Substitute bus drivers don’t get no respect. Some regular-route bus drivers are aware of this. They tell me that they won’t tell their kids when there is going to be a substitute so that the kids won’t have time to make nefarious plans.

It’s a fact that the kids act differently for the regular bus driver than for the substitute. I will ride with the regular bus driver to get familiar with the route before the day on which I will be substituting. The regular bus driver, who may have been driving for as many as twenty years, knows each of the kids by name. As she negotiates the traffic and the bus stops she will be keeping an eye on the kids in the rear-view mirror. As quick as a flash she will grab the intercom microphone, call a kid by name, and let him know what’s going to happen if he does that again. For good measure she will add “And don’t give me that look!” This routine might happen several times on a morning or afternoon route. Does it work? Yes. On the routes where I’ve ridden with the regular driver there is a semblance of order and the noise is held to a dull roar.

In comparison, when I drive that same route as a substitute it’s like New York City during a blackout—there is looting and lawlessness. The bus driver has given the kids assigned seats. She knows which kids to keep separated and who should be sitting in the front near her. If a kid dares sit amiss the regular bus driver catches her quickly with a quick glance in the mirror. Sometimes she doesn’t even need to use the intercom; she just gives the kid “the eye” via the mirror and the errant kid repents.

“Do we have to sit in assigned seats?” kids will ask as they board when they see they have a substitute.

“Yes.” I say calmly. I don’t feel calm, but I can’t let them know that.  I am at a huge disadvantage. I have no idea where the kids are supposed to sit. Some of the kids have figured this out. They take advantage of my ignorance and sit next to the friend the regular driver has taken pains to separate them from.  I know this only because sometimes another kid will call them on it.

“Bus Driver! Billy isn’t in his assigned seat!”

The noise and physical activity level spikes when I drive.  I catch glimpses of kids popping from one seat to another like popcorn. I see no rhyme or reason to it—it’s just because they can. They can because I don’t know their names. If I get on the intercom and yell, “Hey, you!” I have sixty-five kids staring up at me with eye’s that say, “You talking to me?” Sometimes the popcorn kid will make the mistake of making eye-contact with me in the mirror in the act of changing seats. I raise a questioning eyebrow and they sit still for about two intersection. Then they pop again.

The dull roar that accompanies the regular bus driver turns into a deafening cacophony when I drive. Again, not knowing any names I can’t single out the epicenter of the noise to apply some noise cancellation. On one particular afternoon route the noise went from cacophonous to insane.  All the kids were yelling. Some of them were screaming. I don’t mean screaming words; they were just screaming noise for the sheer joy of it. Others did scream words.

“BEEEE QUIIIIIETTTTTT!” they said. They were trying to do the right thing, but they enjoyed their part of the noise making.

As a sub I have learned to hunker down and tell myself, “Just forty minutes and the bus will be silent again.” On this day I I couldn’t take any more of it. I pulled the bus over onto the shoulder and stopped. This alone quieted the bus. The kids knew something was up. I unbuckled my seat belt, got up, and turned to face eighty-five pair of eyes.

“Shut up!” I told them, collectively. I was very articulate. Then I went on. “I don’t mind you talking and enjoying yourselves, but what’s with the screaming?”

That was it. I beat Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address for brevity.  Most had looks on their faces that said, “Whoa, that was unusual for a sub.” They were back up to a dull roar before we went a quarter-mile, but they did keep it just under insane. When I dropped them off many said, “Thanks for the ride,” or “See ya.” I was the only traumatized one on the bus. That route has become one of my favorites to sub on.

There is another route that drops kids at different spots along ten miles of highway.  The regular driver knows just where on this highway to stop. I don’t. One tree or fence post looks like another to my inexperienced eyes. Even after a familiarization ride with the regular I can’t make heads or tails out of the stops. As Blanche says in A Streetcar Named Desire, “I have come to depend upon the kindness of strangers.” This translates into me asking the nearest student where the next stop is. In almost every case the students have been extremely helpful. They seem to take pride in getting me where I need to be. When they haven’t been helpful, they’ve been playful. Several high school students were getting off at the next stop. I called back to them, “Right here?”

