Davidson Craig - Precious cargo: my year driving the kids on school bus 3077

PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF CANADA

Copyright 2016 Craig Davidson

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2016 by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

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Alfred A. Knopf Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Davidson, Craig, 1976 , author

Precious cargo : my year driving the kids on school bus 3077 / Craig Davidson.

ISBN 978-0-345-81051-9

eBook ISBN 978-0-345-81053-3

1. Davidson, Craig, 1976 . 2. Bus driversCanadaBiography. 3. Authors, Canadian (English)Biography. 4. Students with disabilitiesTransportation. 5. Children with disabilitiesTransportation. 6. Children with disabilitiesCare. 7. School buses. I. Title.

LB 2864.2. D 38 2016 371.9 C 2015-905915-1

Cover images: (wall) Stacey Newman / istockphoto.com;

(man) Stefanie Grewel / Getty Images; (sky) tanakawho / flickr

Interior photographs courtesy of the author

Illustration The Seekers copyright 2016 Adam Gorham

v3.1

To the riders on route 3077: The Gang.

We are all children of eggs.

ASHANTI PROVERB

When I took the job that led to the book youre holding, I had no intention of writing about it. If anything, I thought maybe I would use a few of my experiences as fodder for a novel, as we writers are notorious for doing. I took a job driving a school bus because I was penniless; it was that simple. But it didnt take me long to realize something special was happening. As a writer, my instinct was to share that with others. So I sent letters to the kids parents to inform them of my intentions; and I let the kids know that, in addition to being their bus driver, I was a writerand that someday, maybe, Id like to write about all of us. I began to take notes, jotting down conversations and my own thoughts during what would turn out to be a transformative year.

When the school year ended I sat down with what I had. I wasnt sure what to do with it. In one sense it was all too rawthe material itself, and my inkling of how to approach it. There were elements of a personal memoir, but as I saw it, the primary focus should be on those kids who had given me so much joy and opened up my world. These ideas marinated in some cubbyhole of my cortex as I moved on to other work.

Three years after my last day on the job, I decided to write a magazine article. Id written biggish pieces beforefive thousand words or longer, big by magazine standardsand felt this was the best approach. I did a lot of research. I interviewed specialists. The finished piece was roughly seven thousand words, or about one-tenth of the book before you. I was pleased with it, but also felt Id left much unsaid. In 2013, I sat down to write the entire story. By then, my own life was significantly different. I was a new father, and my bus driving experience had taken on a different resonance in light of this. This book reflects that deepening of experience, or at least I hope it does.

One last note: nearly all the names of people in this bookincluding the names of all the kids save onehave been changed. In some cases their defining physical characteristics have been altered as well. The kids are adults now, and their names arent of vital significance to anyone aside from those who love them. What is important is who they were, and are; and who I was, and became. I hope I have managed to be faithful to the experiences we shared.

CRAIG DAVIDSON, 2015

I trudged across a field against a late-September wind that flattened my jacket against my chest. The moon was still visible in the early morning sky. The odd vehicle wended down the road bordering the field, pickups mostly. The western foothills rode the earths curve like the backs of breaching whales. Weak ripples of sunlight washed over the hills to touch blades of wet grass, and in that instant I felt as if I was walking through a field lit up in flame.

The wind died down by the time I reached my bus. My key slid crisply into the lock. I grabbed the Maglite from the cup holder and popped the hood release. Outside, I swept the flashlight beam through the engine compartment. Everything looked tickety-boo.

I shut the hood and stepped inside the bus. The motion-sensor alarm sounded, a staccato beep-beep-beep. I keyed the ignition and waited for the glow plugs to warm. The engine fired, coughed, coughed, then caught.

I silenced the alarm. Flicked on the CB radio. Checked my gauges. Got the heaters pumping even though the engine was stone cold. Those small tasks accomplished, I walked between the bench seats with my head tucked so it didnt hit the roofId made the mistake of walking upright my first week on the job, only to have a loose rivet on the roof tear a nifty little groove in my scalp. I pulled the security pin from the rear emergency door and moved back up the aisle, slapping the seatbacks to make sure they were secure. My fingertips brushed against a hardened wad of Windex-coloured gumthe stuff Oliver had been chewing yesterday. Wed be having a little heart-to-heart about gum on the bus, young Master Oliver and I.

I grabbed the broom from under the front seat and walked a circuit around the bus. I took a good swing at each tire to check the inflation, relishing the rubbery bok sound. I give the muffler a stiff crack, too. Crouching down, I couldnt see any hoses or wires dangling from the undercarriage. I popped the side door, lowered the wheelchair lift and raised it up again. It had been sticking a bit lately, but today it lifted smoothly. I cracked the emergency door, heard the buzz and shut it. Checked the hazard lights, headlights, high beams, signal lights, fire extinguisher, first aid kit, thermal blankets, traffic triangles. I eyeballed the seven-way mirror system: the fish-eyes, the riot mirror. Checked the windshield wipers and horn and emergency brake, the fan, the squelch button on the CB radio.

Check, check, check, check, check.

All systems go. Rock and roll.

At a quarter to eight I pulled onto the road. The radio murmured: A few Code Yellows; a driver no-show in the north end. The wet streets shone in the new sunlight. I drove past schools and gas stations and a 7-Eleven, rolling with the tide of morning commuters. I pulled up to a stoplight beside a big school bus. The driver and I exchanged the customary school bus driver salute: one hand lifted halfway off the wheel, fingers outspread in casual greeting.

The buss automatic transmission dropped into second gear as it forged up a hill and slipped effortlessly into third as I crested it. The Rocky Mountains rose into air so blue and clear it held the sparkling effervescence of freshly poured seltzer. I pulled up beside a white-sided house. I angled the front tires into the curb, flicked on the hazards and engaged the parking brake, then hopped out and snugged wooden blocks under the rear tires.