tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12762422061147446582024-03-05T06:14:40.336-08:00Drives In CirclesLife in the Transit Lane.Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-84512087021474036522023-09-30T11:35:00.053-07:002023-09-30T11:47:26.031-07:00A New Chapter of Driving in Circles I have these recurring memories from when I was a young man making the long trek to the music store on the bus. It wasn't so much the bus ride, but the anticipation of new music to listen to while I walked my paper route or walked to work when I wasn't in school. <div><br /></div><div> I worked this job at Pizza Hut in Orleans, and used almost every cent of what little I made on cassette tapes. I had this Panasonic cassette player. Silver and black. Bass Boost. AM/FM. It could flip directions and play side 2 without flipping the cassette. State of the art from Consumers Distributing. I looked longingly at that fake Walkman in the catalogue for months before I finally had enough cash to buy one. I then proceeded to chew through countless AA batteries, and eventually wear that little machine out over years of use. </div><div><br /></div><div> As time passed, I also wore out my tapes until they became CDs. Then Napster turned me into an MP3 guy. Now Spotify has the world at a touch, in any format you choose... original, acoustic cover, instrumental... you name it. Bliss. Pick a song and play. Let the algorithm sort it out. </div><div><br /></div><div> The music plays as I walk when I'm 50 years old the same way it did when I was a teenager, but I've taken to letting Spotify create playlists for me. I really love the variety of new music mixed in with old. </div><div><br /></div><div> The song Landslide came on today. It's a song I've heard a few times but never really listened to. Fleetwood Mac was my parents' music, so their songs were ubiquitous around my childhood but at the same time somewhat unfamiliar to me. I've never been much for Classic Rock. That's the stuff for old people. I listened to this song today about 10 times on repeat. </div><div><br /></div><div> Well, I've been afraid of changin' </div><div> 'Cause I've built my life around you </div><div> But time makes you bolder </div><div> Even children get older </div><div> And I'm getting older too </div><div><br /></div><div> I'd never really listened to the lyrics. I heard them, but they were never really connected to me. Now maybe she's singing about a lost love, or getting older, or any number of topics. But, my youngest kid is moving out soon, and I know damned well what I'm singing this song about as I'm walking around this morning. </div><div><br /></div><div> My wife and I were kids when we met. We were kids when we married, and we were kids when we had kids. We were highschool sweethearts. We moved in together, and married not all that long after. We built a family who really seemed to like each other. Lots of long road trips. Lots of activities together. Camping. Singing. Cooking. Museums. School activities. Sports. Drama. Music. We did everything together. Three healthy kids and years of hanging out together in mostly harmony. I'm blessed. </div><div><br /></div><div> I went from being a long haul trucker to being a dad driving for the city for my kids. My wife lived her dream of being a really great mom. We couldn't ask for better. </div><div><br /></div><div> I remember a time when my youngest was devastated at the end of a road trip out west. We couldn't figure out what was wrong with him. Just really out of sorts. When he was able to vocalize it, my wife figured out that he was just sad about not being "together" every day anymore after such a long trip. We spent 3 weeks in the car together, camping across Canada all the way to BC. It was epic, and a whole lot of fun. Picked cherries from trees. Camped under canvas in the mountains. Took pictures of bears and deer. But mostly, we bonded as a family. Three weeks in the car together, planning the next day's adventure. He was worried we'd go back to the routine and forget about all that shared time together. He had a sense of loss about that. </div><div><br /></div><div> I find myself listening to that lyric: "I built my life around you", and I now understand why I too am afraid of changing. </div><div><br /></div><div> I understand how my youngest felt at the end of that trip, as we are now standing at the end of our long trip together. The last of the kids is leaving, and our jobs as mom and dad are moving from lead roles to cameos in their lives. We are not their focus anymore, and they are not ours. </div><div><br /></div><div> The empty nest is a real emotion. I can hold it in my hands and analyze it. I can reason with it. But, I cannot quite shake the question: it's here, now what? </div><div><br /></div><div> I walk around my empty home, room to room. All the pictures are the same. Smiling faces looking back from the walls of various stages of our family. Toddler, teen, grown up. All teeth and goofy smiles, memories of campsites and hockey games, birthdays and school photos.
I remember scenes of life as I pass from room to room. I hear the voices and remember the words spoken.
Some of the old furniture remains, but not the wall posters or laundry on the floor that signifies that kids live here. </div><div><br /></div><div> The kids were never afraid of changing, and they left the laundry all over the floor to prove it. </div><div><br /></div><div> Now the sound of a full home is replaced by the echoing footsteps as I walk from room to room and remember the past 20 years. </div><div><br /></div><div> The song asks the question: Can I handle the seasons of my life? </div><div><br /></div><div> Spring brought me through school, where I met the woman of my dreams and settled down with her to figure out how to be an adult. </div><div><br /></div><div> Summer was a 20 year whirlwind affair of having kids, raising kids, building our life around them. </div><div><br /></div><div> Autumn is now here. The leaves are building piles on the ground making the landscape beautiful. I'm standing at the door wondering where the heat went and whether I'm still the man that can make the monster come alive at the end of the book, or sing a kid to sleep after flying them around the room like a rocket. </div><div><br /></div><div> My heart says yes I'm still that man, but I know that seasons change and I'm now the man who's a phone call or a visit instead of a person who's really a part of their daily lives. </div><div><br /></div><div> Autumn is a season of changing colours, harvest, and preparation. It marks the start of cozy fires and hot chocolates. New friends and new experiences. </div><div><br /></div><div> We see autumn coming in the dog days of summer and we know we need to prepare for winter, but we never really are prepared until that first snowfall silences the yard. </div><div><br /></div><div> I would like to start writing again, and as Renee and I shift our lives from tending the nest to exploring the world, I hope to be writing about travel and life after kids. </div><div><br /></div><div> It's time to start embracing these difficult changes, and build my life around something new.</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-51964062144121990252015-07-29T08:17:00.001-07:002020-08-01T16:46:12.900-07:00I'm The Police Inspector, Today.Dragging my father's dog to the Montfort always feels like such a chore.<br />
<br />
I've borrowed my father in law's VW Bug to cart the old Labrador named Xena across town for a visit. This is something I've been doing for a few years now, and today at a balmy 32°C, I'm feeling selfish and resentful about it. The air conditioning in this car quit about the same year my father's heart did, and this car is hotter than the old Swamp Buggies I used to drive at work before the buses were air conditioned. All the windows are open, and the tufts of fur seem to suspend in the air for a thoughtful pause before they hit the hyperdive button and blast out of the vacuum of the open window. Xena is a gentle soul, but difficult to walk with and a seemingly neverending producer of fur.<br />
<br />
We make the trip up to the fourth floor. My mother is chatting up the locals in the elevator. She's explaining herself and her dog to anyone who will listen. I'm quiet and wondering just how this visit will go.<br />
<br />
"Hi Dad." my standard greeting. Consistent. Predictable. Familiar. He doesn't recognize me.<br />
<br />
"Xena! Xena! Xena!" he bellows, smiling from ear to ear, laughing, almost hysterical.<br />
<br />
Watching his dementia take hold over the years has been an education in humanity. His happiness at seeing his puppy in the hospital is profound and inspiring. It makes me feel so selfish at the resentment I felt in the car. Who could call this a chore when it makes the old man smile like this?<br />
<br />
I used to get phone calls from dad when he was living at home. He'd just call to talk hockey. He was the crazy Sens fan, and I was his traitorous Maple Leafs loving son. We'd argue about roster moves, trades, and gossip. During the playoffs in the the early 2000's, sometimes he'd just call to swear at me and hang up. We've never had all that much in common, and hockey is what kept us talking. Hockey was really the only thing we had in common for years, to be honest.<br />
<br />
As the years progressed the calls became stranger, but we always found something hockey related to argue about.<br />
<br />