“No,” called out five voices. “It’s up there.”

“Okay,” I say, and continue to roll up the highway.

“NO,” call out five different voices. “It’s right here!”

I’m in a predicament. I have no idea how to tell which group of kids is telling the truth. I question them again and both sides are adamant. I make my decision and roll to the “farther” stop. There are yells of triumph and cries of anguish from the back of the bus. Five kids get up to get off the bus. The last one, a tall girl with long brown hair, speaks as she passes. “It was back there,” she said.  I had been got.

Being a substitute bus driver is not easy. But it’s not so bad, either. For all the noise and being-taken-advantage-of I am meeting an awful lot of really nice kids. I meet many more kids than the regular drivers because I drive so many routes. Everywhere I go kids will wave at me. These kids don’t just give me a quick wave; they wave enthusiastically with a big smile.  Most of the time I don’t recognize them, but I know they are from the bus. This always touches me. I’m only a substitute bus driver, but for some reason I matter to them. This makes the entire experience matter to me.

My daughter, a high school senior, likes to sleep as long as any other teenager. I have seen her get out of bed at noon. She is also well-practiced at early mornings. Last Friday I was to pick up the elite high school choir and band at 7:00 am. My daughter got up extra early to be with me while I fueled the bus and performed the pre-trip inspection. When I engaged the parking brake in the loading zone with its “Hushhhh” and opened the doors sleepy-eyed high school students began boarding. They carried music folders, instruments, blankets, and bags filled with snacks. One student lugged in a double-bass that was bigger than him. A girl followed holding her green-frog pillow close. Like all good high school students they gravitated toward the back of the bus. The double-bass got the coveted last two seats. Those students who were planning on sleeping chose seats in the middle of bus where it would be quieter.

Finally everyone was loaded—except for one. He hadn’t arrived.

“I know he’s in bed asleep,” said the choir director in a resigned voice. “Anyone have his number?”

Someone in the back of the bus yelled, “He doesn’t have a phone. Neither does his house.”

“What?” Several people including the choir director asked the question. Not having a phone today is almost rude.

The choir director hesitated a moment, the she said, “Let’s go get him.”

We drove across town and up his street. In front of his home I pulled the parking brake with relish. I loved the sound on the sleeping street.

“I have an air horn,” I said, reaching for the cord. I was mostly teasing. All the houses on the street were dark, including the neighboring house with the highway patrol car parked out front.

“Let’s just send someone to pound on the door,” said the choir director.  The boy we were missing was on the football team. We sent out a fellow team member. We could hear him pounding on the door over the idling engine of the bus. Eventually a light turned on and the door opened. I caught a glimpse of a long nightgown. We had awoken his mother. Not two minutes later the sleeping beauty came bounding onto the bus with his favorite red-fuzzy pillow. His classmates cheered. With him now on board, we were off on our eighty mile journey. These students had been selected to be a part of the honor choir and band along with top musicians of nine other schools.

In Richfield I dropped the band student’s at the high school. I took the choir students a few blocks south to the middle school. This brought back memories.  Thirty-three years earlier I had been in the high school band and choir. A bus driver had dropped me off at All-State events for a day of music. Then, I hadn’t foreseen the day when I would be driving a bus and seeing the face of my seventeen-year-old daughter in the rear-view mirror among the other kids.

It must be strange when your dad is he bus driver for a high school trip. If he was cool looking maybe it would be all right. I’m not so cool looking. I’ve got a flattop haircut and a baby beer belly even though I don’t drink beer. My fashion sense is lacking and my clothes are non-descript.  My daughter doesn’t seem to mind even though she is beautiful and fashionable. Once our eyes met when I glanced in the rear-view mirror and she smiled at me.

I loaded the students for lunch and dropped them off at a shopping center where there were lots of places to eat. I didn’t have any cash to give my daughter for lunch. She was going to have to stay with me if she wanted to eat. I saw a Pizza Hut and told my daughter we would eat there. I love Pizza Hut’s Pepperoni Lover’s pizza. When the last person got off the bus, I shut the door and turned to find six kids with my daughter.

