"R" Line

One

It sounded as if four police cars, sirens screaming, had run past his bed.  It was 4:00 a.m. and the alarm had gone off.  His eyes wouldn't open but his body instinctively moved into action.  He knocked over the alarm clock, the radio, the light fixture and the bottle of Jim Beam he always kept on an old orange crate that served as his night stand.  You crazy asshole, why do you do this?  he mumbled as he stumbled into the bathroom, splashed water all over his head and face, plenty of it.  His eyes gradu­ally opened.  He began to feel alive.  He could actually see, feel, hear, move, even think a little bit.

Mike Ryan was a bus driver with an early morning run, and somehow he had to get moving.  With his lips, vocal cords, and brain now unglued, thoughts began drifting through his head.  Why am I working this crazy job?  Because you need this crazy job.  But why do I need this crazy job?  To eat, you fool, rent a place to flop, buy whiskey to give you the strength to continue this miserable existence.

He had to be on time or it was all for nothing.  If he was late, he would lose his run and have to sit point, two hours without pay.  Some drivers on the extra board were assigned to sit point.  They got paid and were immediately avail­able if someone didn't show up on time.  If a driver was late, one of them took the run and the late driver took his place sitting point, without pay.  If another driver was late, the late driver now sitting point got his run.  Otherwise he lost the day's pay.

Man, these buses sure don't run on time, but by Jesus they start on time, Mike mused.  Why for chrissakes don't I cheat, steal, gamble, pimp, or get into politics?  I mean, do something meaningful and be somebody.  I mean this 4:00 A.M. shit to drive a goddamn bus is ridiculous, even stupid.  And all for a dollar ninety four.

The trouble was, jobs were hard to get if you had no special skills, since 1953 was not exactly a boom year.  Mike was born in 1925, 27 years old, five feet ten inches tall, 175 pounds, with light reddish hair and blue-grey eyes.  He had been with the bus company for three years.  Sometimes it seemed like an eternity to him, especially in the morning when that damned clock went off.

A little quick energy from old Jim Beam to get me going, Mike thought, a couple of bananas and a glass of milk to make it OK with my stomach, put on my driver's uniform, grab my brass and gilley box, make sure my watch is wound, running and on time, get the old '47 Studebaker started and head for the barn.

Mike was working the extra board, which included trippers from Hayward to San Francisco, and other runs from time to time.  The first run of the "R" line left the barn at 5:20 a.m.  After completing the run to San Francisco, he left the bus in the San Francisco yard.  He then had all day to screw around, until the evening tripper back to Hayward about 5:30 p.m.  Lots of time to read books, walk, go to museums, sleep, have sex, with or without a partner, go the beach, or take the shuttle back to the barn and fool around in Oakland or go home.  He wouldn't have to catch the shuttle back to San Francisco until about 4:00 p.m.

Mike made it to the barn, picked up his paddle with the bus number.  The paddle was made of plywood with the directions, stops and times of the run glued to it.  He checked his watch.