shop met their match in the vivid watercolor taking shape overhead. Wispy sand dune clouds stretched into coral pink streaks before our jaded eyes.We chased the receding sun to the end of the line at Sawgrass Mills.<br />
<br />
Back on the road and heading east, the rest of the evening promised to be smooth since the earlier chaos had dissipated. At 56th Ave, where the countless back streets of Deepside spill out like an asphalt delta, a 30-something woman in a floral dress with spaghetti straps stepped on, sniffling.<br />
"I just got out of jail." She greeted me, her way of both asking for and explaining why she needed a free ride.<br />
'Welcome back!' I replied, keeping the mood light and non-judgmental. She'd had enough of that from other civil servants, no need to pile on.<br />
<br />
We got to the east layover and I finally had some time to catch my breath. At that time the regular layover stop east of the bridge and next to Birch State Park was closed due to construction, so we parked at a temporary stop west of the Intracoastal, across from The Galleria. I still had a few more hours so I took the opportunity to walk over to 7-Eleven for a snack. The petite girl at the cash register was friendly.<br />
"Which bus are you driving?" She asked.<br />
'The 36.' I sighed.<br />
"I used to ride the 36. I remember fights."<br />
'Tonight the fight was on the 60.' I semi-joked. She chuckled.<br />
<br />
The break was over and we went west one more time. In the mall courtyard a group of guys in their 20s were smoking something especially pungent in the shadows. My 10:15 trip out of Sawgrass was a full seated load, becoming a standing load by the time we reached Nob Hill. The shifting colors of the sunset were probably over the Pacific right now, but the weeknight machinery on Sunrise Boulevard was not ready to shut down just yet.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-33406373153996531692019-07-29T17:17:00.000-04:002019-07-29T17:17:00.938-04:00Believe in now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The days of waking up in the middle of night and reporting for work before the sun rose were over. It was a good run, being part of the team that got the machinery of the city going again after a few hours of idling. To be the one getting my neighbors to work, school, and errands had been an honor. Now I would mostly be taking them <i>from</i> those places, and tuck the city into bed at the end of its long days.<br />
<br />
One of the issues with morning shifts is they essentially require you to go to bed early the night before. That limits what you can get done after work and certainly eliminates any kind of night life. Being a night owl by nature, those endless mornings were a challenge at times. Since I couldn't have a night life <i>off </i>the bus, I'd work late and have it <i>on</i> the bus.<br />
<br />
This shift was a split: a brief stint on the 31 starting after lunch, followed by a couple hours of unpaid break and finishing with an evening on the 19 till about 1 a.m. The first piece was a school tripper, a single journey south on NW 31st Ave (<i>aka</i> MLK Blvd, <i>aka</i> Lyons Rd depending on the stretch). It coincided with the release times of several large grade schools. Today was also Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so the stops were expectedly devoid of students in observance of the holiday. Someone else would have to provide the excitement this trip, and they showed up right on cue as we approached Oakland Park Boulevard. A couple dozen Bike Lifers swarmed the southbound lanes, threading between the stacked vehicles. We and all the cars around us were forced to sit still until the thundering storm of growling exhaust pipes and squealing rubber had passed. The traffic signals changed a couple times, rendered meaningless by the rule-breakers dominating the street. Perhaps they weren't breaking the rules so much as making their own rules; an advance guard of bikes and ATVs formed a road block clearing the way for their friends. The volume was deafening, preventing conversation or focused thought - all focus was on the storm as it veered on to the boulevard.<br />
<br />
A substantial delay, but quickly made up by the time we got to Central Terminal. I was taking it back to the garage when I got the call to head up to Pompano and swap with another driver. It meant a shorter down time between pieces, and a little overtime.<br />
<br />
Mid-split break was over, time to clock back in, and take a taxi to relieve a driver on the road. Traffic was crawling and I got there a few minutes late. No sign of my bus, I figured it was delayed by the congestion and waited for it to show. Dispatch called to inform me the bus had already passed and was waiting at the next light. This type of confusion tends to occur at the start of a new pick, until the wrinkles are ironed out and we settle into a routine.<br />
<br />
Our bus was full, a hundred anxious eyes watching the transition of drivers, hoping it wouldn't take too long. An unfamiliar rider came up to the front. The cozy confines of the bus has a way of connecting strangers. His lament was for the masses of people around us, hurrying about in their motions. He spoke of God, Force, and Gaia.<br />
"People have nothing to believe in now," he opined as he considered the lack of purpose in our ceaseless frenzies. There was no judgment, simply introspection.<br />
<br />
"How's your holiday?" I was greeted at Oakland Park Blvd by an older man who occasionally rides, but is more frequently seen panhandling at red lights. He put what change he had into the box.<br />
<br />