This past year the dementia has progressed to a point where he is no longer himself, for most of the time. It's such a hard thing to describe. The man who taught me to fish, taught me to drive, taught me to hammer a nail, no longer really knows just who I am. When he does recognize me, he bluffs through most of the conversation as the connection to Adult Me is not the Me he's thinking of when hears my name. To him, Ken is still a little boy riding around on his Big Wheel in the project. Dad's mind has him somewhere in late seventies or early eighties, living in the old neighborhood.<br />
<br />
He knows he has adult kids, because he's repeatedly been told has adult kids. He doesn't really remember his grandkids, all those birthday parties at my house, or where he lives.<br />
<br />
And, he doesn't remember hockey.<br />
<br />
The dog is trying to get up into bed with him, and his laughter infects the entire room. My mom is going through the rituals of visitation. She is filling out his menu for the next few days, and building up some small talk to fill in the gaps between his laughter and his silence. Conversation in a hospital is very much centered around meals, pills, tests, and appointments. It's all about itineraries, when are things going to happen, and who you talked to. It's vapid, tedious talk that flirts around events and ignores any meaningful attempt at real conversation the way it used to be.<br />
<br />
I decide to try again.<br />
<br />
"Hi Dad."<br />
<br />
He looks at me, but I can see the vacancy in the words he's searching to say to me. I ask him if he knows who I am.<br />
<br />
"You're the Police Inspector."<br />
<br />
It's my turn to laugh. I have no idea where that one came from. I can't tell if he's being serious or just pulling my leg, but he's laughing again now too and looking directly into my eyes for the first time in a long time. For a minute I'm transported back into that boat on Bob's Lake, it's dawn, and we are having a staring contest while our fishing lines sit idly mocking us on the surface of the water. The silence said much more than words in that boat, as it does now.<br />
<br />
It was in this boat that he explained to me how an engine works, a carefully prepared soliloquy that every dad seems to prepare on some topic they care about. I have found myself thinking those same words, preparing that same speech for my kids, who would likely be just as uninterested as I was when I heard it.<br />
<br />
I'd love to hear it now.<br />
<br />
We all understand what the patient is losing. That sense of self, those relationships, and the memories. From his side of the bed, it must be confusing and scary.Yes, he is slowly forgetting who he is. But the one thing people don't talk about with dementia is probably the hardest part for me.<br />
<br />
His dementia is beginning to make <b>us</b> forget the man he was.<br />
<br />
Dad is no longer that man in the boat. Dad is a conversation about care, meals, and trips to the Montfort with the dog. Sometimes he is a chore, and other times he is a silent cry. The legacy of who he really was is what dementia is stealing from all of us. There may be nothing wrong with my brain, but I too am forgetting him.<br />
<br />
As we pack up the dog, and his dirty clothes, my mom leans over to give him a kiss. She explains that she'll be back tomorrow, she's taking the bus first thing.<br />
<br />
He leans over and says "Bye Ken!"<br />
<br />
Today I was the Police Inspector in jest.<br />
<br />
Today I was Jim's son again, for a minute.Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-30357336172380151722014-03-27T08:18:00.002-07:002020-08-01T16:46:12.703-07:00September 18I have sat down at this keyboard many times over the past six months. Each time, I think about what happened on September 18th, I write a few sentences, I think, and I stop. I honestly cannot believe what happened that day. I cannot erase the images from my mind, the scene, the way I felt, and the memories of the folks I knew on that bus that day.<br />
<br />
I was driving the 122 route in Orleans that morning. I had been tinkering with some notes on bus driver assaults, and I was moving through a few paragraphs on the subject. I took the summer off from blog writing, choosing instead to enjoy my free time planning a trip to a remote part of North Carolina with the wife and kids. I had been writing mostly short stories over the summer, choosing pleasure over work, but it was now September and I was in the mood to write a bit here.<br />
<br />
A regular passenger gets on my 122, puts an ominous hand on my shoulder, and says "Drive safe today, we're all thinking of you."<br />
<br />
I thought about that strange interaction all the way back to Place d'Orleans. I had no idea what had transpired in Barhaven. When I arrived at Orleans Station, I could see a group of drivers huddled around the front of a bus, one was crying. I parked, and picked up my phone. Twenty texts, all asking if I'm okay, who is it, what happened? I flipped over to Twitter, and I could not believe what I saw.<br />
<br />
I dashed into the station and did what many drivers did that morning. I looked up the bus number, and found out who was driving that bus. The name rang a bell, but I needed Facebook to connect the dots. God, he was such a nice guy. People tend to throw around the term Infectious Smile a little too liberally, as if it means a really nice smile. Dave made others smile, and that's what it really means. I paused on the pictures of his wife and his daughter, wondering if they knew yet, and if not, who would have to tell them. I grieved.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long before a media type contacted my Twitter page. <i>Can we talk? </i>No good can come of this. This reporter from CBC is asking me to confirm the driver's name. I'm not biting. She is desperate for details, and to be first to confirm. She puts Dave's name out there, but really only clicked his Facebook page and thinks his name is Terry. The interaction feels like a shady car salesman trying to sell me electronic rust protection and a diamond grade clear coat. <i>We know his name is Terry, it has already been confirmed. </i>I'm feeling ill at this point. CBC wants to be the first to tell his wife. On the radio.<br />
<br />
I drive around Orleans for the next few hours listening to the radio. I'm not supposed to do this, but I can't pull myself away. I wonder about the supervisors who had to respond. I wonder about the other passengers on that bus and how they got off. I think back to my trucking days, specifically a day where I was first responder to a horrible crash on I75, and the days that followed that. So senseless, I cannot turn the emotions off.<br />
<br />
My first shift is over, and I now have to pick up another bus and drive up and down Bank St on the number one route for the afternoon. I am a zombie at this point. People want to ask questions about the morning, and they get on the bus and ask them. I can't answer any of them. I can barely make eye contact. Someone beside me is speculating that the Driver Must Have Fallen asleep, and a passenger hushes him, tells him to be quiet. As I ride up and down Bank, each bus I pass is a raised eyebrow, a shrug, a lowered gaze. The company is in pain.<br />
<br />
When I arrived back to the barn, drivers are quiet. I walk back to the parking lot, all the while wondering if his orphaned car is still parked in this lot. Who might have to pick it up? Will it stay there, collecting the dust of age that has been denied to Dave? I break down, sitting in my car, feeling sorry for Dave's car.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">“And when something awful happens, the goodness stands out even more ...” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/28229.Banana_Yoshimoto" style="background-color: white; color: #666600; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">Banana Yoshimoto</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">, </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/13216114" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">The Lake</a></i><br />
<br />
The next few days, I began to realize just what kind of city we live in. It seemed that the entire city was in mourning, each passenger struggling to find some kind of connection to the event. While a few people still tried to engage in speculation, most were telling me that they've taken that bus, or that they knew someone who did. Some paid tribute to the victims with a hand on the shoulder, and a kind word. Passengers were so nice, and supportive. I really appreciated the kind words, Ottawa.<br />
<br />
That night, I had discovered the names of the passengers, and upon seeing their pictures, was terribly upset to see a few faces I knew. One in particular, with whom I had shared a running joke about the motorcycle helmet I sometimes kept on the dash fan of my bus. I would tell her that <i>I do all of my own stunts</i>. She retorted that the passengers should be the ones wearing the helmets on my bus.<br />
<br />
