A Bus Commuter’s Dream Reaches the End of the Line

A ndy stopped the bus in front of the Mar Vista library. He adjusted the rearview mirror, waited a few seconds, then he opened the door, leaned out and moved the outside mirror around.

He kept looking around--obviously stalling--as if he expected someone to show up.

A minute later, a man came running toward the bus stop, out of breath from his unplanned morning jog.

“I was waiting for you, man,” Andy said cheerily.

“You’re great,” the man panted. “Great.”

In this, a city where the automobile has “an essential relationship to existence”--to kinda quote Kierkegaard--not too many folks are going to shed a tear because a bus driver has been switched to another line.

But for us--the regulars of RTD’s 436 Venice-to-L.A. express--Andy is well worth the waterworks. Here was a guy who had a great smile, an even greater laugh, someone who always did kind deeds or had kind words--except for those mornings after the Raiders lost. Yeah, it was like having a combination Hallmark card/Eagle Scout drive you to work.

Ride buses long enough and you develop a deep fondness for the driver who doesn’t slam the door in your face. You come to appreciate a driver whose name you know and who knows you by name. To find one who’d hang around and wait for you, that was something special.

Andy was an early-morning bus passenger’s dream. He knew how to maneuver the freeway and rarely got us downtown past 7:24--our scheduled arrival time.

He knew where most of us worked. One morning when a woman didn’t get off at her regular stop at Figueroa and 7th streets, he shouted into the microphone, “Hey, girl! Playing hooky today?”

He also knew where we got on. If we weren’t waiting at our regular stop, he would pull the bus over for a short while. (No one ever complained.) But this didn’t happen often because most of us would let him know if we were going to take a day off or go on vacation.

(Once, Andy almost didn’t stop at all. Last fall, when Los Angeles lost to my Buffalo Bills, I stood at my stop that Monday morning with a sign reading “BUFFALO.” Andy “accidentally” drove by and I had to run a few yards to catch up.)

Before Andy, we had been subjected to a parade of drivers. Some were OK; some, I was persuaded, had been raised by Rotweilers. But just as drivers can be Dale Carnegie dropouts in the morning, so, too, can passengers.

One of Andy’s talents was his ability to spread his nice ways throughout his bus. This was quite a feat, considering we were an occasionally cranky bunch--government and office workers, lawyers, bankers and a journalist--operating for the most part on one cup of coffee. But after just a few weeks with Andy, you could see the difference.

We hardly qualified for the Carnival Cruise Ship Prize for commuter buses, but people who had never paid each other any mind suddenly were talking, sharing newspapers and making snide comments about the gas-guzzling, non-ridesharing single commuters below on the Santa Monica Freeway.

Friendships were made.

Two pregnancies were revealed.

“I got the promotion. . .,” a man beamed one morning.

When a prosecutor won one of her cases, there was a small celebration in the back of the bus.

We marveled as our smallest commuter--a toddler who goes to day care while his mother works nearby--seemed to grow before our eyes.

And Andy would tell us about his own 3-year-old daughter.

After a couple of months, our bus took on Spago-esque qualities: Word of Andy had spread to the earlier and later buses. Getting a seat on the 436 became harder and harder.

Two months ago, it all came to an end. Andy went to Malibu. Now, he’s on the 434, if you know buses.

According to RTD spokesman Greg Davy, these things happen every six months or so with RTD’s 5,000 drivers. In transit-speak it’s called a “shake-up”--this is where the senior-most drivers bid on the routes they want. The less seniority, the less choice. After one “shake-up,” he says, outraged commuters successfully petitioned to get their driver back.

Is it possible (sniff) that Andy likes his new route better?

“I don’t know,” says Davy, “but I can tell you many like driving that route because it goes along the Pacific Coast Highway.”

Since Andy’s departure, early-morning bus trips have almost been enough to send me into the arms of my car. One morning the bus drove right by me. Another time, the driver missed the freeway exit (and the exit after that and the exit after that) and took us on a scenic tour of downtown.

I’ve been on Andy’s old bus a few times, but the ambience was more like that of a wake. (People talked fondly about him and how he was missed, as if he had gone to heaven, instead of Malibu.) I didn’t expect my bus pals and me to be lifelong friends or do lunch or anything, but the chatter, the zip, the other reason for getting up at the crack of dawn, were definitely gone.

Then the mini-revolt came.

One of our mothers-to-be was just steps from the bus when one of our new drivers pulled away. The woman ran after the bus, but the driver kept going.

That is, until just about everyone on board seemed to come out of their Andy-induced comas and started yelling for the driver to pull over.

The “or else” was strongly implied.

The driver, obviously startled by early-morning venom from such a nice, briefcase-carrying crowd, did as ordered and what could have been an ugly mob scene was averted.

But what this little incident also did was bring us closer together. By the time we got downtown, we were talking again.

Almost like in the old days. Almost.