It was a late start to the shift, but we made it down to Lauderhill Mall just in time to pull out. Also at the Hill was my leader bus, out of commission and awaiting a mechanic. I took all his people in addition to mine, and now we had a fully loaded 60-footer going back north. There was a high percentage of sourpusses, no doubt from the extended wait after a long day.<br />
<br />
Only a few stops in and a blast from the past appeared. It was Jaws, so-called due to his perpetual bared teeth. It limits his ability to speak, so at best my greeting gets a grunt in reply. Way back when, he used to load a small bike with a big chain onto the rack. Now the bike was missing but the familiar grunting remained as he sauntered on.<br />
<br />
Under the spreading tree limbs of the Atlantic Boulevard stop, an impressive beard emerged from the shadows. An equally impressive smile spread brightly above it. Charming sociability covered his shortfall as he discreetly slipped a bill in the box.<br />
"Another driver called me Gandalf when my beard was white." He continued his affable entry, commanding the spotlight. Homeless but far from helpless, he was going to Boca to hustle a duffel full of DVDs.<br />
"Have you seen 'Peculiar Children'?" he asked as he switched to sales mode. Then again, perhaps he'd been in that mode from the moment we pulled up to his feet. Told him I'd never heard of it, and asked for a synopsis. According to him it was too bizarre to describe, except to say it was unsuitable for children. The layover at Sandalfoot eventually came into view, and with the hissing air of the doors the wizard disappeared into the suburban silence.<br />
<br />
Another mystery occurred when my leader bus showed up while I was on layover break. He took the single passenger who'd been waiting there, and ran it late. That lateness meant a quiet trip for me heading back south. The bus was empty as I departed Boca Raton, and stayed that way until Turtle Creek. A bus without people is eerie and unnatural, so it was a relief when a gentleman boarded and I welcomed him with extra hospitality.<br />
'Any seat you like!' I offered, gesturing toward the empty cabin stretching back forever. 'It's good to have choices.'<br />
"My own chartah! I can see that." The man exclaimed when he realized his good fortune. Fifteen minutes down the road and he was still the only one.<br />
"I never seen anything like this!" He sat on the edge of the seat with delirious joy.<br />
'You better remember this.' I responded, for both our benefits.<br />
A few blocks later a young woman boarded and the spell was broken, the surreal moment passed. It was good to be back in the business of transit, the natural state of a bus and its operator. So long as we are visited by wizards, there would be more magical moments in this space. Believe it.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-84846166144508309242019-05-30T15:43:00.002-04:002019-06-01T14:14:06.411-04:00Over the bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last days on a run can be bittersweet. It means being on new roads the next few months, separated from the developments and experiences of a part of town I'd snugly settled into. It also meant informing regulars so they wouldn't think I'd quit the bus when they didn't see me next week.<br />
<br />
This last day was a Saturday on the 55, rolling east and west on Commercial Boulevard, making the big loop at the west end from McNab Road down to Oakland Park Boulevard, then back up to Commercial on Nob Hill Road. As an aside, Nob Hill is a lengthy street in its own right, but I have yet to find the hill called Nob.<br />
<br />
I reported to the Dispatch window a little before 6 a.m. Supervisor Ironman was there, a welcome surprise since we generally only interacted via radio as he assisted with traffic control and break downs. He gave me the bus number assigned to my run, the same one I'd been driving every weekend. It is one of the older buses in the fleet, the type of old workhorse I describe as a Gillig Time Machine. Its age and mileage are so ingrained into every seat and stanchion that you are immediately transported back a decade and a half to the year it was manufactured. This beast and her rattling panels was in service the last time the Florida Marlins won the World Series. The team has since altered its name and been in their new stadium for several years now, while this bus goes about its appointed rounds. She may be aging, but she's still spry and I knew she'd see us through the day.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, Broward County." I whispered my greeting to the dark-seated cabin before bringing it to life and turning on the lights. Many people other than myself were going to spend part of their day in this space, it couldn't hurt to fill it with a simple blessing.<br />
<br />
Our pullout and starting point arrival were both timely, making for a relaxed start to the workday. The clock told us it was time to go into service, the brakes were released, and we slid into the suburban darkness. About a mile in, a young suburbanite boarded.<br />
"I'm taking six buses today, is it better to get a day pass or just pay on each bus?" She asked.<br />
I did the quick math aloud and she opted for the pass.<br />
<br />
Midway through the trip, we approached Rock Island Road. A young man with short, bleached dreads stepped to the curb.<br />
"I'm just going over the bridge..." He begged without going into lengthy detail, pointing meekly toward the upcoming curve where Commercial flies over the Turnpike. An undeniable strong baked scent followed him like a shadow - and it wasn't a loaf of bread.<br />
<br />
We crested the overpass and glided down with the aid of gravity toward 441 on our eastward trek. Waiting at the end was the unintentional regular, who on previous Saturdays informed me that the bus ahead of mine never showed up. After too many weeks of waiting, he didn't even try to catch it anymore. He just adjusted his schedule for my bus.<br />
