World's Oldest Bus Driver
Ah, the life of a bus driver! It’s a symphony of chaos, an opera of urban ballet, a daily dose of reality TV with me as the host, director, and occasionally, the unwilling contestant on the "You Won't Believe What Happens Next!" segment.
Just this morning, I found myself chuckling over my morning coffee and newspaper at the depot. There it was, right on the front page: "World’s Oldest Bus Driver at 94!" I nearly spit out my coffee. Ninety-four! Here I was thinking a few of my colleagues were ancient relics left over from the days when dinosaurs used to carpool to work. But 94? That really blows them out of the water. It’s a wonder the guy doesn’t get out and ask his passengers, “So, what was the Great Depression like for you?”
Anyway, back to the daily grind. The depot is buzzing with the usual morning madness. The dispatcher's barking orders like a sergeant in boot camp, and drivers are jostling for their favourite routes like seagulls fighting over a single French fry. I grab my keys, straighten my tie, and head out to my trusty steed—a 12-ton, diesel-powered chariot of public transportation glory.
The Sights: As I roll out of the depot, the world unfolds before me in a Technicolor tapestry of urban life. First stop, Main Street. The sun’s just peeking over the buildings, casting long shadows and making everything look like it’s dipped in honey. There’s Mrs. Jenkins, the local florist, arranging her blooms with the precision of a brain surgeon. She waves—she always waves. I honk back. She jumps. Every. Single. Time.
Onward I trundle, past the park where the early bird joggers are puffing away, their faces set in grim determination. Ah, the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the slight whiff of exhaust—truly the scent of the city. I spot old Mr. Thompson, the retired postman, feeding the pigeons. I’m pretty sure those birds get more breakfast than I do.
The Sounds: The sounds of the city are a cacophony that only a seasoned bus driver can appreciate. The steady hum of the engine beneath me is like a comforting purr of a giant mechanical cat. The whoosh of the doors opening and closing is my rhythm section, punctuated by the occasional shrill beep of the fare machine, protesting another invalid card swipe.
Then there’s the symphony of my passengers. Ah, the passengers. Each one is a note in my daily melody. There’s the mother with the crying baby, a soprano in this motley choir. The teenagers in the back are the percussion section, their chatter and laughter a steady beat. The elderly gentleman near the front, nose deep in his newspaper, provides the bass line with his occasional grunts of disapproval at the state of the world.
The Experiences: Every day on the bus is a new adventure, a page-turner where I never quite know what’s coming next. Take today, for instance. I had a woman get on with a parrot on her shoulder. A real-life, squawking parrot. She told me it’s her emotional support animal. The parrot told me, quite loudly, to mind my own business.
Or the time I had a mime as a passenger. An actual mime, white face paint and all. He paid his fare, mimed his way to a seat, and spent the entire ride acting out a dramatic silent movie. I’ve never seen someone get off a bus by pretending to walk against the wind, but hey, there’s a first for everything.
And then there’s Bob. Good old Bob, who insists on telling me the same joke every single morning. “Why did the bus stop?” he asks with a grin. “Because it saw the zebra crossing!” He laughs every time, and I can’t help but laugh along. It’s become part of the routine, like the bus itself groaning and creaking into another day.
Final Thoughts: So, here’s to the world’s oldest bus driver at 94. If I’m still behind the wheel at that age, I hope I have stories half as good as the ones I gather every day. Here’s to the sights, the sounds, and the endless parade of human drama that makes driving a bus not just a job, but an experience. And here’s to all the bus drivers out there, young and old, who navigate this daily dance with humor, patience, and a whole lot of coffee.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a mime to pick up and a parrot to avoid eye contact with. The day’s just getting started!
― Norman
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