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The bus trip again.
First, back in June (six months ago) they changed the route of my bus. It's actually a bit more convenient to where I work, but some of the substitute drivers are being given the wrong directions STILL! Which leads to this:
Everyone is already lined up and waiting when the bus arrives, so we load quickly and sit, ready to go. It's not the regular driver, but that's okay. Usually they don't give this route to newbies. The driver stands up, turns and faces us, then asks, "Does this bus go down Homer, or does it turn right on Tasso?"
I say, "It turns right on University, then right on Tasso. They changed the route in June. Homer's the old route."
"Okay, thank you."
I'm a little nervous, but, at the same time, glad that at least the driver asked and didn't stubbornly stick to the wrong map. We're on our way.
Before we get to the Bay, the bus picks up a senior citizen. She seems nice. She flashes a pass of some kind and drops in some money then sits at the front. (I'm in the first row of forward-facing seats.) The driver doesn't move. He asks to see the pass. We sit. We fume. I start digging for change because I don't want him to toss the little old lady off the bus, and I'm getting tired of waiting for him to move. He tells her that her pass (from another bus company on the other side of the Bay -- our transit system here is a messy hodgepodge of counties) isn't good for a discount. They go back and forth politely, he finally lets her stay on the bus with a warning.
Finally, we're on the way again. Across the Bay, in the home stretch.
He picks up a local rider, probably very tired, as he's wearing the uniform of a loader for one of the package delivery companies. The rider gets on, flashes a pass, tosses in a couple of coins and sits down. The driver calls him back. The rider has the same kind of pass as the little old lady. However, the rider is a black man. The driver is a black man. They are both proud black men, neither of whom is going to back down. The driver tells the rider his pass is not good on this bus.
The word Fuck is used freely by the rider, and he states that he knows that the pass is good on this bus.
The driver states that, although he is a college dropout, he is intelligent and has a photographic memory, and he knows the fee structure perfectly.
I am sitting there, wishing there were a back exit to the bus, hoping they're not stupid enough to fight, and looking at my schedule which clearly says that the man's pass is good on this bus.
The men are still arguing, getting louder. The rider pays the fare under protest, then demands the drivers name.
The driver gives him a name that sounds African and involves at least eight syllables in the first name (the driver does not look or sound African), and also supplies his employee number.
The rider says he doesn't need that white people shit, he's a hood nig***, and he'll meet the driver later to straighten this out.
The driver says he'll meet him later.
Lather, rinse, repeat, about three times, while we wait, and wait.
Of course, they never agree to a meeting place or a time, but they finally quiet down, and the bus moves on.
Yes, I called the transit company. That driver was not on that bus the next day. Instead, we had the crazy, homeless-looking lady bus driver, who mumbles every intersection to herself the whole way.
First, back in June (six months ago) they changed the route of my bus. It's actually a bit more convenient to where I work, but some of the substitute drivers are being given the wrong directions STILL! Which leads to this:
Everyone is already lined up and waiting when the bus arrives, so we load quickly and sit, ready to go. It's not the regular driver, but that's okay. Usually they don't give this route to newbies. The driver stands up, turns and faces us, then asks, "Does this bus go down Homer, or does it turn right on Tasso?"
I say, "It turns right on University, then right on Tasso. They changed the route in June. Homer's the old route."
"Okay, thank you."
I'm a little nervous, but, at the same time, glad that at least the driver asked and didn't stubbornly stick to the wrong map. We're on our way.
Before we get to the Bay, the bus picks up a senior citizen. She seems nice. She flashes a pass of some kind and drops in some money then sits at the front. (I'm in the first row of forward-facing seats.) The driver doesn't move. He asks to see the pass. We sit. We fume. I start digging for change because I don't want him to toss the little old lady off the bus, and I'm getting tired of waiting for him to move. He tells her that her pass (from another bus company on the other side of the Bay -- our transit system here is a messy hodgepodge of counties) isn't good for a discount. They go back and forth politely, he finally lets her stay on the bus with a warning.
Finally, we're on the way again. Across the Bay, in the home stretch.
He picks up a local rider, probably very tired, as he's wearing the uniform of a loader for one of the package delivery companies. The rider gets on, flashes a pass, tosses in a couple of coins and sits down. The driver calls him back. The rider has the same kind of pass as the little old lady. However, the rider is a black man. The driver is a black man. They are both proud black men, neither of whom is going to back down. The driver tells the rider his pass is not good on this bus.
The word Fuck is used freely by the rider, and he states that he knows that the pass is good on this bus.
The driver states that, although he is a college dropout, he is intelligent and has a photographic memory, and he knows the fee structure perfectly.
I am sitting there, wishing there were a back exit to the bus, hoping they're not stupid enough to fight, and looking at my schedule which clearly says that the man's pass is good on this bus.
The men are still arguing, getting louder. The rider pays the fare under protest, then demands the drivers name.
The driver gives him a name that sounds African and involves at least eight syllables in the first name (the driver does not look or sound African), and also supplies his employee number.
The rider says he doesn't need that white people shit, he's a hood nig***, and he'll meet the driver later to straighten this out.
The driver says he'll meet him later.
Lather, rinse, repeat, about three times, while we wait, and wait.
Of course, they never agree to a meeting place or a time, but they finally quiet down, and the bus moves on.
Yes, I called the transit company. That driver was not on that bus the next day. Instead, we had the crazy, homeless-looking lady bus driver, who mumbles every intersection to herself the whole way.