The response from our passengers was so very supportive, equaled only by the support of OC Transpo management and employees. If there is ever a case study to be made in how to do things right in a time of crisis at a major company, the study should begin with John Manconi. His performance was exemplary. I can't imagine how this must have affected the higher floors at the Ivory Tower, but Mr. Manconi walked shoulder to shoulder with his troops and enacted a plan of support that caught this driver way off guard. There was never a question of where to get support. There was never a question of what was going on. There was never a question unanswered for the blue collar driver. Mr. Manconi put it <b>all </b>out there. Drivers banded together to support those that needed to attend services, or grieve. Work was covered across the board, with drivers cooperating and helping those in need.<br />
<br />
It's funny. I was thinking about Dave's car the other day, and how it had triggered me to break down. I was sitting in my car, listening to Steve Madely praddle on about how he cannot trust John Manconi anymore because he did not disclose details on a minor brake maintenance bulletin set forth by Alexander Dennis around the 18th of September. These types of service bulletins happen all the time, but Madely decided to turn it into a core-meltdown major story, with all of the duck-and-cover fervor of a tabloid story about Justin Beiber.<br />
<br />
There really is no need to make this story worse than it is. It makes me angry and a little ill to hear this kind of bunk.<br />
<br />
If you really want a compelling story to accompany this tragedy, talk to the other 3,000 people who have a version of this story just like mine. Talk to the families of the passengers that had to hold it together while supporting all of us. Talk to the thousands of people who look to John Manconi with reverence and respect in the way he handled all of this.<br />
<br />
Treat this story with the respect it deserves.<br />
<br />Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-13466176029583315632013-06-16T13:45:00.000-07:002020-12-04T09:14:32.907-08:00The Bully PulpitYesterday morning, I really needed a loaf of bread.<br />
<br />
I make toast each and every morning. Slab of bread, some time in the toaster while I splash a little coffee in the mug, then a dollop of peanut butter to melt across the nooks n crannies. It's a simple breakfast. Unless of course, you're out of bread.<br />
<br />
So I grabbed my shoes, ignored the fact that I was in PJ bottoms and a wrinkled shirt, and headed over to the grocery store to grab a loaf of bread. Two, actually. Why waste a trip.<br />
<br />
As I got to the cash, I realized that in my haste, I had not grabbed my wallet. The bread was already through the scanner, and I was empty handed, without a means of payment. It was clearly time to bargain.<br />
<br />
"I forgot my wallet." I said, staring at the bread.<br />
The cashier stared at me.<br />
"I can hold the bread here while you go and get it?" He said.<br />
"I really need the bread. Can I pay you next time?" I replied.<br />
"Um, I'm sorry sir. You'll need to grab your wallet. I can't just let you take it."<br />
<br />
There was an air of sarcasm to his response. Especially in the last sentence. I just <i>can't let you </i><b style="font-style: italic;">take it</b>.<br />
<br />
There was going to be a problem with my breakfast.<br />
<br />
"It'll be $3.29 when you grab your wallet sir, I'll hold it here for you." He said again, pointing to the cashier's nook beside the register.<br />
"Look, I don't have time to grab my wallet right now. Just let me take the bread home. What's the big deal?"<br />
<br />
I was getting angry at this stupid kid's affront.<br />
<br />
"I'm a regular customer. I spend hundreds of dollars here every year. It's just small amount. Does it come out of your pocket?" I stammered.<br />
<br />
There were people behind me in line now, and he was actually starting to take this lady's items to the scanner as I stood there!<br />
<br />
"Buddy." I started, "I need this bread right now. I've been to other stores that honestly wouldn't give a shit if I walked out with four stupid loaves of bread." I yelled, regretting using the word 'shit', but felt it appropriate.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to have to call the manager, sir. I can't let you walk out out with product you have not paid for. Please, get your wallet, pay for the bread, then everyone is happy"<br />
<br />
What a pathetic loser.<br />
<br />
"Give me the God damned bread right now. What do you make? $10 an hour? Just give me the bag. NOW."<br />
<br />
I reached for the bag, and he pulled it behind him. So I grabbed him instead. I grabbed him by the arm, and I punched him, hard, right in the face. Then I walked out the front door.<br />
<br />
I showed him.<br />
<br />
That's not unreasonable, is it? <br />
<br />
If you answered "No." to that question, maybe this blog isn't for you.<br />
<br />
We don't sell bread at OC Transpo, yet this is a scenario that plays out on a daily basis on our streets.<br />
<br />
Transit drivers are under assault here in North America, and the number one reason for drivers getting assaulted is Fare Dispute. There really isn't much difference between the absurd scenario I just posted and a typical fare dispute with a passenger. It's a small cost transaction, and an unreasonable response from a client.<br />
<br />
The industry term for it is even a bit of a joke. Fare Dispute. You have either paid the fare, or you haven't. Where is the dispute in that?<br />
<br />
If you saw this scenario playing out at a grocery store, you might even step in to help the cashier deal with this idiot. Mine would be completely and totally unacceptable behaviour. And yet on a bus? You might think less of the driver who stops his bus and wait for security to remove the offender. Some drivers are cool, right? Tell me you haven't heard that little gem?<br />
<br />
We are transit drivers, and we are the bullied. Yes, bullied. Bullies don't just take your lunch money. Bullies use threatening behaviour to demean, intimidate, and influence. Bullies wear you down. Bullies hammer on you until you relent. Bullies make you feel worthless and afraid.<br />
<br />
Did you know that we average over 60 full-blown assaults against transit operators here in Ottawa per year? Those are the <b>reported</b> assaults. Fist-hit-face kinda stuff. Spit in mouth kinda stuff. In one case, urine-in-cup-thrown-in-face kinda stuff. We as transit drivers get spit on more often per year than we get YouTubed, by a long shot. You know which one makes the news though. <br />
<br />
What is not reported are the hundreds upon hundreds of verbal assaults we endure while trying to keep those two loaves of bread behind the counter. Every single one of these verbal assaults has the potential to get violent. Every single one of us knows this, because every single one of us has been assaulted in some form. And every single one of those bullies knows that if he or she pushes the envelope just far enough, he or she will find that cashier that thinks its better to just hand the bag of bread over, and hope for the best.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.ottawacitizen.com/Assault+Ottawa+driver+forces+labour+investigation/8528711/story.html">http://www.ottawacitizen.com/Assault+Ottawa+driver+forces+labour+investigation/8528711/story.html</a><br />
<br />
A driver recently refused to work after being assaulted. He was reportedly sucker-punched after asking to see an expired transfer. He spent weeks with headaches, and now has the fun task of seeing an assault hiding behind every tree and shelter as he tries to recover from the trauma of a random and sudden assault. It is a natural reaction to an ambush such as his. It is scary stuff to deal with.<br />
<br />
I have no idea what kind of recommendations will come out of an HRSDC investigation, but I can't say that I'm not glad that the issue is making some headway. A private member's bill looking to single out the transit industry had been introduced, and then stalled on prorogation, then was reintroduced recently. It has been a decade long process of seemingly low yield results. Nobody seems to care.<br />
<br />
You can guaran-fricken-tee that if council staffers were being assaulted 60 times a year that this issue would be front-burner material.<br />
<br />
The city has been talking about cameras on buses forever and a day now. But what will a camera really do? Like private members bills, it won't help me during an assault unless I can grab the thing off the wall and smack the guy with it.<br />
<br />
A real deterrent might be to take OC's fleet of Crown Vic's out of service, and make these special constables spend some real time on the buses. I realize that this kind of action might reduce the Lost Tourist On The Transitway Ticketing program, but hey, what's a little sacrifice when it comes to rider and driver safety?<br />
<br />
I want to end this posting with a letter I received from an assaulted operator. I will not edit the letter, beyond removing his name.<br />
<br />
It is high time we do something about assaults in my profession. Ottawa City Council, OC Transpo management, Transit Law, and ATU 279, it is time we take a leadership role in this country.<br />
<br />
