This past week at work, we began our new work pieces. Every few months, representatives of the union and transit give new options for transit workers to change the routes of what they were doing to do something new. Many retain the routes that they were doing previous, some even have been doing the same route for years, while others change shit up every once in awhile to keep things fresh and new. If it were up to me, I would have continued doing the work I'd been doing since the start of the New Year, but fate would have other plans. While my work was still there in the morning, by the time it was my turn for sign up, it was gone. I was forced into something new and while I don't very much enjoy my weekday schedule, my Saturdays are da bomb! It's only for two months and maybe, on my next sign up, I'll get back to what I was doing before, but if not, hopefully, I can keep this Saturday piece. It's freakin' awesome, if you didn't already know.
So the latter piece of my Saturday, involves driving routes 44 and 45, which all return downtown as the Number 4. I did a similar run last year, between October and the end of December, only this time, it's not as hectic and I'm not running an Artic (articulating bus) on the route.
On my second run downtown, returning as the Number 4 bus, I arrived at a stop along College Drive. Mostly because there was a crowd waiting, but in part because this little Muslim boy stuck his arm out, as if he'd just told the crowd to "Hold on! I've got this!"
He was a very mature little boy of what appeared to be less than 5 years old. He stepped aboard the bus, arms clasped behind his little body, venturing inward, gesturing like he was inspecting the troops. As if he were a child-version of General Patton. His parent followed, his proud father with a gigantic smile stretched across his face, his mother behind him, with only a Mona Lisa smile. They were followed by a cavalcade of people.
One of the side-facing seats were up, because a person with a stroller had been in that spot, earlier. The young Muslim family sat next to the open spot. Then no sooner had I continued on the route, that I heard the stop request bell go off. Not once, like you'd expect, but multiples, like you'd hear from a pinball machine. BING! BING! BING! BING! BING! BING! This shit just aggravates me, because it's usually an immature person trying to be funny.
I once had a guy on the bus, who rang the bell for every stop, thinking he was being hilarious. I told him to stop and he'd deny that he'd rung the bell. "Sir!" I said sternly, "You're the ONLY person on the bus, besides me!" The dirty young fella looked around and realized that he couldn't hide his guilt." He continued to pull the cord, until I booted him off the bus.
This situation was different. It wasn't an immature delinquent trying to be a funny man. It was the young Muslim child who'd turned the Handicapped alert bell into his own private boxing gym. The kid had mad skills, for being so young. He looked like Rocky Balboa going to town on a side of beef. BING! BING! BING!
I kindly requested that the bell not be pressed unless they were prepared to exit the bus. The boy's father, his previous huge smile now dissippating turning into a look of embarrassment. He pulled his son away, while the child's mother lowered to seat to discourage further interaction.
After a couple more stops, I heard that ever-so-familiar BING! BING! BING! BING! I looked into the rear viewing mirror and saw that the determined young fella was now laying on his back, underneath the now lowered bench seat, hammering on that handi-button, while his panicked parents struggled to pull the stubborn kid out from beneath.
Once we'd arrived downtown, the kid, once more with hands clasped behind his tiny back, strode off the bus, tossing me a glance of approval.
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