<br />
At this time we were not laying over on A1A, but rather a side street along a shopping center close to Oakland Park Boulevard. The added distance ate into my break time, but I was still able to stretch my legs before heading west.<br />
<br />
Leaving this layover, we go north on A1A to Commercial. That intersection is the heart of Lauderdale-By-The-Sea, a slice of old coastal Broward complete with multipurpose Town Hall, seafood restaurants, family businesses lining the main drag, and Anglin's Pier jutting out into the edge of the Atlantic Ocean.<br />
<br />
A young couple waited patiently at the first stop on Commercial. It was <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2019/05/making-our-case.html" target="_blank">the cycling pair</a> from earlier in the week when I was driving a different route. The lady who had been so inquisitive about bus driving back then was reserved today. Presumably I'd answered all her questions.<br />
<br />
Another cyclist was waiting on the flip side, after we'd turned around. A self-described "old hippie vet" with a huge bike. It was his first time using a bus bike rack, and he'd perched it on there precariously. A little assistance from the driver, and he was a pro.<br />
<br />
Once again we flipped it around, back west. Out at Pine Island, a horrific accident had the eastbound lanes completely closed. A compact car was wrapped around a tree. It didn't look good, and we could only hope for the best.<br />
<br />
A call went out over the radio with detour instructions. The driver of the bus ahead called back with a slightly faster route. We'd just turned back on to Commercial after a scenic detour through the sleepy neighborhood to the south. A husky man was running from the other side, waving a closed umbrella to catch my attention. The landscaped median provided sanctuary for the crossing, thankfully since his other hand clasped that of his small son's. In another example of the thin line between win and loss, if we hadn't been delayed by a detour of unfortunate circumstance, they would have missed us and had a lengthy wait for the next bus.<br />
<br />
Good time was being made, and it looked like I'd get a few minutes out of the seat at the Galt layover. Then the gates came down and crushed that hope.The long, thin white and red poles of the Intracoastal bridge gates made their horizontal descent to the piercing chimes of clanging bells. The delay added ten minutes to our schedule deficit, too much for the recovery time at the end to compensate for. I still took a few minutes to jump on to solid ground and shake the legs.<br />
<br />
Our final westbound, only about five minutes down and every confidence of making that up once we got rolling. It was not to be. The same bridge that denied us on the way to the barrier island was now denying our exit. Something must have been going on in the Intracoastal below, since openings are timed to avoid such inconvenience. But there it was, an upright bridge, our immovable object. We were soon down by double digits on the clock. That, coupled with a train delay at the FEC RR, put us into a hole with no chance of recovery.<br />
<br />
Still, sometimes it doesn't matter how late we are or what caused it, so long as we get where we're going. A woman with a scrutinizing look was happy to see us when she got on at 441.<br />
"Pale kreyol?" She probed. Perhaps I'd greeted her with some limited vocabulary before.<br />
'Ki jan ou ye?' I responded. She laughed.<br />
<br />
The simple moments override the frustrations of uncontrollable delays and obstacles that are part of life in general, and multiplied endlessly for those of us spending our workdays on the street. There had still been time through the course of the day to reminisce over landmarks of younger days (Sunrise Musical Theater), to commune with the ghosts of Broward bus drivers of yesteryear (<a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2018/07/glorious-wind.html" target="_blank">and their goats</a>), and to otherwise enjoy this day with people I would probably not be seeing on my new routes. I'd be shifting gears from mornings to nights, but I wouldn't be far. Just over the bridge.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-91223062294429478532019-05-21T20:15:00.001-04:002019-05-30T15:49:32.191-04:00Nuthin's gonna take my smile<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Friday the 13th on University Drive. This would be my last eleven hour shift for the foreseeable future. As a bonus there was no school today, which generally promises lighter traffic. The streets were slicked by an intermittent drizzle, nothing heavy. The temperature was a welcome neutral, neither cold nor hot. The ridership going north out of West Terminal was a bit on the cold side, if only because it was lighter than usual.<br />
<br />
Going south on the next trip was a continuation of the first, with light traffic and no delays to make us late. At Sunset Strip, an older woman who's a regular on this run boarded with a motherly smile and focused on the fare box.<br />
"Good morning," we both said simultaneously. She must not have heard my greeting or seen my lips move as she was looking at the box, since she repeated herself in a slightly sour tone. I gave her a few extra Good Mornings for good measure. She liked that and the smile returned.<br />
<br />
In Davie, a man handed me some paper as he exited. It was a paycheck, uncashed and forgotten. It would be deposited with Lost & Found at the end of the day.<br />
<br />
We got down to the layover in Miami Gardens with ample time to stretch the legs. A woman boarding there held up a French coin in my face, claiming it was worth $2 and asking if she could use it as bus fare. At that time we only accepted U.S. legal tender, so I politely declined her offer. After that, she found the proper currency.<br />
