22 June 2005, mid-morning
“Do you still go to Dixon and Atwell?” I asked the bus driver walking toward the 191 Rocket. I was a bit late getting to the station, and at some point the bus stops going where I need it to go. I learned that it does this the hard way, getting off the bus out in the middle of nowhere.
“No,” he replied. He sounded insulted that I asked him.
“When is the last bus that goes up there?”
“What—do I look like a god damned bus driver!?” I’m paraphrasing this sentence a little bit, but suffice it to say we got in a bit of an argument. Some bus drivers are angry. I mean, its OK to hate your job, but if you’re in the service industry you really should make an effort not to take it out on the people you have to deal with.
He actually told me to check the schedule inside the station—though he was less than polite in the way he worded things. Now, I’m not against checking the schedule, but seeing as how I was outside, talking to him, I thought it’d be reasonable to just ask him. More so, the schedule is one big lie. According to the schedule buses arrive every 5 minutes—my ass.
The guy was starting to rant at this point, asking me if I had a computer, because it was my job to find out when the buses run, and his job to drive them. I started to walk away after telling him to be cool (hunny bunny).
I felt sorry for him. The way he slouched when he walked, the way he kept up his appearance. He looked like someone who needed a hug.