This is an opportunity.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The day that everything changed</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> At the time that I was assaulted I had been an OC Transpo driver for almost 4 years. Prior to that for 16 years I had driven people with special needs. For 20 years I had earned my living with my driver's license. Not once in those 20 years was I fearful to go to work. Not once was I worried that my safety or my life could be in jeopardy in the workplace. That all changed on a dark, cold night at an isolated layup in February of 2006. As I exit the washroom facilities at the last stop on my route a man steps out of the darkness and punches me in the face. Then he charges at me swinging. The last thing I expected coming out of the washroom was a blitz attack. As I am struggling with him I trip and fall to my knees on the roadway behind my bus. He jumps on top of me and the next thing I know he is sitting astride my chest and has me pinned down on the road on my back. I was so scared. I thought I was going to die. There was no one who could come to my aid. No other drivers. No other passengers. Nobody. I was all alone with this maniac. He could have killed me and OC Transpo wouldn't have known about it until they realized my bus wasn't on its next trip. I finally managed to fight him off of me. As I got up off the road I grabbed for my cell phone to call for help and he ran off through a hole in the fence into an adjoining neighborhood. He had been a passenger on my bus. A fare evading passenger. I knew he had boarded the bus illegally at the previous stop by jumping in the back doors. He thought the bus went further. He thought he was going to get a free ride to the airport. When I told him that it was the last stop he asked me for a free transfer. I refused and he left the bus. I had 7 minutes to use the washroom before I started my next trip and wasn't really thinking about him anymore. It never dawned on me that he could be a threat. The reality is that I was assaulted over a $3.00 transfer, a lousy piece of paper.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> At the time I was a husband, a father and was about to become a grandfather for the 2nd time. I had a good job and I was living comfortably. I had many blessings in my life. I had many reasons to be happy. My life was about to become a nightmare. During the assault I had been bitten and his teeth had punctured the skin where he had bit me. I would need immediate anti hepatitis injections and regular blood tests for the next six months to make sure I had not contracted HIV or hepatitis. For the 1st time in over 20 years my wife and I would need to practice safe sex. I panicked at the thought that my grandson might eat off of my utensils or dishes and come into contact with my saliva. Within three days of the assault I couldn't function. I withdrew from my family. I couldn't work. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't drive my car. I couldn't leave my house. I didn't bathe or shave and I had no fucking idea what was happening to me. It hadn't dawned on me yet that I know knew how it felt to be a victim. My doctor put me on anti-depressants. WSIB sent me to a psychologist. One month after the assault I am diagnosed with Major Depression and PTSD. I didn't think I would ever be able to drive a bus again. After several weeks of therapy I am finally patched up enough to slowly integrate myself back into my job. My finances had suffered while I was off work. My wife was unable to work and my house relied on my income. I was getting overtime before I was assaulted but my WSIB benefits didn't come close to matching what I could earn if I was healthy. As time goes on it gets easier to go to work but it is obvious I am not the same person. I just keep taking the pills and hope that things get better.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> In December of 2008 the union I belong to goes on strike. Within 3 days my employer cuts off my health benefits. I convince myself that I don't need the medication I am taking anymore. Within 2 months I think I am going insane.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">My mind has retreated back into that very dark and scary place that I had gone to after the assault. The strike ends and I go back to work but I can't function and I am missing days sick. I go see my family doctor and tell him I have stopped taking my pills. He asks me how that is working and I guess my answer shocks him. It gets me back on anti-depressants and a referral to a psychiatrist. I have been in therapy ever since and even though it has been 7 years I don't think I will ever fully recover from what happened to me that night. I have missed weeks and months of work because of the mental illness I now suffer from. Every day I have to take anti-depressant and mood stabilizing medications to be able to go to work and effectively do my job. These medications have side effects that nobody wants to talk about. Decrease in libido and other sexual side effects. I can't imagine having to go through this alone. If it wasn't for the love, patience, tolerance, understanding and support of my family and the connection I have with my grandchildren I know without any doubt that I would have killed myself by now.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Because of a $3 transfer my life was almost ruined. Professionally, financially, physically, emotionally and mentally. I can't even begin to describe the effect it has had on my family. That is a whole other story.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-79481185901396220322013-04-09T11:09:00.003-07:002020-08-01T16:46:13.000-07:00Jack's Back... On WheelsEvery few weeks or so, I get an email about Jack.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://drivesincircles.blogspot.ca/2012/10/you-dont-know-jack.html">http://drivesincircles.blogspot.ca/2012/10/you-dont-know-jack.html</a><br />
<br />
Where we last left the story, Greg the driver had spearheaded the campaign to get Jack a new bike. A driver, Abdullah, donated a bike. Not just a dust bucket in the shed, a good, decent bike.<br />
<br />
Then there were a few speed bumps. The first problem was a distinct lack of Jack. Greg carried that bike around the city for a few weeks, but never saw Jack. We all kept asking Greg what happened, but Jack was nowhere to be found.<br />
<br />
After a month or so, the bike wound up locked up at a transitway station, awaiting its new owner as soon as Greg ran into Jack. Jack had gone AWOL, and of course, the bike was vandalized. That's what happens to nice people.<br />
<br />
To see Greg, you'd think this guy would be at home in a biker bar. He's a black tee-shirt kinda guy. Leather. Bearded. Music junkie. Greg is the kind of guy that has a favorite song by Tool, and might think less of you if you didn't. He might not even want to know you if you couldn't name one.<br />
<br />
You might judge him by appearance, as you might judge Jack by appearance, but Greg has a huge heart. And more importantly, Greg <i>gets it</i>. We are all part of a family here at OC Transpo. We take care of each other. There are many stories like this one.<br />
<br />
And what about Jack? Jack's not a driver, but we take care of him too. Right is right, and Jack's an alright guy. The drivers have his back.<br />
<br />
So Greg had a problem. He had a bike that he wanted to give to Jack to replace his stolen bike, but now it needed repair.<br />
<br />
Enter: <a href="http://bushtukah.com/">Bushtuka</a>.<br />
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They were about as good a company to Greg as a company can be, and went well beyond what most companies would do to help someone out. They took Greg at his word, and did something very special. They fixed up the bike, free of charge.<br />
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We live in an awesome city. Thank you Bushtuka.<br />
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Now get in there and buy something.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAOOQ_qhm1e2iDb2dageO6THP80AP0wMsSd5fiP67CFf-cLfgNPdpa0xMB-i0CGo4-IzeAplj-_TxrBcpYDl5KJy1-TaRabT0pEC9V63bPUe8qEy94H3oZoc8zLxXIuYYkN0pV1kl5vo/s1600/554900_10151432006819724_928079532_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAOOQ_qhm1e2iDb2dageO6THP80AP0wMsSd5fiP67CFf-cLfgNPdpa0xMB-i0CGo4-IzeAplj-_TxrBcpYDl5KJy1-TaRabT0pEC9V63bPUe8qEy94H3oZoc8zLxXIuYYkN0pV1kl5vo/s320/554900_10151432006819724_928079532_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>So after an entire winter of Greg the bus driver hoarding the bike in his shed, another driver, Kelly, ran into Jack and took down his contact info. She posted a note on a local driver's forum, and got Greg back in touch with Jack.<br />
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I'm proud to work with these people. These drivers that care about each other, and our passengers. I'm proud to live in a city where a company like Bushtuka would step up like they did.<br />
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I'm proud to serve in a city that makes things right sometimes.<br />
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<br />Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-38011047127964437632013-04-05T09:08:00.003-07:002020-08-01T16:46:12.801-07:00April 6.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Clare, Brian, David, Harry, and Ray.</div>
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We remember.</div>
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<br />Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-65752689790082702122013-01-20T07:15:00.001-08:002020-08-01T16:48:45.347-07:00Your Chance To Be A Trained Monkey!I'll never forget the way the call-in shows and Letters to the Editor treated us during the strike. I'm not going into the politics of what happened then, so put down your sharp objects. The strike was horrible for everyone, and should not have happened. I'm just talking about what people <i>think</i> a unionized bus driver's job entails.<br />
