Some days in this gig you can feel like an athlete having a miserable game. Try as you might, you can’t do anything right.
You keep hitting the curb when you make a right turn. You cut off other vehicles or run a light (especially with a cop in your rearview mirror) that you thought would stay yellow until you at least got through the intersection. You forget to signal for a turn or trigger your amber flashers or turn them off, or close the door before you start to roll.
(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.)
It was always something, and it’s the bus driving equivalent of having toilet paper stuck on your heel at a black tie event. It’s embarrassing to have other drivers radio (everyone can hear) or signal you by pointing at something wrong (like your lights) or to have your head bus driver secretly following you in her car while all this wonderment is taking place. You don’t want to get the dreaded “See me” call on the radio.
When a new stretch of road was added to one of my runs, I just couldn’t get it right for the first week. I kept messing up crossing one girl by approaching her house too damned fast (it always seemed to come up sooner than expected) and having to hit the brakes. Then I’d forget to open the door (which triggers the red flashers and stop signs) before I crossed her, or I’d stab at the door button on the steering wheel but the door wouldn’t open while she stood there waiting.
A change of bus has a way of bedeviling me. Tarkus, my regular ride, has a button in the back to deactivate the no-student-left-behind alarm. While Tarkus was in the shop for a week or two, the replacement required lifting the back door handle instead. When I finally got Tarkus back, I forgot about the difference, lifted the handle instead, and the alarm went off with a repeated blaring of the horn outside Bubblefish Middle School that morning and again in the bus yard that afternoon.
Nothing like a little spectacle to attract attention to your shortcomings …
My biggest lulu of a screw-up was when my two-way radio fritzed out as I began my afternoon run from Helga Poppin Intermediate. Robespierre and Guttersnipe, two of my most “challenging” riders, were at each other’s throats and the full bus was the usual nuthouse. While trying to fix the radio, I sailed past a turn for Fiends ‘n Fun Day Care, where I was to unload about a third of my precious cargo.
“You missed the turn!” the student body cried.
With my PA out as well, all I could do was yell in vain, “I know! We’re going back!” But by then Guttersnipe was crying (he’d been hit in the nose by Snodgrass, who’d gotten in on the action). Mortimer was in tears too because of the unexpected break in his routine. (For all he knew I was hijacking all of them to parts unknown).
With my radio out, I couldn’t call base to explain and didn’t want to stop and use my phone because the bus was too noisy. I just kept dropping off tearstained kids, and two parents called the office to complain. Near the end of the run, Hobbestweedle started singing “Baby Shark” to complete my mental torture.
The next day I was called on my boss’s carpet to explain. He was actually amused and he reminded me that Fiends ‘n Fun is in a big building that’s hard to miss.
See: Five Days That Made Me What I Am
I’ve never missed that turn since. Nor have I failed to look both ways multiple times after nearly having an accident. The morning sun was in my eyes and the intersection seemed quiet, but there are bushes down the road on the left and cars can appear suddenly, which is what happened. The driver then cut me off, stopped, got out and asked “You got kids on board?” When I sheepishly nodded, he snapped a photo of my bus and left.
To my astonishment, he didn’t call my boss.
The worst way to learn from your mistakes is by nearly hurting a kid. One of the biggest challenges is concentrating while picking up or dropping them off, especially if you have to cross them. One day I was distracted by Prudence asking me questions and I crossed Robespierre without triggering my reds. (The master switch was off.)
Then there was the time Oswald suddenly disappeared in front of my bus. He’d stopped to tie his shoelaces. Fortunately, I was watching him while Ocarina and Lucille chatted me up, but you just never know what a kid will do.
Another time, I was distracted by a blizzard of requests and popped the parking brake, intending to roll. Thankfully Prudence cried out from the seat behind me, “Wait! Calliope is still there” in front of us.
Those times really drove home that nothing matters more than focus. Thankfully I’ve not made mistakes like that again.
As one of my sage colleagues said after telling me of the time she sang loudly off-key without realizing her two-way mic was on, “You only need to make some mistakes once.”