Back to the Beginning
This week’s chapter is the third from Rumble Road’s 2024 sequel, “Back to Rumble Road”. I started writing this book in August 2022, shortly after publishing the first book. It had never intended on writing a sequel, but I loved the characters I had created so much that I wrote one. It took over two years, and that’s evidenced by life changes that happened during the writing. I switched jobs during that time. This particular chapter was written when I drove school bus and was actually based on true events that happened to me and other drivers during that time. Later on in the book, yours truly makes an appearance delivering welding supplied.
“Back to Rumble Road” follows small-town mechanic, Brian Collins, as he leaves home and embarks on a rally career with old friend, Clint Larson.
If you drove school bus, this may awaken some latent PTSD, so please read with discretion.
Chapter 3
The atmosphere at the bus garage was even darker as Brian checked in for his afternoon route. Drivers were waiting for the last second to start their pretrip inspections, dreading what the afternoon held for them. Brian took a minute to clear his mind for what should have normally been a pretty mind-clearing job. He had to get everything off his mind if he was going to deal with his living nightmare of a route.
Bus driving jobs lie on a spectrum of excellent to absolute living hell. Various factors like school district, schools, and bus company combine into the quality of the job. Brian had received the short end of the stick, going with a job that scored on the low end of the spectrum in all categories. The district he drove for did absolutely nothing to improve educational quality or the working conditions of their teachers. Teachers in the schools gave little concern to behavior, oftentimes encouraging the behavior or giving into parents’ demands. To top it off, the bus company was more concerned with money, often forcing drivers to take buses out that were not fit to drive. There was a union, but even that was a scam that focused more on their bigger markets in Portland, ignoring the smaller shops in the Mid-Willamette Valley while charging more and more in union dues.
Brian put Clint’s job offer into a locked compartment in his mind and clocked in, retrieving his keys from a box located behind the front counter. He walked out and began his abridged afternoon pretrip. His bus was a 2006 IC Bus RE200, a rear-engine relic of a bus that should’ve been retired ten years before. How they kept it running day in and day out had always mystified Brian. Despite his credentials, he was never allowed near the garage; nor was he allowed to turn a wrench on his bus, even when he knew the problem.
As Brian turned the key, the bus struggled to life, almost as if it were begging Brian to kill it. That was believable. Three times, already this year, the bus developed a coolant leak and began overheating. Brian would responsibly shut the motor off and wait for assistance. The mechanics would then swear up and down once the bus was returned that the problem was fixed, but he would find an empty coolant reservoir every afternoon. He did a quick check of the interior, duct tape replacing the seat upholstery in many places as the company forced him to continue without the fire-retardant material.
“If only OSHA came through,” he thought, “they’d shut this place down in a heartbeat and fine the boss out the wazoo.”
Brian finished inside and shifted his focus outside, checking his lights and the structural integrity of the body. He ran to the supply shed and grabbed a gallon of antifreeze. He would dump it in while he was checking the engine.
Within ten minutes, Brian had finished his inspection and pulled out of his stall. He pumped the brakes a couple times on his way out to make sure the bus wouldn’t pull to the side, and he made his way to the school.
After a short drive, Brian found himself lined up in front of an elementary school. It was a quick trip through a newer housing development – ten minutes max. This was a rowdy group, but they wouldn’t be too much for him to handle.
The teachers began loading the kids. Everything seemed to go as normal. Brian got on the P.A.; demanding children take their seat so they could go. Go time came and went, but the administration would not let the buses go. Brian poked his head out the door and asked a teacher what was going on.
“Route 18 is missing a kid,” responded the chunky middle-aged woman.
“Why are we being held back?” asked Brian.
“We can’t release you until everyone is on board,” came the answer.
Brian sighed and took his seat back in his bus. He closed the doors to ensure no one tried to make a break for it. The longer he waited, the louder the voices. Children can’t sit in a crowded, stuffy, and stationary bus for very long, and Brian knew it was unreasonable for them be expected to do so. About fifteen minutes after scheduled departure, the teachers finally turned the buses loose.
Brian turned out onto the road, trying to keep it together. He divided his time between watching the road and watching the student mirror.
“Sit down back there. Out of the aisle. If you can’t sit down, we’re going to pull over. Don’t make me move people.”
“Shut up,” came some of the replies. “The bus driver’s kidnapping us!”
One particularly portly fifth grader stood up and did a little salsa dance in the aisle before sitting down. Brian had enough. He pulled over and secured the bus, applying the parking brake and taking the keys with him. He walked to the back to confront the miscreant.
“Congratulations,” he began, “you just earned yourself a new seat assignment.”
“Make me,” the child spat back at him.
“I mean, we could just wait here until you decide to move like I asked you,” said Brian. “I get paid by the hour.”
