Skip to main content

At the Bus Stop: The Trekkie

By

Beam Me Up, Bus Stop: The Trekkie’s Galactic Approach to Public Transit"

The Trekkie

Picture this: It’s your typical, dreary Wednesday morning, and I’m stationed at my post, the bus driver’s seat—an elevated throne that offers unparalleled views of human quirkiness. My usual crowd of bus stop regulars are here, but today, something extraordinary happens. Enter The Trekkie. Yes, you heard it right. Not just any bus stop dweller, but a full-on, Starfleet-approved Trekkie in his natural habitat.

As the bus nears, I spot him standing at the curb, but with a twist. Most folks extend a hand to signal, but not our hero. Oh no. He’s got a PhD in dramatic flair. He raises his hand in a Vulcan salute—spock-tacular, if I may say so myself. It’s a bold statement: “This bus is my ship, and I am its captain.” The salute is delivered with such precision and solemnity, it’s as if he’s performing a ceremonial ritual rather than just hailing public transportation.

His attire? Oh, classic. Imagine if Captain Kirk had a casual Friday—this is the look. Jeans, a t-shirt emblazoned with the Starfleet insignia, and trainers that could probably do warp speed if given half the chance. He’s blending in like a space cadet at a human masquerade.

As I pull up to the stop, I’m greeted by an expression that’s cooler than a Klingon’s temper. He offers a nod that could freeze Vulcan ice and a gaze that analyzes every detail of the bus as if he’s running a diagnostic check. Is it fuel-efficient? Does it meet Federation standards? Does it have a built-in holodeck? These are the questions this Trekkie is pondering, I’m sure.

Now, you might think this Vulcan approach to bus boarding is just for show. But I assure you, there’s a method to this cosmic madness. As I open the doors, he steps aboard with the grace of a Romulan infiltrator and the precision of a well-aimed phaser. He doesn’t say a word—just a cool, emotionless stare as if he’s assessing whether I’m a Romulan disguised as a bus driver.

And here’s the kicker: as he departs, I half-expect him to beam out. But no, he simply walks off, leaving me wondering if he’s just done a quick survey of my bus’s quantum capabilities. Was he silently judging the comfort of my seats? Evaluating the adequacy of the air conditioning? Did he leave a report for Starfleet on his findings?

In the grand theater of bus stops, The Trekkie is a shining star. He’s a cosmic anomaly among the usual fare—an intergalactic traveler with a penchant for public transit. And as I drive away, I can’t help but chuckle, imagining him somewhere out there, in the great expanse of space, analyzing the bus routes of the galaxy.

So next time you find yourself waiting at a bus stop, remember this: even if you’re not in a Starfleet uniform, you too can make a cosmic impact with your own unique style. And if you happen to encounter a Trekkie in your travels, be sure to salute back—just don’t forget to keep your hand out of the way of the door. After all, we’re all just stardust waiting for our ride.

Live long and board on!


---


___ Vincent Roderick

Bus Driver on Route 101

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Trump’s Tariff Tantrum: And We’re the Ones Driving the Fallout

By
When the markets crash, I don’t need Bloomberg to tell me. I see it on the faces at the bus stop. Tariffs go up, and suddenly everyone’s carrying packed lunches and stress. The billionaires aren’t panicking, they’re shopping. Economic Repercussions You can always tell when something’s up in the economy. Before it hits the headlines, it hits the bus. The bloke who used to chat about upgrading his car? Now asking if we’ve got any driver vacancies. The regular who used to buy a coffee for the ride? Cold flask. Same coat. Worn face. The fare dodgers are sneakier. The pensioners quieter. Everyone’s just… a little more tired. And me? I’m still driving the same route, dodging potholes the council can’t afford to fix, thanks to budget cuts brought on by yet another economic shake-up dressed in red, white, and blue. This time, it’s Trump’s tariff circus again. Round two. "America First" they said. More like markets last, small businesses folded, and guess who’s still getting richer? Y...
1 comment
Read more

The Supreme Court Ruling Arrives… Somewhere Between Murrayfied and Mayhem

By
A Supreme Court ruling. A laminated headline. And a furious debate over womanhood... on a Thursday morning city bus. When national policy hits the Number X12, guess who gets caught in the crossfire? Spoiler: it’s the one with the steering wheel and no legal training. The Bus Stop Becomes a Battlefield I was three minutes early at the Exchange stop, which, in bus-driver time, is essentially a miracle, schedulers must have made some improvements to the timetable. The clouds were low, the queue was long, and Carol was armed, with a newspaper clipping, laminated and annotated like it was a sacred scroll. “Driver,” she said, climbing aboard like she’d been summoned to Westminster, “are trans women still allowed on this bus? Because the Supreme Court says…” I’m Just the Driver, Not the Department for Defining Women Now, I don’t sit in the Lords, I don’t wear ermine, and I didn’t rewrite the Equality Act over my tea this morning. I drive the bus. That’s all. But Carol had clearly made me the ...
1 comment
Read more

Trumped by the Fare: When Coin Tosses Meet Trade Wars

By
Fare hikes arrive, Trump announces tariffs, and somewhere in the chaos, a man boards with last year’s change. I break the news with a smirk and a made-up tax. Confusion? Always, comedy? Guaranteed. When Small Change Meets Big Policy Some updates come with posters and emails. Others arrive via a baffled punter clutching three coins and a question mark. There’s something deliciously poetic about fare increases and global politics colliding at the exact moment someone’s rummaging through a lint-filled pocket for exact change. It always starts the same way: a familiar face boards the bus, throws in a few quid, exactly the same as they did in 2022, and expects time to freeze. Then they stand there. Expectantly. Waiting for a beep. A receipt. A miracle. Anything. “Sorry,” I’ll say with a gentle driverly shrug, “there’s been a slight fare adjustment.” Cue the blank look. The "Oh no, not again" furrowed brow. Sometimes the squint, as if the hopper might spit the coins back with an ap...
Post a Comment
Read more

Archive

Show more