<br />
The typical view of any job that begins with the word "unionized" is that image of four construction workers hovering over a single shovel, one working, the rest <i>supervising</i>. When you combine "lazy" with strike action, you get some pretty wild public accusations on these call-in shows, or in the Letters section of the newspaper.<br />
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The theme that always killed me was this idea that a trained monkey could drive a bus.<br />
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Now I'm not arguing the fact that a monkey could be trained to push the pedals and turn the steering wheel. It most certainly could be done. But let's see a monkey fill out an incident report, or argue with a drunk who insists his TD Bank card is in fact a Presto card.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://ottawa.ca/en/city-hall/jobs-city/bus-operator-recruitment/bus-operator-recruitment">http://ottawa.ca/en/city-hall/jobs-city/bus-operator-recruitment/bus-operator-recruitment</a><br />
<br />
So There it is. The link to Trained Monkeydom. Your ticket to $100k-a-year lazy afternoons of union employment.<br />
<br />
Now there are a few clarifications I would like to make about the perks of the job.<br />
<br />
You will not make $100k a year. Yes, there have been drivers on the Sunshine List, but those drivers (All one of them) work 120 hours every two weeks, the most hours allowed under Federal work/rest regulations. And, all one of those drivers are in the top seniority bracket at OC Transpo, meaning he's been there over 25 years.<br />
<br />
You can expect to make between $52k and $57k working at standard 40 hour workweek at OC Transpo. As stated ad nauseum in Letters to the editor, an entry level bus driver makes about the same as an entry level firefighter. What the letters do not state however, is that a 20 year veteran OC Transpo driver also makes about the same wage as an entry level firefighter. The only factor that affects your salary as you pile on the years is your access to overtime. Federal work/rest rules have forced the company to increase its workforce to reduce overtime in the name of compliance, so don't expect to be on the Sunshine List any time in your career.<br />
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The second thing you need to know before you apply is that unionized work is not necessarily <i>lazy </i>unionized work. Getting your paycheque at OC Transpo doesn't mean standing around watching a shovel.<br />
<br />
Think of the last time you drove to Toronto. You hopped in the car, maybe with the kids in back. You headed out onto the 417, then to the 416 for an hour or so, onto the 401 for 45 minutes or so before you stopped to take a quick refreshment break. You then headed down the 401 into heavier traffic, and after another three hours, you were on the DVP heading to your downtown hotel. The trip took you around 5 hours, and the feeling of getting out of that car was sensational. You stretched your legs, and let out that kind of half yawn/half groan as your back straightened out and the blood came back to your legs.<br />
<br />
Now think of that 5 hour drive as your first shift of the day at OC Transpo. Only add in about 750 transactions, 30 people asking you for directions or instructions, 7 or 8 people you don't know who want to get into your car and don't want to help you pay for the gas (and expect that you will comply regardless of what you say to them), and just for fun...throw in a drunk guy who you think might vomit on one of your kids.<br />
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Now go into your hotel, and come back out at 3pm, because you still have 3 hours left to drive if you want to pay your mortgage this month. Oh, and don't forget. You will be doing the same thing tomorrow. And the day after that.<br />
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Driving a bus is not lazy work. We OC Transpo drivers are some of the hardest working people in the city. Our shifts are comprised of turning the wheel, pushing the pedals, and doing transactions from start to finish. It is sheer ignorance to suggest that bus drivers are lazy. An 8 hour shift, be it a straight shift or a split shift, is 8 hours of driving a vehicle. Bus drivers do not get lunch breaks. The only time the wheels stop is what is referred to as "Recovery time", which is service recovery time according to the control center and not driver recovery time. Meaning, if you are late getting to the end of your run and are supposed to leave right away, you are expected to leave right away on your next trip.<br />
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Hard work does not necessarily mean difficult work. I will undoubtedly get emails from from a few nurses saying "Uh yeah. You should see what WE put up with." Bus drivers are not nurses, that is for sure. Those people are pure A-types. Salt of the earth.<br />
<br />
In the Letters section of the newspaper, responses to the driver bashing letters were met with equally absurd responses from drivers describing wind swept platforms in the dead of winter, and almost all letters had one common theme.<br />
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The Twenty Thousand Pound Sixty Foot Vehicle That We Have To Lug Through Traffic.<br />
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I always get a kick out of that hyperbole. If you are thinking of applying for this job, you need to understand that you only have to push the one pound pedal, and the motor pushes the rest of the 19,999lbs.<br />
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Relatively speaking, driving a bus from a purely mechanical perspective is pretty easy in comparison to driving a large tractor trailer. The first large truck I ever drove had an 18 speed transmission, and had the turning radius of a jumbo jet. Matching engine RPMs to transmission speeds in order to shift was a skill you absolutely had to master, because taking 80,000lbs over the Rockies requires careful speed management and an almost zen-like connection to the machine. Don't even get me started on navigating the 1300+ low bridges in the city of Chicago.<br />
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Driving an automatic transmission bus on roads that give priority to transit is a skill that most people with intelligent driving habits can master. If you're looking to drive a bus for a living, don't let the vehicle scare you. It is not a hard thing to drive, with a bit of coaching and practice.<br />
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I highly recommend working as a bus driver for OC Transpo.<br />
<br />
When you consider that so many students graduate from university looking for white collar jobs, and wind up serving coffee, waiting tables, selling insurance, or taking dead end contracts with the government, a job with long term security and a pension looks pretty enticing. Employers have been shifting away from benefits in their relentless efforts to cut costs and generate share profits. The job market right now is a wasteland of short term work and underemployed baccalaureate degrees just looking to pay off the student loans. The value of our labour has never been lower as these underemployed people compete with each other for jobs they consider worthy of their schooling, but they have no concept of what their labour is worth taking short term contracts without any kinds of benefits.<br />
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These are generally the same people that throw this reality in my face as I defend union work, saying that "I don't have sick days or a pension... and Unions were created to stop slavery..."<br />
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Seems the conservative mind will not rest until no one in the country has sick days or a pension. Then we can all work until we are 80 or we are dead. It'll save money.<br />
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I digress.<br />
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Driving for OC Transpo may not be prestigious, but there are plenty of hours the city needs you to work right now, and will be there for many many years. You will contribute to a pension that will help you live out your retirement with dignity. You will meet some of the best and some of the worst that Ottawa has to offer. You will serve Ottawa in a way that might surprise you, the sheer volume of people moving about their daily lives is astounding.<br />
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The rewards of serving people will only be enhanced as you master the art of thick skin, and come to the realization that people in general are pretty decent and cool. All it takes is a little extra effort once in awhile to make someone's day, and making someone's day can be a job perk not spelled out to you in the official job description.<br />
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You will be part of a family of very highly trained monkeys at OC Transpo, a family that will stick up for you when needed. I guarantee that it will never be boring.<br />
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You may get a little poo flung at you every once in awhile, but monkeys can't read anyway and the bananas are company issue.<br />
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So, grab a vine, and apply.<br />
