Ode to the Multi-tasking Driver
Erin Douglass
There is an infinite number of bus drivers in the world. Or at least in L.A.
Just as I find myself getting used to one early morning face, he or she disappears into the MTA ether.
Where do these drivers go? Have they been promoted to the six-wheeled equivalent of the corner office? Demoted to a route full of little ladies with shopping bags who refuse to stand behind the yellow line?
One wonders.
Regardless, every few weeks I'll step onto the bus and a stranger will be sitting behind the wheel, eying my bus pass. Where'd the other guy go, I feel like asking. But I don't; it's too early or late and I don't want to offend the one with the pedals.
Several weeks ago, I boarded the 7 a.m. coach — that's an industry term — and found myself face to face with a smiling, laughing young woman. How pleasant, I thought, flashing my pass and a grin. A woman enjoying her work.
Then I noticed the cell phone.
Apparently, my driver was having the conversation of her life. Laughing, uh huhing and no waying like she was home with her feet up, sprawled long-ways on the couch.
But no, there she was, not only flying the early bird down the bumpy road, but peeling transfers, gunning down SUVs and running reds like a pro. All with an itty bitty phone lying in her lap, attached to her person by a "hands-free device."
Comforted by the presence of that little wire, I sat back, one eye on the scenery, the other on my driver as she double- and triple-tasked up a storm.
After a few stops, I noticed that our fearless helmswoman — apparently not content with the multitude of tasks already on her plate — added a new variable.
The microphone.
Have you ever heard a bus mic? Think snap, crackle and pop. Think ringing feedback. Think distortion machine on loan from a Peanuts special.
This mic, however, was clear as a bell in a belfry and just as loud. Stop after stop bounced into view, narrated by the volume-enhanced, dulcet tones of the driver.
Who was still on the phone.
The results went something like this:
"Girl, I don't know what you're saying — ROSSMORE! — but ooooo, is he gonna get it."
Moment of silence. Laughter. "I know, I know...You what? WESTERN! Get out!"
Who, me? I almost jumped for the door, certain I'd been busted for something.
Then, silence. And it continued. I settled back into my chair and pulled out my reading.
I shouldn't have bothered.
"You're telling me that the whole time that NORMANDIE! didn't call his own mother in the hospital?!!"
Ears ringing, I couldn't believe it either.
More lulling, deceptive silence. Only this time I was prepared. I braced for impact.
"Well, let me tell you this. I'd RAMPART! him out of the car so fast, he wouldn't know what hit him."
I could only imagine what ramparting some sorry soul from a car would look like.
By the time we reached my stop, our driver was still gabbing into the cellular sunrise. During our 40 minutes together, she'd avoided the curb, skirted double-parked cars and narrowly missed plowing into a woman with a stroller.
Even more impressive, while yapping away, she was still able to chew out a skinny young guy who'd hoped a distracted driver meant one easy, free ride.
I should have warned him.
He was lucky he didn't get Alvaradoed in the process.