<br />
We pulled out of the bus line heading west on 207th St. Vultures clustered in the middle, pecking at an unidentifiable red spot.<br />
<br />
Traffic picked up around I-595, though it wasn't quite lunchtime. We rolled in to West Terminal with a few minutes to recover. Everyone could exit or board at their leisure, including a familiar regular.<br />
<br />
An older gentleman with a Redd Foxx walk and a friend to everyone he met, for years he had been inseparable from an enormous flashy beach cruiser which was conspicuously missing today. To see him without it was like seeing an amputee.<br />
'No more bike?' I asked out of curiosity.<br />
"No more bike. I fell down too much." He seemed wistful over his sporty wheels, contentedly resigned to keeping himself free from injury.<br />
<br />
He settled into a seat near the front and struck up a conversation with a woman around his age. They immediately began comparing emotional battle wounds inflicted upon them by loved ones.<br />
"My kids and grandkids went bad! My daughter hates my guts." He stated with the same resignation he showed for his beloved bike.<br />
"My addict brother took advantage of my kindness." She responded. "Nuthin's gonna take my smile, not me, ha ha!"<br />
The back and forth continued, all at loud volume so nothing would have to be repeated. When he exited up the road, I thanked him for bringing good vibes on the bus - and to stay safe out there.<br />
<br />
Over time, we'd been up to the north layover at Westview Drive, and found ourselves all the way down in Davie on the last southbound of this shift. Still, I was only about two-thirds through the endless hours.<br />
<br />
At Griffin Road, a red light caught us and held us. A Honda SUV glided to a long stop in the lane next to us. The driver's window almost lined up with mine, which is always open regardless of the temperature. The woman driving gave me a kind, knowing smile which caught me a little off guard. Did she need to cut in front of the bus? No motions in that direction. Then the rear windows, tinted black as a limo, rolled down. Inside were a couple children very excited to see the bus.<br />
"Hi, Mr. Bus Driver!" They called out in squeaky unison.<br />
'Hi guys!' I called back, with an added wave before the light turned green and the moment was gone.<br />
<br />
There were still hours to go before I clocked out, and unexpected encounters were sure to meet us on the way. But the cheers from our youngest bus fans would help me keep my smile for the foreseeable future.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-10373015859625407122019-05-15T21:40:00.000-04:002019-05-15T21:40:23.968-04:00Making our case<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My days of working the morning shift were coming to a close. Very soon my schedule would be flipping upside down and I'd be back on nights, where I hadn't been for a couple years. The people would be different, and the familiar old streets would become new terrain when the sun set. For now I was still a morning driver, and my focus was not on the future.<br />
<br />
A chill Monday on the 10, cruising Federal Highway from Central Terminal to Boca Raton. The temp was 51°, so at least we were out of the arctic 40s from the day before. This was getting old and we needed the warmth to return or it would be time to head south.<br />
<br />
The glitch-prone onboard announcer was again mute when it came to announcing stops. Instead it would randomly interject our journey with an especially maniacal Max Headroom cackle<br />
<i>"Formatics bootloader AHAHAHAH..."</i><br />
No microphone available either, only a stump where it had once been, before years of stress had separated the connection. We'd be announcing stops old school style today. Hopefully with enough volume to reach the back seats.<br />
<br />
The day of the week and the unpleasant freeze seemed to have paralyzed our tropical activity. We'd nearly completed a full round trip without incident. The load was light and the traffic was easy.<br />
<br />
On Broward Boulevard, half a dozen news crews camped in front of First Baptist. A hundred SUVs covered the little lawn, the sidewalks, the courtyard. It was the airport shooter's first day in federal court across the street, and made for a natural media story of the day.<br />
<br />
We did our time at Central Terminal and were back on our way. The previously wide open road was now blocked at 5th Street by a construction crew. Located a safe spot nearby to accommodate passengers.<br />
<br />
The next stop brought us the two Greek Spice Grill waitresses, one with striking angular facial features on par with any catwalk model. Both were preparing to work for the lunch crowd.<br />
<br />
More construction underway in Boca, this time at the Tower 155 site just past Palmetto Park Road. A backhoe was excavating an enormous pit in the sugar sand. A truck waited nearby with a load of steel piles to hold that sand back.<br />
<br />
Heading back south after a ten minute layover, I picked up another bus operator. He was on light duty and was on his way to an afternoon shift at Central to work the information table.<br />
<br />
A couple loaded their bikes on the rack, she commenting that it should hold more as they boarded. I agreed and could certainly sympathize with missing the bus myself when there wasn't an open slot. They were both sociable, but he remained quiet whereas she was immediately inquisitive. She wanted to become a bus operator and grilled me with a pleasant Trini accent. When she said there were no openings listed online, I could only recount to her the process I went through and encourage her to be patient. These inquiries come at me regularly, and I wonder how many see it through.<br />
