It was a Jesuit, shirt and tie, all-boys high school. Everyone drove to school or had a ride. I rode the city bus. “H.A.R.T. Line” was the Hillsborough Area Regional Transit Association. They had a big red heart for a logo. Most were faded to a semi-brown heart that looked more like the ones on anti-smoking ads. The buses were smoke-free, although smoking might have been a welcome relief to mask the random odors floating through the cabin. Looking back, I think the decision to send the boy home on the bus was a character builder. Maybe it was a message to do well in school. But with transportation only a quarter from school on a student pass, how could a parent go wrong?
The driver on bus number 7 was Richard Diggs. Dick Diggs, we called him. I met Diggs the first day my dad dropped me off. I boarded armed with a quarter and my newly pressed Jesuit shirt and tie. Although I wasn’t the only one wearing a hat, I was the only one wearing a beanie. “Is that some kind of Jewish hat you got there, son?” Diggs asked.
I told him it was something we had to wear as freshmen, and it was a tradition, and we could burn it at a homecoming bonfire in a few months, but he didn’t care too much about the details. He was all business. In the future, when I realized I only had to wear my beanie on campus, he’d ask, “Where’s that funny-looking Jewish hat, son? Shouldn’t you be wearing that hat?” He’d continue on the address system as I took my seat. “I think you may have left your hat at home, son. You want I should turn around so you can get that funny little Jewish hat of yours?”
Unbeknownst to me, my father followed Diggs that first day to map out the route and see how long it’d take to get to school. I guess he followed a few cars back so as not to alarm Diggs. The plan didn’t work. Again, this driver was all business. Soon I noticed the bus taking evasive actions. Charging through yellow lights and making quick lane changes, passengers would bounce free from their seats with each abrupt turn, causing them to inadvertently hit the “Next stop” button. Each lane change was met with a “Ding – Stop Requested” followed by Diggs yelling, “Is that a real stop, or is someone hitting that button?”
Another sharp left and another “Ding – Stop Requested.”
“Just trying to lose this jack in a white Blazer truck!” Mr. Business Diggs yelled. “I think I got a white guy tailing us!”
“Ding – Stop Requested.”
I turned, aided by the bus’s momentum, and saw my dad a few cars back. Although his car was more agile than the city bus, it didn’t possess the guts behind the wheel that we had. We were successfully pulling away. “Whoa!” I yelled up from the back of the bus. “That’s my dad.”
The words bounced off each passenger on the way up to Diggs, causing each to turn their head as they grasped the meaning behind my yell. Some translated the words faster and turned faster, but overall it was a wave of twisting bodies starting from me and progressing to the front.
“What kind of kid are you whose dad has gotta follow you on the bus?” The lady next to me asked. “If your dad is going the same way, why didn’t you save your quarter and maybe stop at McDonald’s too?”
“This is my first time on the bus. I guess he just wanted to make sure I got to where I’m going?”
“It ain’t that hard,” she reasoned. “You pay your money and get on. You push the button when you want to get off. Simple as that. Pay to get on… push to get off.”
“I understand. I guess he just wanted to see how long it took.”
“All you gotta do is read the map,” she said. “It tells you how long each bus takes. It even tells you what time they leave. What time it goes and what time it stops. Simple as that.”
“Yes, I know. I guess he just wanted to see for himself.”
“He could have seen it for himself on the paper there. Simple as that. I’ve been riding the bus for years and never had no trouble. Always on time. Always running on time. You should just push the button now and get in with your dad since he’s going the same way. Maybe he can stop off and get you some McDonald’s.”
I soon learned that this is what I was paying my quarter for… the experiences. Some of them I’d offer fifty cents for if I had to do it over again.
One of the stops along the way home each day was at a K-Mart. It was a transfer spot where people