c I drive a bus between Terminal 1 and the subway stop, the last subway stop,

at the very end of the Blue Line. It¶s always beaten me why they didn¶t build the
subway right up to the very airport. The security lady who rides along on the
shuttle, Chaniece, says it was probably security reasons. I say the people digging
the subway tunnel got lazy and decided they wanted a bus driver to do the work of
carting people around.

These days most people take the taxi inland, so the ones who ride on the
shuttle to get to the subway are usually the real penny-pinchers. You know the
kind²the young people who don¶t have the twenty-five, thirty dollars to spare for
taxi money, the ones who wear their sweatshirts with hoods²hoodies²and listen
to Lady Gaga and Jay-Z and Rihanna on their earphones. I know, because they
play it so loud I can hear it. The other type of person who rides the shuttle is the
person who probably could afford the taxi, but decides to be green or smart or just
plain O
 and use public transportation.

Sometimes they try to talk. Sometimes they don¶t. What bothers me is when
they use my name to talk to me. They¶ll look at my ID badge and say,

³So, Ladawnah²´ and some form of either ³How are you?´ or ³How far
away is it to the subway stop?´ or ³Where do you live?´ or ³What should I see
around here?´ or some combination of all of the above. Then I give a signal to
Chaniece²some kind of meaningful eyebrow wink thing²and she¶ll interrupt
saying that the bus driver can¶t talk, she has to keep her eyes on the road, but it¶s
five and a half miles to the stop. Just because I have to wear my name on a badge
doesn¶t mean you can just start talking to me like we¶re best friends.

I imagine having conversations with them. They¶ll start off with one of their
pesky questions:

 
 

 







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That kind of conversation with a passenger would be my fantasy.

Obviously, Chaniece gets involved before I start spouting nonsense and lose
my job. The airport is starting another one of their cockamamie PR campaigns.
This time it¶s about ³transportation friendliness, helpfulness, and approachability,´
whatever that means. Apparently it means that you have to be extra nice to
passengers. My job statement said, ³Mrs. Ladawnah Chantelle, your job is stated in
three parts:

1.c Driving
2.c Lifting
3.c Bus management´

What it should have been is this: ³Mrs. Ladawnah Chantelle, your job is stated in
three parts:

1.c Driving (also known as: scooting past the taxi drivers who can¶t speak a lick
of English and don¶t yield for the shuttle)
2.c Lifting (breaking your back over your ungrateful passengers¶ definitely not
carry-on regulation luggage)
3.c Bus management (dealing with hooligans of every stripe who play their
Eminem too loud, and you can¶t shout at them, because remember
µtransportation friendliness, helpfulness, and approachability¶ will be
compromised, and so will your job)

because that is exactly what it¶s turned out to be. Well, I make 23,000 more than
anyone else in the family«which isn¶t saying much, because everyone else lives
off welfare, but at least I  for the roof over my head.

I turn my eyes back to the road because there¶s a taxi in front of me and you
never know what they¶ll do. I don¶t honestly know how some of them get their
jobs, but it¶s a wonder there aren¶t more taxi accidents the way some of them drive.
And with passengers inside too.
 Today I know will be a bad day. Chaniece had to go to her grandma¶s
funeral in Atlanta and the lady on the security shift is a strict-looking twitchy
woman with her hair pulled back so much it makes the skin on her face look tight.
What do I mean by twitchy? Well, when someone started listening to their music
too loud, her mouth twitched. It was like she had a rat in there that was trying to
claw its way out. When she finally spoke, it was with that slow, quiet, cool anger,
not loud and fast like Chaniece or I do it.

³Sir, please turn down the volume on your MP3 device,´ she said, slowly,
quietly, dangerously.

The young man²late teen or twenty-something²looked up for a second

and turned it up so that we could all hear, ³My name is.. (what?)/My name is..
(who?)/My name is.. üO O
& Slim Shady/Hi! My name is.. (huh?) My name
is.. (what?)²´

Since the substitute security lady¶s approach hadn¶t worked²she looked a

little bit dumbfounded as to what to do next, I decided to say something. I turned
around quickly in my seat and shouted,

³Sir! Did you hear her or not? Turn it

!´ I made a miscellaneous but
frightening cranking motion with my hand before turning back to the road.

³Okay, okay, yeah man,´ the kid said, and finally the bus was quiet. I had a
daydream about what else I might have said«

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 But it was a fantasy, and in the real world, we were coming close to a stop.

³Terminal 2, international, European flights,´ said the toneless automatic

voice in the bus. ³This is Shuttle 451 to Airport Subway Stop, Blue Line.´

No one got on. The doors closed and the bus lurched along.

³Terminal 2, international, Asian flights,´ said the automatic voice. ³This is

Shuttle 451 to Airport Subway Stop, Blue Line.´ Two Japanese girls got on. Oh
no. They always wanted to take pictures. They got a look of glee on their face as
they saw me and began chattering in Japanese, before one of them walked up with
a camera and said,

³Picture with you? Biggest person we have seen!´

Well, that one was new. Wasn¶t exactly a compliment.

I took the picture, unsmilingly, and they went to get their seats.

The real problems started when a family came onboard. There was a mother,
a father, two children (one adolescent, one maybe seven or eight), and a baby. The
baby looked fussy when I first saw it. It was flailing around in its fancy-carrying-
sack-thing, held to the mother by shoulder straps, and making small wailing noises.
I braced myself for an explosion. The security lady twitched. The two Japanese
girls looked solemnly at it. That baby was like a volcano, and when it started
crying, there was really only one word²nasty.

Then a group of boys, probably frat kids back from spring break in Mexico,
got on the bus. I knew they were loud kinds before I even heard them. You can tell
from the way people walk. They were talking too loudly, but the security lady
couldn¶t do a thing about it. There was no law against saying:

³That was pretty freaking awesome.´

³I mean, the waves, man. Like, they must have been feet high.´

³Not as high as I was, dudes.´ And they all laughed.

It made the twitchy security lady twitch, but

I could already see what I would say, if I could.

 


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I kept my mouth shut, even though they were the ones who should have shut
up, because it wouldn¶t be policy to tell people to quiet down when they were only
talking loudly, not playing music. If I ran the bus, I would say to hell with policy,
but I don¶t run transportation²I just get my 23,000 for driving, not disciplining, so
I kept my eyes on the road and drove toward the subway stop.

When we stopped, my eyes followed the passengers, making sure everyone

got off. There went the screaming baby²there went the Mexican spring break
vacation fraternity boys²there went the Japanese girls²there went that kid
blasting Eminem, a resentful look on his face.

I¶d add one more thing to my job description:

³Mrs. Ladawnah Chantelle, your job is stated in three parts:

1.c Driving (also known as: scooting past the taxi drivers who can¶t speak a lick
of English and don¶t yield for the shuttle)
2.c Lifting (breaking your back over your ungrateful passengers¶ definitely not
carry-on regulation luggage)
3.c Bus management (dealing with hooligans of every stripe who play their
Eminem too loud, and you can¶t shout at them, because remember
µtransportation friendliness, helpfulness, and approachability¶ will be
compromised, and so will your job)
4.c Resisting urges²because no matter how annoying the passenger is, you
can¶t do a thing unless you want to lose your job.´
 I turned the bus around, facing the direction of the airport, and started the
long ride back. Driving«lifting«bus management«and of course, resisting
urges²it was all in a day¶s work. Back and forth I¶d go, Terminal 1 to the subway
stop, and subway stop to Terminal 1. Someday I knew I would probably snap at a
passenger, act out one of my daydreams. But I didn¶t want to lose my job quite yet.

THE END.