“But you can’t do that,” the child said smugly.
“Oh, I can, and I will,” said Brian. “Maybe you should read the rules. If you don’t move, everyone will know it’s your fault we’re late.”
“Come on, Rylan,” said a peer, “sit down.”
“Sit down, Rylan,” another student said.
This time, peer pressure won the day. Rylan followed Brian to the front where he took a seat in the front row. The rest of the short run was quiet.
Now twenty minutes late, his stress levels were rising. He called dispatch, but there was no answer. He called again.
“Route 20 to dispatch.”
Nothing. He tried two more times and gave up. A few moments later, the private channel notification beeped on his CB.
“Route 20, what’s your ETA to your next stop?”
“You’re kidding me!” he yelled to himself. Brian picked up the radio. “I’m almost there. The other school held me back.”
He pulled into the bus loop for a middle school. This group was even more out of hand than the grade schoolers. The mob crowded the curb over the yellow line. Brian crept slowly watching his mirror as to not hit any students. He shut the bus off, the middle schoolers crowding the closed door like brain-hungry zombies. He ran to the back to check for any students and left belongings and hurried back to the front. He opened the door, and the mob poured in.
Fifty-six middle schoolers could fit safely on his bus, but he knew there were more. He tried to control the chaos as they piled into the seats, hanging out into the aisle. He had tried to convince the bus company to add a second bus for this group, but safety was the last priority though they preached it first.
Once the last student was confirmed on, he fired up the engine, now a half hour behind schedule. The bus pulled out into the road, Brian shouting more warnings to the students through the P.A.
“Guys, no eating. Hands inside. Seriously, this isn’t preschool.”
The smart-Alec students responded by speaking in baby talk. Brian made his first stop, offloading a couple students. He pulled away and continued down the road, coming to a stop at a railroad crossing. He put on his hazards and opened the door.
“Guys, railroad crossing.”
No dice.
“Hey, we can’t go unless we have absolute silence.”
Forget it, he’d address the issue after he crossed the tracks. He shut the door and proceeded, only to catch red blinking in his peripherals. He heard the guard land on the roof of his bus just in time for the afternoon Amtrak to speed by mere inches from his windshield. Shaken, he proceeded once the crossing arms lifted. He found the first safe place to pull over and secured the bus. Big mistake.
The first safe place was right around the corner from the next stop, within sight of some of the waiting parents.
Brian stood up to address the mob on his bus. He grabbed the P.A. and began his attempt at a speech.
“This is why we don’t talk at the railroad crossing.”
Nothing. The shouting from the mob continued.
“Excuse me.”
No such luck. His voice was drowned out by the shouting. He turned up the P.A.
“Hey, listen up.”
Somehow, over the rabble, Brian heard a knock on the door. He looked to his left and saw a parent mouthing incoherently.
“Mom!” shouted a student. ‘The bus driver’s kidnapping us!”
Just what he needed. Just another entitled kid with an entitled parent. More parents and bystanders started crowding around the bus.
“Hey, let our kids off,” shouted a parent.
“I can’t, we’re not at the stop,” said Brian.
“Bull!” the parent shouted back.
“Route 20 to dispatch,” Brian shouted into the radio. No answer. “Route 20 to base.” Still nothing. What were they doing around there? “Route 20, emergency!”
“Copy, route 20,” came an annoyed voice over the radio.
“I have a bit of a situation,” he began. “I stopped at a railroad crossing and couldn’t get my kids to stop talking. I nearly got hit by a train, and when I pulled over to take care of the situation, I couldn’t get the crowd under control. Now I have a mob of angry parents demanding I let their kids off. I’m not at the stop.”
No reply. Angry parents continued pounding on windows. Rebellious children tried opening the windows to jump out.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” said a parent to a particular student who had troubled Brian all year.
A few of the more tender and well-behaved students began crying.
“Blast it, why don’t you guys answer?” Brian said to himself through gritted teeth.
“Just let them off,” the dispatcher finally responded.
Brian opened the door, the flood of children at the group stop rushing the cab. Parents reached for their children, some of them crying.
“You’re out of a job, buddy,” snapped one particular parent.
The nightmare seemingly over, Brian pressed on. He completed the stop and started on his way to the next.
“Bus driver,” came a nervous voice from the middle of the bus. “Mr. Collins.”
“What’s wrong,” asked Brian through the P.A.
“I don’t feel so good,” the girl responded.
“Come up front and get the trash can. I won’t write you up for standing.”
“No, it’s not that,” said the student. “My chest hurts and it’s really tight. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
A heart attack at thirteen? Stanger things have happened. Brian once again pulled over, luckily not in sight of the next stop. He secured the bus and rushed to the student.