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<br />Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-4769822362091478562012-11-29T16:45:00.002-08:002020-08-01T16:48:45.150-07:00I Love The Way They LaughI'm a big fan of kids. For whatever reason, I seem to relate to kids better than I do adults. There's no politics with kids, no real expectations, and a smiling face still means something to them. I have kids of my own that are growing up way too quickly. We used to go to Cosmic Adventures together, wearing those too-thin dirty blue kneepads and run around like idiots while laughing, jumping, and sliding down any obstacle we could find. I was that dad that always seemed to wind up with 10 kids following him around. I'd wind up shucking half of them off my leg like snow pants as I tried to get away for a few minutes to pretend to be an adult for a minute or two. Now I'm knee deep in teenager problems and report cards.<br />
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A few years back I was driving the number 1 route on a daily basis. Traffic is thick along that stretch of Bank street north of Catherine, and I'd usually wind up stuck sitting for long stretches between lights. I had the usual regulars, mostly suits and sunglasses, and the occasional Starbucks employee or two. It was a boring morning run. Stuffy. Slow. Always late.<br />
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Every once in awhile, this daycare would get on. Two smiling ladies dressed like The Glebe in teachers' garb, yanking with them a knotted rope that tugged a gaggle of kids along like one of those chains you use when you catch a pile of fish and want to keep them in the water while you finish the beer and conversation with your buddies on the dock.<br />
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These kids would trot in, each face lit up and smiling with the glee of riding a bus. Kids usually make eye contact, and I would smile back like I was a fireman or a police officer. Kids love bus drivers and they could care less about the difference. Funny how riding a bus as a kid is a complete and total win, while riding a bus as an adult is something completely different. But I digress.<br />
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Stuck in traffic, and having not moved for awhile, one of these daycare sweeties had a brilliant idea. And so began the first few bars of "The Wheels on the Bus". As the other kids joined in, the chorus grew a bit louder, but not obnoxious. I laughed a bit as the song referred to the people going "Up and Down!", as Bank Street certainly can do that if the speed would just pick up a bit. I mouthed the words "Move on Back!" silently as the song progressed to the part about me and my role as a Steering Wheel Placement Technician. Then I had an epiphany.<br />
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As the song moved to "The horn on the bus goes Beep! Beep! Beep!", I honked the bus's horn three times. At first, the kids didn't quite realize what had just happened. The horn had clearly sounded in time with the song, but was that a figment of our imagination? Did that really happen? That has never happened before in the history of Wheels on the Bus. Luckily, the horn goes Beep! Beep! Beep! nine times in the first segment of the chorus, then the horn on the bus goes Beep! Beep! Beep! nine times again mere seconds later to confirm our suspicions.<br />
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Two of the kids had clearly caught it, and began laughing hysterically. Although the lyric had run its course, the laughter lasted well beyond, and the daycare workers were explaining to the rest of the troupe that the horn had indeed gone Beep! Beep! Beep!. It was suggested by a small voice that the lyric be tested again to make sure it works, with the response from the collective that "Okay, YOU do it!".<br />
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One small voice began to test the lyric out. She sang the lyric more as a question than a melody, and as she hit the payload trigger word, I blasted the horn as the bus exploded with laughter. .What happened next I'm not sure I can adequately put into words. We began a run of 25 consecutive verses of "The Horn on the Bus goes Beep! Beep Beep!", and a good 5 minute run of tears streaming down our faces at the sheer joy of 4 year olds laughing until they nearly peed themselves. Even the suits were laughing.<br />
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Each person that exited the bus thereafter did so by the front door, and said thanks for the laugh.<br />
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Now the car in front of me may have had a different opinion, as he was certainly puzzled at the idiot bus driver who was behind him honking despite the clear fact that we were all stuck in the same traffic jam. But to be honest, if he had taken the bus instead of the car, he would have had one of those moments he would never have forgotten.<br />
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With all of us, and the simple joy of laughter. Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-24499117693242821612012-10-21T11:20:00.001-07:002020-08-01T16:48:40.443-07:00You Don't Know Jack.There are folks in this world that get a raw deal in life. Some are handed cards that that they fritter away in bouts of selfishness, some don't play the game enough to realize how great a hand they have to play, but some get a hand that is just downright lousy.<br />
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Meet Jack. Jack is a legendary passenger on OC Transpo. If you have driven the 2 route, or any route that chugs it's way around the Hintonberg or Mechanicsville area, you've likely run into Jack. He's the guy wearing the leather hat, smiling and friendly, and pushing his old bike everywhere he goes. Jack is a really nice guy to talk to, though many avoid Jack's sort of demeanour. He likely has a few slight mental issues, which might as well be a sign around his neck for most folks to pretend they don't see him. It's unfair the way folks look at him sometimes, but I guess that's life and it doesn't seem to bother him. Jack's great to everyone. I've often wondered if he's homeless and to be honest, I've never asked that question of him, only assumed. I guess it doesn't matter though. Jack is good people. Down to earth, and nice.<br />
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Last night my friend Greg picked Jack up on his bus. Greg grew up around Mechanicsville, and has known Jack for many years. Like Jack, Greg is one of the good guys. Down to earth, approachable, the kind of driver we all like to see when the front door swings open. Having served Jack for years, Greg's built up the inevitable reparté that drivers build up with a regular like Jack. Something was a little different tonight, however. <br />
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"Hey Jack, where's your bike?"<br />
"They stole it."<br />
"Who stole it???"<br />
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Jack went on to explain that he put his bike on the rack of a crowded bus. He took a seat somewhere, and when he went to exit the bus, somebody had taken his bike off of the rack. Imagine for a second what Jack's bike might look like. This wasn't a Cannondale road bike with a trip computer and custom seat. It was a half broken down jalopy owned by a man whom most of us assume is homeless. Who on earth steals this kind of bike? It wasn't something you're looking to flip for a few bucks. It may have been worth the world to Jack, but it really wasn't worth Jack to the world.<br />
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Greg was angry.<br />
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Jack then told Greg that it wasn't the driver's fault, the bus was really full, and the driver could not have known.<br />
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Jack's compassion and understanding for a driver is inspiring. It really is amazing what we can learn about humanity from a person who spends much of his time wading through people who don't treat him like he is, in fact, human..<br />
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What is also really amazing to see what a few of my co-workers have done with this story.<br />
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It all started with Greg sharing the story on a local forum. Most of us know Jack, and we all know Greg. No less than twenty drivers began plotting to get Jack a new bike. But how? And What? It isn't just as simple as heading to Canadian Tire with the $200-$300 that these drivers have already pledged and buying him a brand new bike. Some big flashy new wheels will just get Jack a nice reason to worry about the next guy looking to steal his bike. These drivers surmised that he needs a bike to get around, but not something that will get him right back in the same predicament the next time he parks the bike somewhere.<br />
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Four or five drivers already had bikes to donate, and wanted Greg to give them an address to drop them off. It was almost like competitive donation planning, each driver wanting to be the one to help out the most. One driver won the sweepstakes by offering to donate an older Trek bicycle, with a good Kryptonite lock to help the man keep his bike where it belongs. You can't argue with Kryptonite. That stuff defeated Superman. The driver is going to drop the bike and lock off with Greg today, less that a day after Jack told Greg about his story.<br />
