Slap! The official sound of my photo ID bus driver authority number 471 slaps the salpicadero top of the cabin above its little cradle and I guide it into its cradle. It's the familiar ritual signifying another spate of bus driving is about to commence.
Am I living in bus driver heaven? It could be. I'm only driving on weekends for double pay or time and a half on Saturdays. Every hour Monday morning after midnight trailing on from the sunday is double time and every hour after Saturday bleeding into Sunday is double time.
At around $50 u.s. dollars an hour on Sunday hours, why be overly perturbed by the slapping sound of my plastic coveted authority card slapping the cabin above its cradle before its slid into place.
At the bus depot on a weekend I can catch some fox news or the crime channel. Enjoy a mildly pleasant mostly male adult company location not dissimilar to an army barrack. John Ratcliffe is interviewing with Donald Trump's daughter in law on Fox News but I only have five minutes or so to enjoy the interview at the CIA headquarters in Langley. Once a not far away drive from home in Richmond Virginia a long time ago. The cops surprise me with a random breath test on the way to the depot and I'm a little nervous it could make me late for work if it drags out however it's a brief affair, count to ten, no license check. I'm normally running with extra time but my wife has me shopping for special kinds of noodles and eggs which takes away twenty five minutes buffer before work. I've slept nine hours.
I finished work shortly before two am on Sunday morning and I'm asleep at home a little after 330am. The drive home was extremely fatigued and there's a precise moment my mind wants to fall asleep but I catch myself.
I wake up a few hours later dehydrated. I've drunk four litres or a gallon of supermarket coffee. Que barbaridad the people might say. It has certainly dehydrated me. I've also crapped shortly before sleeping at 330am but my bladder seems empty. Then a few hours later a big pee and notable dehydration. Upon waking from dreamlife, mostly always a happy place, I notice the metaphorical garage of my waking mind has major issues. If I compare it to the neatness and orderliness of my childhood next door neighbour, old man Schmidt it seems defunct. Not dissimilar to my own literal garage these days. John's garage was always so orderly. I can see myself as an eight year old, similar to my youngest child now. Reaching my fingers to his circular grinder where he often stood with his welding mask and blow torch, something I'd watch in fascination from my front veranda next door. The bristles under my fingertips are coarse and strong, they will not break under pressure from my fingers. I wouldn't dare press the on off button on this or any of Mr Schmidt's industrial machinery not withstanding I'm not afraid to rudely tell him to f*@k off one day. The old man certainly never deserved that disrespect. Children are indeed punks.
Brrrrrr! A thousand times louder than the slap of my authority card on the salpicadero, John's grinder barks onto motion. Obviously my fingers are nowhere near it as I'd never dare to switch it on. Old man Schmidt stands over it grinding a tool to a sharpened point perhaps, sparks fly towards the roof. He'd probably only be wearing a small pair of plastic goggles in his blue overalls, not his face covering welding mask.
Roar, equally loud although less abrasive, my bus engine roars into life. Time for an umpteenth trip along the cliffs of Palm Beach overlooking Pittwater harbour.
So I woke up between my two weekend shifts dehydrated after a gallon of cold supermarket coffee, a lot even for me and barely keeping me awake while driving home. My bladder is full of it and my mouth is dry from dehydration. I pee and drink just enough water to keep me hydrated, straight from the tap. Back to sleep I sleep until 8am, pee more coffee, a lot, and drink more water.
My mind returns to John Schmidt's orderly garage. Obviously I needed more sleep this morning and thankfully was able to sleep a few more hours until midday. Matching containers on the shelves neatly labelled, filled with screws and nails. Past the corridors of memory, past Quantico Virginia on I95 moving to Rio Grande tex mex restaurant in Ashland Virginia with my girlfriend Katherine for my first paying job in America. Old margarine containers worked well for John slightly less dignified than his proper opaque cream coloured containers. Washers inside. Unlike four years later around Grove Ave I don't know anything about China or tones. My white Adidas shoes step to the kitchen to get plates for the autistic kids and their carers. They're going to notice the randomness of the different coloured plates.
I return to NY four years later after a year in China. I'll take a clue anywhere I can find one, even from the randomness of litter strewn on the ground. So many labels everywhere. Just like John's methodically labelled tubs. I leave Rio Grande I'm not making enough money. It's late August 2001 and start working within walking distance from home on 1005 Grove Ave near VCU. Some autistic teenagers or young adults come in for a meal. My white Adidas shoes step to the kitchen to get plates for the autistic kids and their carers. They're going to notice the randomness of the different coloured plates.
I'd describe my childhood relationship with old man John Schmidt as pretty good. I think he was a decent man I don't believe any harm came from him. I didn't really like his son David nor his wife Yvonne. I later ran into a close female friend of David's. Around early 2017, around the time my brother died. Definitely I would say John was the best of that family and I wouldn't trust David nor ever liked John's wife Yvonne, that's for sure.
I just bought some sushi from a Chinese lady. Nowadays in Sydney many Chinese run Japanese restaurants. The customers seem happy.