“Here,” he handed his phone to an older boy, “I’ve dialed 911. Tell them we’re Bus 91, Route 20, and we’re having a medical emergency. A student is complaining about some chest pain.”
The student did as he was told. Brian ran to the front to relay the news to dispatch or any other driver that would hear, for that matter; then, he came back again to be with the student.
“Relax,” he encouraged her. “Help is on the way.”
Soon enough, an ambulance and firetruck pulled behind the bus, and an EMT stepped to the door.
“I need your permission to enter, sir,” he told Brian.
“Certainly.”
The EMT stepped on and approached the student.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“My chest hurts. I think I’m having a heart attack,” said the girl.
The EMT checked her vitals for signs of anything.
“We did just come through a bit of an incident,” explained Brian.
“Is that so?” asked the EMT. “Might just be a panic attack. Can you get a hold of the parents?”
“I’ll try,” said Brian, “but our dispatch doesn’t like to answer.”
“Just try just in case the parents come looking for her,” said the EMT.
Brian went back to the driver’s seat and again attempted to contact dispatch.
“Route 20, emergency… again,” said Brian.
Brian got lucky this time.
“Hey, I have a student named Abcde Perry. She’s having a medical emergency. The EMT is here, and he’s going to take her to the hospital. Can you notify her parents?”
The dispatcher sighed. “What’s her name again?”
“Abcde Perry.”
“I’m not finding an Abcde Perry on your student list.”
“Try the school. They just throw these students on.”
“There’s no Abcde Perry. There’s an Aaron Perry, an A-B-C-D-E Perry, an Abigail Perry…”
“A-B-C-D-E, that’s the one,” Brian interrupted. “It’s pronounced ‘Absidee’.”
“Calling now. Proceed on your route whenever you feel safe.”
“We’re good to go,” said Brian to the EMT.
“Okay, Abcde,” started the EMT, “We’re going to take you and your sister to the hospital with us.”
“What’s her sister’s name?” asked Brian.
“Molly,” she replied.
“Okay, thanks.”
The EMT led the girls off the bus, and Brian started it back up again.
“Route 20 to dispatch.”
“Go for dispatch.”
Finally, the messages were getting through.
“Abcde’s sister, Molly, is going with her if you could notify the parents.”
Brian continued on the route. He was now an hour late, and he was stressing. This was not his day. It would only get worse.
“Bus driver,” came another nervous voice behind him.
“What’s up?”
“You missed my stop.”
“Um, no I didn’t,” replied Brian.
“I’m supposed to get off at Fishery and Blackwelder.”
“Fishery and Blackwelder? Dude, you’re on the wrong bus! Route 20 to dispatch.”
Again, the dispatcher answered with a huff.
“Go for dispatch.”
“Hey, I have a student that got on the wrong bus.”
“Where does the student go?”
“Fishery and Blackwelder.”
“Do you have a name?”
“What’s your name, bro?” he asked the student.
“Kevin Wallace.”
“His name is Kevin Wallace.”
“I’m calling now,” answered the dispatcher.
Brian continued on his route, slowly emptying the bus. The rowdiness had disappeared after the scare at the second stop, but the stress was more and more palpable.
“Dispatch to Route 20, I left a message. Just go there at the end of your route.”
“10-4.”
Brian had nearly emptied his bus. By now, it was past 6. Parents were livid. He couldn’t look. After dropping his last regular, he drove to Fishery and Blackwelder. If he imagined his day getting worse, he was right. Parked in front of the house was a Linn County Sheriff’s cruiser. Brian turned on his student lights and brought the bus to a stop, opening the door for the student.
“Sir,” the deputy said to Brian as he approached the bus, “I’m going to need you to shut down your bus and step out.”
What was going on? He hadn’t broken any laws. If anything, he had followed the rule book to the letter. Ever the law-abiding citizen, Brian complied.
“You have the right to remain silent,” began the deputy. “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them?”
“Yes,” said Brian, “but what’s this all about.”
“You kidnapped my baby!” yelled the mother.
“I what? No. Did you not check your voicemail?”
“I don’t have voicemail.”
“Then what? Are you serious? I told dispatch to call and say he had gotten on the wrong bus, and they said they left a message.”
“Are you satisfied, ma’am?” asked the officer.
“No,” she answered, “I want him arrested for kidnapping.”
“Why would I want to kidnap your child?” asked Brian. “Lord knows, I want to unload them as quickly as possible. I can’t monitor sixty-five kids every day and make sure they’re on the right bus. He’s a big boy. He should’ve known.”
“How dare you speak of my baby like that!” she shouted, lunging at Brian.
“Okay,” said the deputy, coming between them, “clearly there hasn’t been a crime committed here. Mister Collins, can we have your contact information just in case we need a statement later?”
“Sure,” answered Brian.
“Once we’re done with this, you’re free to go.”