“Looks like we have a group, Daddy,” she said, happily.

I hadn’t expected this. Instead of the nice, quiet lunch with my daughter I would be the adult tag-along to her and her friends. Actually, I like being with groups of teens.  I feel comfortable with them. The problem is they don’t feel comfortable with me. I’ll wonder why, when I try to engage them in conversation, I feel reticence on their part. Then I remember, “Oh, yeah. I’m an adult. They’re uncomfortable with their friends’ fathers.” I’m prepared to stay quiet during lunch and let them do their thing. I didn’t stay quiet. When our server spilled a tray of six drinks at our table conversation opened up. I was able to get to know my daughter’s friends a little better during lunch. I probably talked too much. My daughter, who sat next to me, didn’t appear concerned.

On the way back to the bus my daughter laughed as she told me, “Some of the kids knew you were my dad. Others figured it out. The rest are wondering why I’m hanging with the bus driver.”

It was eight-o-clock when they finished their evening rehearsal. It was very dark outside. I had the bus going and the lights on when the kids started boarding.  Somewhere in the middle of the line of kids my daughter climbed on. She stopped the line long enough to kiss me on the cheek. What a sweet thing that kiss was. Her kiss made a rather plain, middle-aged man with a flattop feel like a million dollars. It was like she was asking the other students, “Don’t you wish your Dad were here?”

I had sat in on the choir’s evening rehearsal. The guest conductor was very talented. He pulled the kids together and drew beautiful music from their throats and hearts. I felt lucky to witness this coming together of voices and souls. It was on the long drive home that the music of the day became even more beautiful. My daughter felt like talking to me. She moved up to the seat right behind mine. For eighty miles I heard the music of her voice in my right ear as we chatted about the things on her mind.  All of the kids had had a wonderful experience throughout the day. For me, I think it was the best school trip ever.

In the mornings the kids get on the bus sleepily. Very few of them will answer my “Good morning.” They sit silently at the back in the pre-winter dark like tombstones in a graveyard. In the afternoon these same kids bounce onto the bus full of vinegar and energy. Some of the more thoughtful kids will meet my eyes and say “hello,” but most look past me to the seat and the company they want. The noise level rises so that I can’t hear the chatter on the bus-to-bus radio. The shortened but constant movement I see in my rear-view mirror reminds me of what I see when I look down on an ant pile.

At the ninth mile outside Nephi, one mile short of Levan, I begin looking forward to the first stop where I can release some of the pressure that has built up inside the bus. It isn’t until after the second stop that I feel relief. The driving elements of the chaos are gone now. While I still see many faces looking back at me in the mirror the remaining kids have returned to their human state. I can see their afternoon plans passing behind their eyes as they await their stops.

Finally the last child climbs down the steps and turns up the street, backpack swinging on one shoulder. I raise the steering wheel, release my seat-belt, and begin to walk the bus to make sure a sleeping child hasn’t missed his stop. I only walk halfway when I stop. There is a girl sitting in the third to last seat next to the window. She was reading until she lifted her eyes and met mine. Such a stillness had come over the bus when the “last” child got off that I hadn’t expected anyone else to remain.  A little embarrassed I return to my seat.

This last girl on the bus lives at the dairy—another three miles out of town. Sometimes she is on the afternoon bus. Sometimes she isn’t. The bus can legally hold 84 students. For these last miles she has it all to herself.  She always does. I glance at her in the mirror as we roll up the highway. Her complexion and hair are fair mixing well with the sunlight that comes through her window. It is almost like camouflage. I can see how I missed her on the last stop. She stares out the window at the pastures and sage brush as we go. My daughter and this last girl on the bus have been friends for a long time. They both dance and dream. This girl talked her mom into getting her a functional mermaid costume. For an entire summer she wore her tail in their little fill-up-with-a-hose pool. Central Utah suddenly had mermaids. The world needs more dreamers like that.

Each time I drive her in her private, yellow coach she is quiet. I always wonder what dreams fill her mind.

I pull into the dairy entrance, stop, and open the door. The cows are curious and stare. They stink.