<br />
A beloved regular awaited south of Atlantic: the <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2016/04/a-penny-for-your-thought.html" target="_blank">Penny Lady</a>. An older woman who could be both curt and kind by turns, I asked her to wait so I could lower the bus just for her. She had been poised to grab the door handles and climb on, apparently forgetful of previous times when she all but demanded that I kneel the low floor. Her outsize smile was all the thanks I needed.<br />
<br />
Down to Commercial Boulevard, where an older gentleman took his time loading his bike. He wasn't struggling with it, and didn't seem unfamiliar with the process; in those cases I am quick to jump out of the seat and offer assistance. No, he was just on his own time and in no particular hurry. Just as the green light was also on its own time and decided to turn red to teach us patience. With my internal patience knob turned up to maximum peace and calm, the man finally boarded, hands in prayer and supplication.<br />
"Hey brother, can I just get a ride to Sunrise? Thanks, man!"<br />
<br />
Our final trip, going north to be relieved at Copans Road. The bike rack was full again, but there were no time delays.<br />
<br />
Commercial came up again and my friend the Outlaw got on. That became his name after someone had a dream of him as Jesse James. When the criminal is also a folk hero, the comparison is not an insult. As far as I know, the connection is only as solid as a stranger's dream. This 'outlaw' was on a different path.<br />
"I gave the homeless guy 70¢ to buy beer."<br />
That stop is a popular hangout, and at least one man had no need for the bus.<br />
"Like when my dad gave me $10,000 and sent me over to Israel. I lived in a kibbutz for five months, working the land. Also worked in a banana chip factory."<br />
<br />
On the bus we all get our preliminary hearing whether outlaw, server, cyclist, senior - even bus driver. We leave the ghosts of the day there to deliberate among themselves.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-88944513415728930832019-05-10T11:40:00.001-04:002019-05-10T11:40:44.622-04:00Gray world<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The weather app told us it was in the high 40s that Sunday morning, perhaps our coldest day of the year and downright freezing. The sort of temperature drop that makes you layer up to keep the shoulders loose.<br />
<br />
My assigned bus was a ghost, nowhere to be found in the yard. Got a replacement and pulled out late. This new unit had no announcer, so I'd be calling out stops along the line today. Again, it was Sunday, that notoriously <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2018/10/cant-beat-that.html" target="_blank">slow day</a> of the week, so other than running late this first trip the day promised to be a breeze. As we rolled ever northward out of Central Terminal, the schedule deficit grew ever larger. At these times, it's tempting to push the machine just a little harder to keep things from getting out of control. Then the world reminds us how very little indeed is in our control, mostly just our response to the situation at hand.<br />
<br />
We'd serviced the Via Mizner stop past Camino Real in Boca Raton and approached the Mizner Boulevard curve which would lead us back south. Before we could close the gap between the turn lane and the other lanes continuing straight, dozens of motorcycle roared by, steel thunder to shake the sleepy dew off the overspread poincianas lining the idyllic side street. My response was to yield and let the tempest pass through. When the undeniably impressive mass had cleared, we could then cruise in peace. Around the curve, I slowed again for a lone biker. This one was on the leg-powered type. He was in the bike lane, technically going the wrong direction as he pedaled toward us. He only had one leg, so this may have been his way of keeping a wary eye on nearby vehicles.<br />
<br />
My friend with the frozen hand boarded after the loop. He camps out at night and his single thin sheet had been useless in last night's chill. He was going to the thrift store to get a second sheet, since it would be easier to carry than a heavy blanket.<br />
<br />
The ever-cheery Weatherman stood by the curb down at Sample. Of course I had to ask about the forecast - and await the clever response.<br />
"It's Mexican weather: Chili today, hot tamale!"<br />
<br />
Down a bit further, a familiar bleary face was waiting, already drunk. Originally from upstate New York, she'd been in Florida thirty years and she wore no socks inside those flip flops. She was <i>cold</i>.<br />
<br />
The first round trip in the books, it was now late morning and we were settled in to our groove. We may have been a few minutes down, but that's preferable to a few minutes hot. Unless you're a time traveler, then the clock is irrelevant.<br />
"Is today Sunday or Monday?" The older man with white goatee asked with sincerity.<br />
When he discovered it was Sunday, he changed his plans and didn't care to go any further. Time may be irrelevant, but apparently the day of the week is important.<br />
<br />
Back in Boca again, a woman near the front was talking to herself in a Jamaican patois. Her body odor was talking to the rest of us. She finally addressed someone outside her own head, asking about Pompano and then verbally upset to learn we'd already been there. Her anger was directed at me and unidentified people bothering her.<br />