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Greg's told us that he plans to carry the bike around with him until he runs into Jack again, as Jack is a regular customer on Greg's line. I only wish I could be there to see Jack's face when he gets his new wheels, and the keys to his new lock.<br />
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I work with some pretty awesome people. Sometimes it takes a bad hand to realize that the hand you're holding is really pretty good.<br />
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And from the seat I'm sitting in, this city is all aces.<br />
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<br />Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-15768285801326907312012-06-18T14:58:00.000-07:002020-08-01T16:47:05.558-07:00Canada Day, Rookie StyleThis is a repost (by request) of a Canada Day experience. Less than two weeks until "it" hits the fan, so enjoy. I'll be back soon with thoughts on Presto, the new double deckers, and a few blogs on life as a bus driver pretty soon. Real life's thrown me some curve-balls lately, and my other writing project has really sucked the brain dry. Thanks for the emails. No, I'm not quitting this. I write this story when I have something to say, and don't want to bore folks! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this. It was fun to write.<br />
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I've been getting a pile of questions about personal experiences and strange things that have happened on the bus... so I thought I'd share a Canada Day story.</div>
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I had just been hired onto OC Transpo prior to my first Canada Day service. I had the basics down. I came from a heavy trucking background, and had plenty of experience that overqualified me to drive a lowly bus. I came into the job feeling pretty cocky. I had also spent the previous summer at a logging camp yanking giant trees down roads you wouldn't drive a car down, and getting into fights with roughnecks all over the bar scene in Northern Ontario. Needless to say, I had a thick skin. Still do.</div>
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I still wasn't prepared for Canada Day.</div>
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My day started on a local route in Orleans. I ran around on the 137 taking semi-drunk kids down to the mall, where they would no doubt get downtown to get drunker. Canada's national party. Who can resist.</div>
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I smelled smoke on the bus somewhere around Galloway street on St Georges, and I decided to investigate. I had a few concerned moms up front, and I had to take care of it. So I walked back. I found a kid, around 16, trying to blow the smoke out the window. I told him he had to put it out, then decided to get a little tricky with him. I told him I was running ahead of schedule, and thought I could use a smoke too.</div>
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"Let's go out then."</div>
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He hopped off the back door... I didn't. I climbed into the driver's seat, and took my passengers to the mall, with applause. It was a fun start to the shift.</div>
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After the local routes were done, I was told to go to Hurdman station, and wait in the layup until the fireworks were all finished. It was a pretty festive feeling, all the drivers just hanging out, watching stuffed 95's fly by on their way downtown. Every so often, one would go by with a person trying to get out on the roof, or with the emergency windows swinging open like a breadbox door.</div>
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All the drivers were cheering on the mayhem.</div>
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"Stick it to the man!!!". Errr, wait, We're the man.</div>
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As the end of the fireworks neared, I was assigned to head to Slater street. I queued up behind a row of buses, and waited my turn. I took on so many people, I honestly had someone standing in the space behind my seat. He smelled of vomit, and I was praying that was post, not pre. The cigarettes were lit almost instantly. There was singing. There was kissing. There were things flying at me. All I could see was what was out my front window, and the crush of faces against my passenger mirror. Training had not covered this. In the midst of all this, I could hear someone yelling "Help!". I honestly couldn't tell if it was a festive party "Help", as in "Help, I'm hammered!", or a "Help, I'm falling out of this window". I stopped the bus on the off ramp to Montréal road, and began to try to figure out who was yelling it. It was like pushing my way through dense bush, with wispy sapling trees that stick to you, leaning, instead of springing back to their elastic uprightedness.</div>
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I found her. She had her hair caught in the rear doors. She was sitting in the seat just beside the doors. It was like she had been leaning out of the seat with only her head outside the doors, and they had closed on her long brown hair. I apologized. She chainsawed a drunken string of laughter, then got surprisingly serious looking, and then threw up on the back steps.</div>
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There is nothing that clears a path like a puddle of sick.</div>
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A guy with a smoke dangling from his lips slurred out:</div>
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"Sorry Mr. Busdriver. She got sick."</div>
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"Thanks Pal." I said.</div>
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I headed back to the front of the bus, and got rolling again. I couldn't kick them all off there, I had to get at least to Place D'Orleans. The puke was on the back steps, it was a high floor bus. What harm could there be? The singing petered out as the smell of sour began to circulate. It didn't take long for the illness to become contagious. It wasn't quite "Stand By Me", but I could tell that weak stomachs were getting weaker by the second. And that's when I heard the second noise no bus driver wants to hear.</div>
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"Oooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh", in chorus. And then again: "Ooooooohhhhhhhhh!", this time louder.</div>
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It looked like a war zone as I emptied at Place. Beer cans, cigarette butts, and a floor full of vomit. People scattering off the bus with hands over noses, hands over mouths, all with that look of "You'll never believe what happened" on their faces. </div>
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I drove back to the barn, stunned, tired, and sick of the smell. I felt like I had spent a rough night. Yet as I got into the garage, I saw a bus with four smashed windows. Another had a rear door ripped off the hinges.</div>
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And all the drivers I saw were walking like zombies to their cars.</div>
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We survive this national party each year. I've no idea how.</div>
</div>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-71405916285125805032012-04-08T16:41:00.003-07:002020-08-01T16:47:05.728-07:001984When the news of this new deal hit the newspapers, I must admit I was pretty surprised. It has not been a banner year for driving a bus in Ottawa.We had weekly barrages of bad publicity, the morale at the garage was horrible, and we all knew that the scheduling issues were actually getting worse with every booking. You haven't lived until you've been forced to work three shifts over twelve hours, one shift finishing in the east, the second shift beginning in the west, and the whole shebang ending twelve hours later 20 kms from where you parked your car. Throw in the fact that it only pays you seven hours and thirty minutes, and you're thinking about a career change. The deal is good news in a bad year. After talking with hundreds of my co-workers, I'm convinced the deal will pass... handily.<br />
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But what about this past year? Can we discuss this, Ottawa?<br />
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In George Orwell's classic novel 1984, Winston Smith spends an eternity trying to hide from the oppressive and deceitful government of Oceania. The governing system is a brutal autocracy. Each and every move made by each and every citizen is meticulously monitored by the system, which the protagonist Smith aptly calls "Big Brother". If you haven't read the book (and you should, it's pretty awesome), you likely still understand the concept of Big Brother. It has become part of the lexicon of modern society to describe oppressive and overbearing measures taken by our government, or our employers.<br />
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Great Britain has often been described as a new Big Brother state, as cameras have been installed <i>everywhere.</i> There is always someone watching you, through a camera in a control room, evaluating you, evaluating your actions. You are not likely to get away with a public crime in England. Big Brother watches every street.<br />