“Have a good afternoon,” I say.

She flashes a quick smile. “Bye,” she returns.

I watch her as she begins her quarter-mile walk across the gravel to her home at the other end of the compound. She walks with the grace of a dancer. She carries her head with the lightness of a dreamer. She is on the cusp of adulthood. I sense her hopes for the future. I foresee the disappointments she will face. As I watch her my hopes and dreams for my own daughters and everyone else’s walk with her—this last girl on the bus.

It’s amazing the things you do in life that you never imagined.  I’m now a substitute school bus driver. Being a substitute school bus driver is not a thing most of us aspire to. No, it’s an occupation that you fall into when it comes along at the right time. I’m finding it more than just an occupation—it’s an opportunity, an adventure. The opportunity lies in suddenly finding myself a part of so many other people’s lives—from the other bus drivers to all the kids. The adventure lies in . . . well, picture 84 kids on a bus; some are bullies, some are sweet, some are sick (throw-up variety), some are exuberant, some are sad, the list goes on. You get the picture.

Being a substitute bus driver makes me a rookie. The ladies (in my case all the regular drivers are ladies) have been driving between 10 and 25 years. They are veterans.  Blizzards, heat waves, mechanical breakdowns far from home, sick students—they’ve seen it all. I worry about the day that something unforeseen is going to happen on my bus. Will I be able to handle it appropriately?

The other day I was picking up at the high school. There was a line of busses in front of me in the usual order.  As the doors closed and the busses began to move out one of the veteran drivers radioed me.

“Tory, can you follow me to Levan today? I’ve got a feeling this bus isn’t going to make it.”

I wondered what that was about, but I told her I would. Levan is a very small town ten miles south of the high school. Even with its small population there are three busses of kids that travel into Nephi every day to the primary and secondary schools. Just outside of Nephi the highway climbs a ridge. I was a quarter-mile behind the veteran’s bus and was catching up. Catching up was unusual. I noticed her bus was leaving an unusual amount of diesel fumes behind. As I got closer I smelled, not diesel, but burning brakes. I could see smoke pouring out of her right, rear tire wells. This looked serious to me. I radioed her and explained what I saw. I wondered what she was going to do. The highway to Levan is well-maintained, but it has no shoulder whatsoever. Instead there is a steep embankment that could roll a bus.

“Okay,” she said, calmly. “I’ll pull off at the IFA road. You follow me.”

She knew the road well. There was a turnout for trucks that needed to turn off the highway to go to the IFA plant. That way she would be able to get her bus off the busy highway. She pulled off and I followed, not knowing what she was going to do.  As I waited for further instructions the third Levan bus pulled in behind me. The driver was another veteran.

“Tory, send all your Westside kids to me,” she said over the radio.

My kids were going crazy with the excitement of an unexpected stop and the high that comes from breathing the fumes of burning brakes. I didn’t understand what she meant. Some of my kids had understood and the next thing I know about a third of my kids were filing off my bus and getting on the bus behind me. No sooner were they off my bus, than all the kids from the bus in front of me were filing on to my bus in an orderly fashion taking the places left vacant by the kids who had just left.  The bus behind me then left for Levan and I followed. Behind me I saw a state trooper arrive. The first veteran driver had called on her cell phone in case there was a need for traffic control. I also heard that a tow truck was on the way to pick up the driver and the bus.

In town I now had to drop off kids from two different routes, neither of which I knew. A high school student, sensing my dilemma, came up and guided me to each stop. After the last student got off I sat amazed at how smoothly the whole situation had been resolved. The first driver sensed there was going to be trouble and prepared for it by having me follow her. The third driver, when she heard our chatter on the radio, knew that there was going to be a transfer of students and that my bus would be overcrowded. She stopped without being directed to and took the students that were closest to her route. What could have been a very disruptive situation was kept a minor incident by the professionalism of these ladies. As a rookie, I can only dream of playing like the veterans one day.

I recently joined the ranks of the Juab School District bus drivers. This surprises and humors me. Never in all my days on Earth had I ever envisioned myself driving a school bus. I suppose it’s fitting for a man with eight children. When hauling my children my minivan is practically a school bus. But it isn’t the same at all.