"It's not a black world. It's not a white world," she proclaimed. In an effort to calm her, I reminded her we'd be turning and go back south. We got to Atlantic and her vinegar had miraculously turned to honey. She called me Sweetie a couple times as she exited. A simple word like sunshine on a cold day. Just enough to keep the shoulders loose.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-8023008018577429272019-05-01T13:40:00.001-04:002019-05-01T15:41:36.212-04:00When the fog clears<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2019/03/thanks-for-floor-show.html" target="_blank">latest friction cycle</a> appeared to be winding down and smoothing out. An eleven hour shift began when I reported for duty a little before five on a Friday morning. It looked to be a good day on the 2: end of the week, people heading to work but happy about the impending weekend. Still, it was going to be a long day.<br />
<br />
A few things slowed me down on the way to my starting point at West Terminal: yielding to the gate arms at the CSX tracks for a train that never showed, red lights galore, and a cool, heavy fog that softened the sharp edges of the city but meant driving slower through the the reduced visibility.<br />
<br />
I ran a little late the entire first trip, which still worked out since it was the less busy northern half of the route. We would be pretty much on time the rest of the day.<br />
<br />
Soon into the southbound trip our <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2017/08/the-right-sound.html" target="_blank">friend Francois</a> boarded. He's a bus fan and loves to keep up with his favorite drivers. It seemed unusual to bump into him this far west and this early, since up till now I'd picked him up on east side routes later in the day. We greeted each other with a friendly fist bump as usual and the where or when no longer mattered.<br />
<br />
At Sunrise Boulevard, my <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2015/12/a-certain-slant-of-light.html" target="_blank">old friend Mister</a> boarded. In actuality he's probably young enough to be my son, however his signature professorial wardrobe of pressed khakis and sweater vest paired with a friendly formality compel me to call him by a respectful title. He was taking advantage of casual Friday by sporting a ballcap and sweatshirt.<br />
<br />
These two classy young men are always welcome on the bus I'm driving. They inspire and encourage me as reminders of youthful vitality and timeless manners. Their tireless initiative and industry were a marked contrast to the gentleman who boarded down near the county line. Going extra casual today in slides and socks, he filled the cabin with residual fumes of an intoxicating herbal baking session. When we got to the end of the line, he was found sleeping across the back row. When we were in training, my class was told it's the highest compliment when a passenger falls asleep on your bus. Smooth driving and all that.<br />
<br />
The next couple hours heading back north were uneventful, that golden time before lunch when work and business get done all around us.<br />
<br />
Not long into the next southbound, a woman felt compelled to inform me that she's a foot model insured by Lloyd's of London.<br />
<br />
A young father boarded with his young son and lugging a folded stroller.<br />
'Hey big guy!' I greeted the little one, nodding at Dad. They both had big grins.<br />
"He's having a blast! It's like his second time on the bus." Dad explained as junior examined the innards of the cabin.<br />
Another young bus fan in the making, who perhaps will drive us around town some day.<br />
<br />
Before Atlantic, a man was walking scissor-legged across the street, making good time as the mass of traffic approached. We were the reason for his hastiness.<br />
"It was a brisk walk!" was his description of the quick footwork which helped him catch the bus. He just as quickly disappeared into the back.<br />
Near Nova Southeastern University, a couple female cyclists shared the road with us, their tight spandex uniforms proving the exercise a success. The hot-stepper walked up to the front to observe them.<br />
"Thank you for the smooth ride and witty banter!" I'm not sure if he was talking to me or the ladies.<br />
<br />
This day on University had been a textbook case of smoothness for a bus route as we began our final trip, going north. We'd been visited by several young men who gave us hope for the future as they shared part of their days before moving on to make their way in the city.<br />
<br />
Over the radio, trouble came in by storm. Bus operators on the other side of town called in to report that Fort Lauderdale International was unexpectedly locked down, preventing them from servicing the airport. During a break in the chatter, as those in the control room scrambled to get information, another driver's single-word repetition rang out: "Shooting. Shooting. Shooting." The thought of his transmission being a cruel joke was short-lived, when soon afterward radio control issued instructions for all buses not to service the airport. My stomach sank as I continued on the route toward West Terminal, joined by heavy cloud overcast. At the terminal, I read reports of multiple people shot, dead, injured. No immediate details beyond that, though we would alter learn of another young man visiting our community and creating another inexplicable scene of chaos and waste. More drivers called over the radio with reports of road closures and major back-ups as that area was contained. The next buses in to the airport would be shuttles to evacuate traumatized and exhausted travelers and workers.<br />
<br />
The long day got longer as I wrapped up my shift. The morning's fog had long since burned off and the sharp edges of the city were no longer obscured.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The good folks at WLRN covered the story about our stories.
