When I was the age of the kids I drive, I could remember on sight the names of every model of car on the road. Now, remembering the names of the kids I drive? Fuhgeddaboudit.
To be honest, as an adult I’ve always had trouble with names and faces. Until I see someone often enough for them to sink into my skull, they’d best wear a “Hello! I Am ___” tag. Seeing them out of context — in a store instead of at work, for example — forget it. They might as well be total strangers.
(This blog is based on actual events, though names, places and some personal details have been changed to protect the innocent as well as the guilty and avoid libel suits.)
A busload of kids is a mind-wracking challenge, especially at the beginning of a new school year. Oh, some will stand out immediately for their charming habits, such as wildly cavorting about the bus, shrieking at the top of their little lungs, or uttering bloodcurdling profanity. But the quiet ones who rarely speak to me require time to attach their names to their faces.
See: It Only Takes One to Drive a Bus Wild
And I’m not much better with street names. Once I know where I’m going, I’m going to need my run sheet to tell you where I’m going. And it’s always a moment of sweet panic whenever my dispatcher radios me to ask about a student and an address I do not have in the front of what’s left of my mind.
The dialogue usually goes something like this:
“Base to 631. Did you drop off Fescue McSwiggin yet?”
“Uh …”
“At 53 Balderdash Street.”
“Uh …”
“The parent says you were supposed to be there 15 minutes ago.”
“Uh …”
“What’s your 20 (location)?”
“Uh …”
I’m every bit as eloquent when I radio in to report that a student asked to get off at a friend’s house and does not have a bus pass.
“What’s the child’s name?” my famously crusty dispatcher asked the first time I did.
“Uh … uh … uh … Mildred.”
“What’s the last name?”
“Uh … uh … uh …”
“The last name.”
“Uh … uh … uh …”
“What. Is. The. Child’s. Last. Name?”
“Uh … uh … uh … Wood. Like my head.”
So you can imagine the hives I sprouted when I found out I would be hauling 20-or-so units of precious cargo from Helga Poppin Intermediate School to Fiends and Fun Daycare each afternoon. Not only did most of them basically look alike, they had names like Morton, Norton, Horton, Duane, Dwayne, DeWayne, Sean, Shawn, Deshaun, DaShawn, D’Shaun and Holly, Molly, Polly, Lolly, Dolly, Brittany, Brittney, Hannah, Hanna, and Anna.
And there was more than one of each in some cases.
They boarded and left the bus like a herd of sheep, almost impossible to differentiate, leaving me to pray I didn’t leave anyone behind or lose track of someone. As far as I know, and it’s been three years, they all got to where they were supposed to go.
See: Five Days That Made Me What I Am
Assigning seats with name tags above them eventually helps. And in times of faulty memory, I try using a mnemonic device, such as giving each kid a nickname based on their most memorable characteristics. Unfortunately, I end up remembering only their nicknames … and I don’t dare utter some of them aloud.
Frankenstein, Ma Barker, and worse do not speak well of them … or of me.
Celestial Chuckle 