I went through forty hours of classroom and driver training not counting the time I spent studying the Commercial Drivers License (CDL) book. During this training I actually parallel parked a 40 foot bus. I haven’t parallel parked a car in thirty years. The training was good and has certainly made me a more conscientious driver.

The scariest part of becoming a school bus driver is the stories I hear from my own children. You see, I am not a regular school bus driver; I am a substitute school bus driver. I have been told they get no respect. The drivers with the regular routes run their busses as if they were their own little kingdoms. They have to. Everyone reading this knows what can happen on a bus if there aren’t rules that are enforced. When a substitute takes one of these routes for a day many of the kids see an easy mark. The government has fallen and they want to see what they can do with the resulting power vacuum. My daughter told me that one substitute just turns up the radio and lets the kids go crazy while he hurries to each of the stops and the final prize of an empty bus.

I had my first substitute run the other morning. I went on a practice run a few days before to get to know the route. The bus driver I was substituting for was very responsible and had selected a student who knew the route well and who got off last to be my guide. I needed this since I would be doing the route backwards from the way she was showing me that morning. On the practice run the kids were pleasant and well-behaved.

The afternoon of my run came. My first challenge came in figuring out how to open and close the door. I had driven four different buses up to this point, but this bus was different from them all. Luckily I had left enough time to get it figured out without being late for my first pickup. I pulled into the elementary school bus lane behind four other busses. They were all veteran drivers. I definitely felt my rookie status. The moment came and the kids came streaming out of the school. I greeted each of them as they got on the bus. I noticed that each noticed I was a substitute. There was this look in their eye, like prisoners eyeing the new warden. Immediately I heard complaints about kids sitting in the wrong seats.

“Sit in your regular seats,” I say, exerting my wardenship. But I don’t know which seats are theirs so I can’t enforce anything. Eventually the kids sit and just in time for over the radio I hear Red Leader say, “Let’s roll.” The busses leave the lane like a convoy, only they all turn right and I am told to turn left. My little, eight-year-old guide is present which brings me comfort. I get a little concerned, however, when I see her hunker down in her seat with a video game.

I make another pickup at the high school and then take off to deliver my load of precious cargo. I remembered where my next stop was and figured out I was going to get there. I couldn’t remember how the regular driver gets there, but it won’t matter. My precious cargo thinks differently. As I turn right from the right-turn lane of the school parking lot a horrified cry goes up from every student on the bus.

“No, Left! Turn left! You go left!

The cry was so loud and frantic that against my better judgment I did a J-turn in my forty foot bus. I did check for traffic first and did not cause any of those famous CHIPS forty car pileups.

In my inside rear-view mirror I saw a student standing up. This is a safety concern and I called to him to sit down. He did. This is when one of the cutest little girls of about ten-years-old spoke up. She sat a few seats back from me.

“You aren’t a very good driver,” she said.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Good drivers don’t tell us what to do.”

She looked like such a nice girl. I had repeat to myself twice what she had said to decide that she was wrong. About this time a seven-year-old boy comes running up the aisle with a pencil that he is going to throw in the garbage. We are on the highway driving sixty-five mph. It occurs to me that he shouldn’t be running up the aisle, but he does it with such confidence that I don’t say anything as I wonder. It’s the other kids that remind him that he was breaking a safety rule. I know he wouldn’t have tried that with the regular driver. Six-year-old: 1. Fifty-two-year old: 0.

When we reach Levan I hear a frantic, “Turn here! Turn here!” This call went out as we were passing the street at thirty-five mph. My little video game playing guide hadn’t looked up in time.

“I can handle this,” I think. “I will just go around the block.”

The kids see a weakness and pounce. “Just let us off right here,” they cry. “This is way closer.” I know better and keep going to their cries of dismay. Finally I end up out on Powell Lane with one little student left. She looks like she is four, but she must be at least six or seven. She doesn’t give me any trouble. I drop her off at her long lane and see her mother waiting at the door. Then, with a wonderfully empty bus I drive the thirteen miles back to bus compound. I had survived my first run.