Predrag Novakovic
This winter, I accepted a job as a yellow school bus driver. The last week of February, after three practice runs, I was on my own.
There are three schools and 20 stops along my route. To memorize all these pick-up and drop-off points within the twists and turns of residential communities is challenging, I am sure, for even the most directionally adept individual. Negotiating the cul-de-sacs, crescents and intersections messes with one's bearings and makes for some tense left-or-right decision making.
The day begins at 7 a.m. In the dark and cold of winter, mind and body protest the extreme temperature change from warm bed to frigid blast of a February morning. I slide onto the frozen driver's seat, insert the key with numb fingers and turn the ignition. A torturous calamity of noise erupts as the diesel motor reluctantly coughs to life. Immediately, the two-way radio begins to squawk in the most irritating way. The dispatcher is way too cheerful. Huddled in my winter jacket I go through the safety-check routine, sign the log book and radio in, "Bus 207 is mobile."
It takes 20 minutes to my first pick-up and the bus has yet to warm up even a smidgen. I am met by hooded, ear-bud-wearing, expressionless high-schoolers, yet my stereotypes are pleasantly blown away by their courtesy as they wish me a "good morning" upon entering the bus and wish me a "good day" as I drop them off. I feel warmed and encouraged by these exchanges. They also offer some entertaining boy-girl banter.
Driving a school bus is a highly repetitive job. Approaching the pick-up location you check your mirrors, switch on your flashing lights, crack open the door to activate the flashing stop arm, come to a halt, switch into neutral, activate the park brake, open the door and welcome the students, all the while being conscious of the lengthening cue of impatient drivers in front of and behind the bus. Then, you close the door, check to see that everyone is seated, check the mirrors, disengage the park brake, deactivate the flashing lights, shift into drive, check mirrors again and accelerate, much to the relief of surrounding drivers. Each and every stop requires the same routine.
The kindergarten to Grade 3 children are impossibly cute. So bundled are they in their winter snowsuits that climbing the three tall steps onto the bus requires arduous physical exertion. A muffled, barely audible "good morning" emanates from their scarf-covered mouths. Their bright eyes express an exuberance for the new day.
I get only a brief glimpse but am struck by the diversity of personalities, from mild-mannered introverts to rambunctious extroverts, from polite, considerate individuals to taunting bullies. I am moved by the empathetic students who selflessly help other children. Riding the school bus becomes another learning opportunity for these youngsters in navigating their social terrain.
Equally, if not more, interesting is observing the parents as they bid their children goodbye. Understandably, there are those who are pressed for time by their workday agendas, the hurried morning routine leaving its mark on furrowed brows.
Perhaps the most arresting observation for me are the exchanges between children and what I assume are their grandparents. Their hugs, kisses and waves have such poignancy that I am temporarily transfixed witnessing these heartfelt moments. It gives me a sensation of warmth on a sub-zero morning.
Some school-bus experiences never change. The lack of shock absorbers and abundance of potholes makes for a jolting ride. Incredibly, some kindergarten kids manage to fall into a deep slumber and need to be roused at their drop-off point.
More hazardous are the many aggressive and impatient drivers on the morning commute. I am grateful for the din in the bus that effectively drowns out my rather creative and growing repertoire of expletives.
There is always a babble of student chatter on the bus. It is quite normal and acceptable - until the last run of the day. I refer to this as my 20 minutes of auditory hell. These very same, relatively calm, elementary-school students that I deliver in the morning have somehow, through the school day, transformed into wired noisemakers upon pickup.
They are not malicious. But they communicate to each other on only two volume settings - loud and louder. They shout, and when they are not heard, they shout louder. Their voices, both those of girls and boys, can be described as a high-pitched screeching well beyond the pain threshold. A recording could be used as an implement of torture.
As one might imagine, this cacophonous barrage assaults the senses and can become a distraction for the driver. I once pulled the bus to the side of the road and came to a dead stop. Eventually they realized the bus had stopped and the noise abated. With my best authoritative bus driver voice, I announced that the wheels on the bus would not go round and round until I heard quiet. It got quiet. I felt powerful.
I smugly returned to the driver's seat, started the bus and, as if on cue, the noise crescendoed back to its original volume. Every job has its hazards.
With the weather warming up, I actually see some daylight at 7 a.m. when I start my day. Navigating the route has become routine and I consider my cargo precious.
Rolf Thiessen lives in Waterloo, Ont.