You can hear/read it <a href="https://www.wlrn.org/post/broward-county-bus-driver-finds-beauty-mundane-then-he-blogs-about-it" target="_blank">at their website</a>. There's even an exciting interactive
route map so you can ride along with us. Many thanks to Caitie Switalski and
Katie Lepri for their patience, enthusiasm, determination, and creativity. And
of course thanks to all our riders for everything, you're the best!</div>
<br />BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-72613946490676190592019-04-24T12:28:00.000-04:002019-04-24T12:28:53.742-04:00Cashing in our chips<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Life is a gamble and the house always wins. We play our best hand, bluff our way to an occasional jackpot, till we eventually end up with the same amount when we came in the door.<br />
<br />
Sample Road in the north part of the county is pretty much like every other major thoroughfare around town: an endless line of commercial and residential properties interspersed with requisite amenities like hospitals and parks. Also like every other road, its flow of humanity gives it a flavor of its own.<br />
<br />
Going west from US 1 on this morning shift, the sun was preparing to peek over the Atlantic. The bus glided under I-95 to service the stop at 5th Terrace. Across the street, day laborers awaited vans to deliver them to work sites. A regular loaded his yellow bike, the first color of the new day. Long, thin dreads and a dignified graying goatee. Always a formal greeting. Yes, Sir.<br />
<br />
The world comes in the doors on its own time, to remind us that the magic space within is not isolated from the brutal machinations without. We passed the Coconut Creek casino and pulled to a stop at Turtle Creek.<br />
"You been on this route long?" The middle-aged man asked as we resumed rolling.<br />
'Every Thursday.'<br />
"Did you know Jay?"<br />
'Younger guy or older guy?' I prodded for a clue.<br />
"Older guy. He was killed last night at the casino. Got run over in the parking lot."<br />
Simple as that, everyone aboard was starting their day with the unthought of knowledge that <i>Jay is dead</i>. Yet the city was still waking up, steadily increasing its living vibrations, despite one member missing.<br />
<br />
Many people look at each day as a chance to start fresh, to move beyond what came before. Bus drivers experience this multiple times per shift, just by changing the direction of travel. With a constant stream of sensory input coming at us, it helps to break it up into manageable pieces.<br />
<br />
Heading back east toward the risen sun, we were in the middle of the trip when an older man boarded. Mature in years, he carried permanent marks of younger days on his arms: total coverage of green fish scales inked on.<br />
'How's it goin' today?' I asked, admiring the extensive body art.<br />
"Pain. My back." He replied plainly, not expecting sympathy.<br />
'C'mon, man! Ya gotta take care of yourself. No fun.'<br />
"I know..."<br />
When he exited farther east, I wished him to feel better.<br />
"It's been like this for 15 years." He commented with stark resignation.<br />
'That's depressing. It's gotta get better sometime!'<br />
"Yeah, maybe when I'm six under!" He smiled over his shoulder as he gingerly stepped onto the sidewalk. Morose humor has its benefits too.<br />
<br />
Traffic had calmed and the street had settled into a quiet lull. We caught the red light at Holiday Springs and watched the side streets take their turn. Through my open window a series of melodic metallic tones tickled my ears. A most unlikely spot to hear live music, on this stretch of road between McDonald's and a golf course. But music it undeniably was, and being played at an uptempo clip with great ability and versatility. I say ability because of the rapid pace of the notes without faltering, and versatility because while my ears told me I was hearing steel pans, my eyes discovered this virtuosic display emanated from a harmonica being played by the driver of a white Audi in the next lane. This was the complete rejoicing opposite of a dirge, as might be appropriate in memoriam of Jay. This was Life, making the most of a momentary pause, singing its song with every breath.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-699277739266690372.post-88759178478381752492019-03-07T00:03:00.000-05:002019-04-18T00:11:34.544-04:00Thanks for the floor show<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some days rate above average in a given friction cycle. Friction happens when things don't run smoothly. There is always friction to some degree, only the amount varies from moment to moment. No one said it would be easy, and by now we should know what we signed up for.<br />
<br />
Morning pullouts from the bus yard are a flurry of activity until you pass through the gates, then it's a calm affair until you reach the starting point for the day. I was almost to the highway to head downtown when the telltale clanging bells and flashing red lights of the railroad crossing flared up. Fortunately it was the CSX RR and would most likely be a Tri-Rail commuter gone in a couple minutes. Something was amiss when a long, slow freighter appeared out of the windbreak, somewhat unusual for this time of day. The impenetrable moving obstacle was an early reminder to expect the unexpected and take each confrontation on its own terms.<br />
