Ode to the Bus Driver Fetish Dominatrix

If it is late at night, or I have to be someplace in a hurry, I will most definitely accept a ride in your plush hatchback if you make the offer. On any other occasion, however, I will opt for the CTA.

(My relationship with the CTA -Chicago Transit Authority- is a long and complicated affair full of rage, despair, blame, and periodic redemption. The CTA has at turns inspired me, ripped me off, saved my ass, and openly taunted me. I love it. I loathe it. If I go on about public transportation any more, my light little piece will turn into a sermon, revealing the the full and ugly blossom of my obsession. In the end, all 9 of my readers will disappear. "Yeah, it was fun for a while...but then she just got weird.")

Some have taken offense to my preference, citing the long rides or the olfactory Russian roulette as evidence that I don't care for their company. This isn't true.

The bus or the train are the best places in the city to watch people, to look out over Chicago, to flesh out ideas, to come to terms with the day. It's not always quite so Zen as all that. I have worked myself into a major froth over 30 minutes of a bus not showing up, only to have three arrive in quick succession. I have sat in a fury of huffing and head shaking while the ubiquitous voice sounds over the loud speaker "Your attention please. We are standing momentarily waiting for signal clearance. We regret any for any inconvenience."

"No, you don't...liars." I snarl under my breath, as if exhibiting my displeasure is going to get those workers off the tracks any faster.

Of the CTA operators, the bus drivers have the worst of it. On the train, there is no direct contact with the driver. He or she is in a tiny compartment up front. There is no way to communicate with them, unless one presses that red button back in the train cars (that button like a beautiful, red candy apple you can't touch. WHY PUT IT THERE IF I CAN'T PRESS IT? WHY DO YOU TORTURE ME CTA? ).

Bus drivers are right there with you. They say hello in the morning (or not), they call out riders for failure to pay (shouting to overcome the throbbing house music in their iPods). They've heard it all ("I THOUGHT I refilled my card this month." "Oh, no I don't have exact change"). They bear the brunt of our collective rage when traffic is bad...or they just pull up to a stop and sit, for what appears to be NO REASON. (Discovering that this occurrence is indeed a scheduling issue makes it much easier to endure, though I still grit my teeth and mutter to the gods when it happens.) The homeless swear at them, careless yuppies snub them. They are the ombudsmen for the world as we step up, our troubles in tow and swipe our cards.

I have some respect for these ladies and fellows. It takes a special type of person to be a bus driver.

The other day, I happened to get on to the Irving Park X80 (the bus my sister and I refer to as the XBox.) The vehicle itself was waiting at the intersection of Irving and Broadway - the route's origin point from east to west - its doors open and only a few passengers inside. The driver's seat was empty...they must have gone on break. I swiped my card and sat in the best seat on the bus: next to the window by the steps. Through the window, I saw her moseying towards us.

Back when I was little, living in a rural part of the country, the bus was never a part of my routine. Children's books, however, showed us a world where the bus driver was an integral part of daily living - like the Milk Man, the Fire Man or the Police Man. The four were usually featured together, four pillars of the community, all white, smiling and clean cut. I figured these guys were best friends, or better yet, brothers. Living in the city has disabused me of this notion, for better and worse. Better because I am happy to see that all bus drivers are not just white men. Worse because often times, there is no ear to ear grin from the picture books...quite the opposite.

But on this day, the woman approaching the bus was far above and beyond any bus driver preconception I have ever known. Any stereotypes I have are now blown.

Dressed in her uniform, she wore it like she was in her military dress formals, strutting towards us , all business. Her keys jangled as she walked, dangling from a long silver chain that stretched from her belt to her back pocket. Her leather gloved hands brushed aside her curly eggplant hued hair. She was a big woman, not obese. Big. Tall. Easily six feet. Her boots pounded up the steps and she eased herself into her seat, slamming the doors and pressing the gas. This woman loved her job and was every inch made for it.

I think each passenger on the bus tinkled a little when she got on.

Sometimes in life, you are able to witness a person, so completely and unashamedly themselves, it is inspiring. The world has provided this giant beautiful brute of a woman the opportunity to be herself and she has accepted it.

May each and every one of us find a day when we can be so completely ourselves as was this Bus Driver. Thank God for the CTA.