Part the First, in which The Bus Driver catches the Heroin's Heroine's cane in the lift and bends it at an unnatural angle.I ride the Short Bus in Portland, Oregon. I do not like the Short Bus because of its behemoth bureaucratic inefficiency. There is also a component of being treated like an infant or an object that I despise. Maybe I should be pooling my zen or wrapping it in pink puffery, but it just makes me mad.I generally have a lengthy ride to work because, according to the Short Bus, the distance between home and work is far. They plan for about an hour and a half to go fifteen miles and make lots of stops picking up and dropping off people. Tonight, I was sleeping as I rode. At some point, I woke up because my cane was hitting me in the leg. Bleary-eyed, I realized that my cane was somehow caught in the wheelchair lift.
"Wait," I said. No response.
"Wait," I said. This time I was louder. Still nothing.
"WAIT!" I yelled at the top of my angry lungs. The Bus Driver finally stopped bending my cane, like a paper clip.
It came out pitiful, looking like it had a sprained ankle. Obviously, I have tender feelings for the thing that keeps me from falling over and facilitates my walking around in polite society.
The Bus Driver was busy getting this person that was on the lift to her destination, so I sat tight for a minute. When the lady had gone on her way, I yelled at the driver that he ruined my cane. I was really mad because I didn't figure it was possible for him to operate the lift with a metal tube jammed in it, bend the tube, and not even notice that the lift was running differently. Angry!
I told him to look for the rubber tip for the bottom of it.
"I am," he said. He gestured at the cracked pavement. "There's nothing."
I was winding up to give a speech about how if it wasn't on the bus, then it was outside, when he found it.
"Here it is," he said. He put the rubber tip in my hand. I slid it onto my injured friend.
The Bus Driver came onto the bus. "Keep your cane out of the lift," he said. Glib.
"It's a little late," I said, "now that you have bent it."
I told him again that he'd wrecked it. He acted as though I was in a diving bell at the bottom of the sea and he was observing me through many feet of glass. I cannot begin to tell you how angry I was at his non-engagement. I told him that acting like he didn't hear me was making it worse. He didn't react then either.
When I arrived at work and was getting off the bus, I waved my bent cane around. "Look!" I said. "You should have apologized."
He still didn't say anything. I went inside. I asked my supervisor if he could beat up the bus driver. "Beat up the bus driver?"
I knew he was more into English literature than fisticuffs, so I let this one slide and told him what happened. "That's awful," he said, with appropriate grave inflection.
"Yeah," I said, "I guess it's good you didn't beat him up. I'd hate for him to have to pay such a high price."
Honestly, what's so hard about admitting you were wrong? Or admitting at the very least that you can understand why I am upset. I like this blog article about apologies:
How To Apologize Like A Man. Gender focus aside for a moment, I think the authors, Brett and Kate McKay at
artofmanliness.com make excellent points. Things like,
- Sincerity
- Taking complete responsibility
- Expressing understanding of the underlying wrong
- Offers of restitution
Any or all of these would have been appreciated in the Cane Mauling of Twenty-Ten. And speaking of restitution, my buddy Kim says it took her six months to get Trimet to pay for some medical bills that their negligence caused. That sounds like forever. I hope getting a new cane doesn't take that long.
*This was a song by the group Sounds of Silence, played for the movie Love Story.
**Clip art courtesy of Clip Art ETC.