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Here in North America, it's a little different.<br />
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There are no huge banks of government agency cameras trained on your every move. You are not likely to find your biometrics in a database somewhere with a small asterisk beside that date that you had to take a whiz and did it behind the dumpster at the grocery store. Our police forces do not have access to hours of video surveillance cameras to find you. You might find that on YouTube though.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYgPzGkPLmI">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYgPzGkPLmI</a>
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Here's a perfect example. "Phexid", (short for "Places He Explores In Dreams") sent this video to CTV News, and they put it up on their website. A bus driver stopped his bus, went into a store for coffee with passengers on his bus, came back, and that is news. It followed a bunch of other OC Transpo related videos documenting all sorts of things that <i>didn't</i> make the news, and a few things that made the news for good reason.<br />
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I may be a little sensitive to YouTube videos as an OC driver, but we could spend the entire day watching people who have no idea they're on camera being humiliated on YouTube. We can't seem to get enough of this stuff. We are addicted to our arrogance. We crave the publicity. We want the +1's.<br />
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We are not under the oppressive eyes Big Brother here in North America, we are training the cameras on ourselves and ratting on each other for personal schadenfreude. We capture each other on cellphone cameras and desperately hope the trending topics pick up our moment in time and run across our society like wildfire.<br />
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Unlike 1984's oppressive society, Big brother in North America is more like a whiny little brother, pulling at the pantleg of popularity.<br />
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And what's worse, in 2012, Big Brother is opt-in.Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1276242206114744658.post-28144579159592371182012-01-01T12:52:00.000-08:002020-08-01T16:47:48.430-07:00The Art of Saying No<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #fff2cc; line-height: 21px;"></span><br />
<h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">This is a republish of an article from last year, before this blog was vandalized. I'm reprinting in as an email request from a reader. </span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">_____________</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">t was nearing 4:30 on a Friday afternoon as I pulled into the northbound stop on St. Laurent at Innes road. There was a standing load on my (what was then) 85 route, and the end of the line couldn't come fast enough for me... only three stops to the freedom of a well earned weekend.</span></span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Standing at the stop were two women, one a young version of the other. The young lady stepped on, placed two tickets in the fare box, grabbed a transfer, and looked back at her mother who had two Pizza Hut boxes in her hand. That is when the argument began.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"Sir, I'm just two tickets short."</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">These are the words that cause more stress to transit drivers than any other words a passenger could utter. Rationally, my job is pretty clear in this regard. Collect proper fare, provide timely service. It's not exactly rocket science. This must be the only industry in North America where a customer would argue over whether a service should be provided to them for free, so long as they are nice about asking. I have never been to a movie theater and overheard a customer try and finesse his/her way into a movie by stating "I am just a ticket short". Ditto the grocery store. Bread is cheaper than bus fare, but would anyone really expect the cashier to let it slide out the door for free?</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"I'm really sorry, but I have to ask everyone to pay."</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">That is my standard response. It doesn't matter how old you are, what you look like, what you are carrying, that is always my first response.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"Do they take it out of your pay cheque?"</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I could see that this had taken a turn for the worse. Understand that at this point, all I had said was one phrase. I didn't ask her to get off the bus, I didn't say it in a rude manner, I didn't judge her. I only toed the company line. Collect proper fare, provide timely service.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Years have passed since this incident, and a bit of revisionist history may be present as this incident is not an isolated one. Years of having similar conversations may have jaded my memory a bit, but the rest of the lecture I received went as follows:</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"Do they take it out of your pay cheque? Seriously. I am ONLY two tickets short."</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I replied that I have to ask everyone to pay, and two tickets really is the entire fare.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"They must take it out of your pay cheque then right?"</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I replied "No, they don't. But they ask me to ask everyone to pay."</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"What is it to you anyway? It's not like they count this stuff you know. You just want to be an asshole. A big power tripping asshole. Oooooh. 'I drive a bus!'. You know some drivers are cool. They would give someone a break. You could use your discretion. You could let me on."</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">She stepped off the bus at this point, and I looked back at (who I had assumed to be) her daughter to see if she was going to follow. She did follow, looking a little embarrassed at the situation.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">At this point with both of them off the bus, I looked back at the front seats to try and gauge what the other passengers thought of the situation. I couldn't get a good read, but in my moment of distraction the woman yelled at me that I was "The Biggest Asshole In The World".</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I beat out Bin Laden, Saddam, and child molesters alike. It's me. What a prize.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I've done a bit of soul searching over the years as I deal with the public. I've come to the realization that treating people well is a great feeling. It makes my job better, and it makes my life better. The concept of 'paying it forward' is such a happy place to live. The more I do it, the better I feel. Having said that, I still use the same phrase "I'm really sorry, but I have to ask everyone to pay." when faced with someone who asks to board for free. Paying it forward does not mean I need to be a doormat.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Using discretion is a funny concept in the eyes of the general public. What exactly is discretion? In this driver's opinion, discretion is reserved for situations that passenger cannot reasonably be expected to pay. It's midnight, last bus, I lost my wallet. Or, you're a regular customer who forgot your pass... I know you have one. The big blackout a few years back... no one could use ATMs.</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">But standing on the corner of St. Laurent and Innes, two pizza boxes in hand from across the street at 4:30 in the afternoon? You want to pay by finessing you way onto the bus? Maybe you just have a good story, and you'll hope I'll buy it? Maybe you're a really pretty woman who will smile at me? Two weeks ago I had a woman stand beside me chatting flirtfully for 15 minutes, only to work herself into asking me for a free day pass. "I wouldn't normally ask this, but..." The whole conversation was tailored to convince me to 'use my discretion' and give her a free pass. So the next few people who ask to board for free... would I then revert to my standard response?</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Believing a good story, or giving in to a friendly flirt, and then telling someone else that they need to pay...I wouldn't be using discretion there. </span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></h3><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">That would be better defined as "discrimination". </span></span></h3><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">And who, really, wants us to use that?</span></span></div><h3 class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0cm; orphans: 2; position: relative; widows: 2;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
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</span>Kenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16184386989915327524noreply@blogger.com0