A Tale of Two Drivers
Erin Douglass
Sometimes I think the MTA is pulling a Good Cop, Bad Cop on its passengers.
Or, in this case, a Good Driver, Bad Driver.
Because the range of bus drivers boggles the mind. There are sullen drivers, stoic drivers, chatty drivers and cool drivers. Hell-bent-on-getting-you-there drivers. Flirting, foxy and forgettable drivers.
The other day I had two drivers who couldn't have been more dissimilar.
Running late, I caught the 7:40 morning bus, a trip I hadn't taken in months. I stumbled aboard, bleary-eyed and frazzled, waving the blank side of my bus pass.
"Good morning!" the driver chirped. "And welcome!"
Staring back at me was the Doris Day of the public coach-operating world. Cute and perky, she had the dewy makeup and perfect ponytail of a Maybelline ad. Her dimples sparkled. Even her MTA uniform looked sharp.
Buoyed by her cheer, I managed a wan smile. Then I found a seat and sat back to watch this new, strange breed of driver — good-natured, in the morning! — do her thing.
She was completely nonpartisan with her kindness. Each time a passenger boarded, whether old or young, outgoing or shy, grizzled or shimmering, she flashed her pearly whites and delivered that happy welcome.
She demonstrated excellent crowd-control skills. Swooping the bus to a stop stacked with people, she would say — first in English, then in Spanish — "Thank you for riding. Please exit by the rear door so that new riders may enter." And you know what? Riders old left by that rear door, and riders new entered frontside with ease.
Who is this woman? I thought. A social engineer? Camp counselor? Cult leader?
Also impressive: her Points of Interest Commentary. As stops approached, she would lean into the mic and announce transfers, buildings and neighborhoods with the panache of a tour guide. "United States Post Office…The Grove Shopping Center…Larchmont Village." And later, after speeding east out of Hancock Park, "Department of Health Services…the Vermont Rapid bus…Legal Aid." She knew more about Los Angeles than most civic boosters.
Perhaps the most amazing thing about our morning driver was her patience. When a flashy Corvette cut off the bus, forcing her to swerve left and brake hard, she whistled through her teeth and said to no one in particular, "You'd think that new car would have a blinker." Then she shrugged and accelerated, ponytail bouncing.
Other drivers would've been leaning on the horn, hissing expletives, well into the next block.
Fast forward to that evening, when I dashed for the bus only to find Mommie Dearest behind the wheel. Mouth pinched, eyes glaring and hair scraped into a mean bun, this woman barely glanced my way. Shrugging, I stepped into the crowded aisle and grabbed a strap.
What a difference eight hours make. This driver spat orders, ignored questions and aimed for potholes. She couldn't even bring herself to help a guy with some directions.
Passengers crowded around the back door, hoping to slip out unnoticed. Fat lot of good that did.
"DON'T TOUCH THE BACKDOOR IT'LL OPEN ON ITS OWN! YOU AND EVERYONE ELSE ON THIS BUS IS GOING TO BREAK IT IF YOU KEEP PUSHING ON IT SO STOP!"
As the chastened man fled the vehicle, we all cringed, ears ringing, visibly grateful that we hadn't annoyed the dragon. Yet.
The Crappy Behavior Prize wasn't fully earned, however, until La Cienega Boulevard. As the Beverly Center loomed, a young woman boarded the almost-empty bus. A Starbucks cup in hand, she put her token in the slot and then asked — quite solicitously it seemed to me — if it was cool to bring the beverage on board.
"Can't you read?" the driver muttered, pointing at the No Food-No Drinks-No Radios sign.
The woman was taken aback. Blinking, she asked, "It's…not okay?"
The driver pursed her lips and said nothing, as she yanked the bus from the curb.
"Fine. Then I'll get off," the woman said, turning to the door.
"Good," the driver shot back.
The woman whipped around. "You're extremely rude! What's your badge number?"
The driver muttered something, banged the bus to the curb and flung open the doors. "I'm calling your boss," said the woman, hopping to the sidewalk. And then, over her shoulder, "Bitch."
The driver, not content to let bleeding dogs lie, hissed back something about the woman's mother. Spitting followed, a coffee cup was thrown. It wasn't pretty.
I leaned back in my seat, exhausted and depressed. Like my fourth-grade teacher who hated kids, this driver seemed to loathe her passengers. I don't understand such lunacy. Hate your customers? Be a security guard! On the night shift! For the space station! But please don't sit in a seat where folks are going to be in your face every moment, asking you to bend rules, hear pleas, provide help.
When my stop finally arrived, I approached the front of the bus, wondering if I could leave the bus — and its driver — on a better note. When the doors whacked open, I turned to her and said, "Thanks so much. You have a great day." She sniffed and stared ahead, refusing to respond.
As I walked up the street to my apartment, I realized there'd been something familiar about my words. And then it dawned on me: I'd used the same perky voice as the driver that morning.
If only I'd had a ponytail. Maybe then Mommie Dearest would have cracked a smile.