A Day in the Life of a Bus Driver

A day in the life of a bus driver is mundane and set in concrete, driving the same routes, trapped in a long rectangular box. They turn the same corners, see the same faces, and have the same small-talk like conversations. Are their minds on autopilot all day long? Are they lonely? Rarely do I even see them listening to the radio, and that seems to be the only thing that could safely occupy one’s mind while driving.

My friend Rowland says he’s miserable driving a bus, and he’s not happy at home either. He’s a tall, middle aged, black man with transition glasses that cover his dark eyes. His smile beams when I enter the bus. He always greets me saying, “Liiiiiiinnnnnddsaaayyy,” then asks me where I’ve been hiding. He says he’s lived in Fredericton for 15 years and hasn’t really been able to make any friends. He tried hanging out with co-workers, but that led to bad-mouthing the boss, and that’s not what Rowland’s about.

Fifteen minutes is all the time there is to find your transfer bus at Kingsplace. Fifteen minutes may seem plenty to find a bus, but what about for introductions or meeting new people? Fifteen minutes, then it’s off again to the white and blue rectangles, ready to turn the same concrete curbs, and pick up the same faces at the side of the road. Most people enter the bus with the cold flash of a card, or the clang of loose change being shoved into the fair slot. The bus drivers are lucky if they get a “hey,” or “how are you.” I don’t know whether any of them really care about being acknowledged, but it’s the least I can do when I enter the bus.