Run One Seven Four

I signed on 174 from the bank of Lake Yellowstone—

One to Nine on the Forty-Four with Saturdays off

looked good in principle, and I took it.

That first Monday at Silver and Revere at 4:04

as a throng of kids swarmed my bus

I thought 174 may have been a mistake.

Rolling up to Willie Brown Middle right after school

every day my bus would be packed front to back 

top to bottom—lucky if the doors close.

A coachload of middle schoolers might be a nightmare 

but this crew won my heart within the week.

As I pull up, horn beeping a little ditty

the kids are cheering for the bus, and that’s all it takes. 

I’m a rock star stepping on stage as the crowd roars

and when the kids rush the bus it’s as thrilling

as a wave breaking at Mavericks, and scary every time.

I swing open the doors and greet them in the customary manner:

“NO PUSHING, NO RUNNING, NO PUSHING!” 

while they push and run and find their place on my bus.

I hit the buttons that say I’m drop-off only, 

Brooklyn Dad, always last to board, squeezes in, we dap up and go.

Within the week, the kids from Willie Brown Middle became

My Kids, and I’d never want to miss this trip, can’t bear thinking

of them waiting at the curb and no bus coming, not on my watch.

So it was awful, understand, that day. The operator I relieve

sends a message “Blocked on Silver by Topeka. Cops at the school

with guns drawn.” Every parent in America can feel the panic 

gripping the edges of those words. 

A pip on the map of the Crime App, 

‘Possible Gunman’ centered on the campus.

Those are my kids in there, and if only I could by magic bring them to me

on that dingy corner by the machine shop, where operators swap seats, 

the relief I would have felt at that point. Understand, it was awful.

It resolved happily, no one was hurt and no shots fired—

the cops weren’t even at the school, they were next door

stupidly doing an armed house raid at lunch hour on a school day.

So I pulled up beeping that afternoon, and my kids are all there

shouting and smiling and rushing the bus like they’ll live forever.

I took them away from Silver and Revere, learn bits and pieces

they were locked down, and it’s like they practiced, but nothing happened.

Brooklyn Dad and I compare notes, how the hair stands up on your neck, 

all you can think is “What do I do, who do I call, how do I get there?”

My kids are on my bus now and I don’t want to let them off 

at San Bruno or Mission or Glen Park, I want to take them to the beach

and buy them ice cream. Of course I can’t, so I’ll do the one thing I can,

like I always do. I’ll call out the stops, I’ll open the doors, 

close the doors, roll the coach down the hill, the one thing I can do:

I’ll take them home.