<br />
Over the radio, another driver was reporting a man stalking a woman on the bus. It was happening in the north part of the county, but was eerily <a href="http://www.bustropical.com/2018/11/perpetual-vacation.html" target="_blank">similar to a recent incident</a> down south. Drivers are always looking out for the safety of our passengers, and request assistance as needed.<br />
<br />
It was time to put this bus in service at Central Terminal. I'd already pushed the seats up to make room for my regular rider in the wheelchair, who prides himself in getting aboard as quickly as possible.<br />
<br />
Only a few minutes into the trip northbound on Federal Highway, a quiet voice with an endearing Kreyol accent spoke up anxiously:<br />
"I too short! I can't reach it!" It was as if her inner thought forced itself into an outer sound unexpectedly. She may have wanted the previous stop, but only realized in time to request the next stop.<br />
<br />
A glitch in the bus tech caused the onboard announcer to go mute after Oakland Park Boulevard, except for occasional techno jabber: <i>"Bootloader... Offset Zero... Formatics..."</i> The headsign was blank all the way to Boca Raton. These technical issues are mildly irritating, but also provide an opportunity to interact more with passengers as the quirky announcements elicit curious responses and the blacked out headsign compels intending customers to get the driver's confirmation that this is indeed their bus.<br />
<br />
We'd crossed the 14th Street Causeway in Pompano when we pulled up to a forlorn figure. A man in a hoodie, age indeterminate, with a loaded duffel.<br />
"I'm sorry to ask, but... I was jumped last night and I've been walking..." Even the request was forlorn.<br />
Tattoo ink spilled out onto his hands from under the hoodie sleeves, one holding up a cracked cell phone to verify the rough night. He didn't need EMS, just a chance to rest his weary feet on the way to Sample Road.<br />
<br />
"Happy New Year, Boss!"A regular greeted me first up in Deerfield.<br />
'Bonn ane!' I well-wished him in return.<br />
"Oh, pale Kreyol?" He grinned with delight.<br />
'Piti piti. Et bon sante!' Why stop at one blessing?<br />
<br />
The streets gleamed slick in Boca, but nothing was coming down.<br />
Soon we were heading back down on the flip side of our orbit. The onboard announcer rediscovered its voice, but it was still intermittent, choosing to speak up when it felt like it. The morning rush was over, and all was quietly humming along at the north end. Apparently everyone was where they needed to be so it was just me and the temperamental announcer for a bit.<br />
<br />
At times like this the bus may be moving slowly, but still running fast by the schedule. We had to burn off a few minutes at the Copans Road timepoint, where operators from connecting lines also waited.<br />
'Hej då!' I greeted one of them with bad Swedish, hoping it would process in his Norwegian vocabulary. It did, though we instantly went to English.<br />
<br />
The friction cycle continued halfway through the shift when the farebox decided to join in. An error came up and it just stopped functioning. All attempts to resolve the issue were unsuccessful.<br />
<br />
Maybe we were on Sunrise Boulevard, approaching Wagner Tire before easing north on the Gateway Curve. A man with old dreads was on the sidewalk, facing us. He held up his right hand, middle finger extended. It was paired with the biggest, sweetest smile of the day, an ecstatic display that may have captured the flavor of our journey through the city.<br />
<br />
In Pompano again, a woman who may not live on the street but competently acts the part made her entrance onto our moving stage. Routinely spotted at various stops, but more or less along the same stretch, I welcomed her aboard. The familiar bleary smile found a seat and I returned my focus to the road ahead. The calm wore off with each passing block until her hidden fury had to erupt. She began cursing and yelling for no obvious reason. The trip was soon over and tempers abated, but it was an unexpected outburst and concerned me.<br />
'Why so angry?' I gently probed.<br />
"Cuz I feel like it!" She blurted as she exited. It was as good a reason as any, and not to be argued with.<br />
Another passenger who waited for her to exit stage left put the episode in a lighter perspective.<br />
"Thanks for the floor show!" He commented as he made his way past my seat.<br />
<br />
Friction cycles are always in play, some more severe than others. External forces pull at our inner tides, roiling otherwise placid waters. The grease that lubricates the chain also attracts the dirt that makes it squeak. A clam accepts whatever is irritating it and transforms it into a pearl.BusTropicalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17587539772114462081noreply@blogger.com0