BUS DWIVAH! Chapter Six

BUS DWIVAH! Chapter Six BUS DWIVAH! Chapter Six

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor



Status: Finished

Genre: Humor



Funny episodes on an elementary school bus.
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Funny episodes on an elementary school bus.

Chapter1 (v.1) - BUS DWIVAH! Chapter Six

Author Chapter Note

Funny episodes on an elementary school bus.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: September 19, 2008

Reads: 257

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: September 19, 2008



Essence of Kid (part one)

You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs and you can't drive an elementary school bus without hearing some of the most excruciatingly funny lines you will ever hear.

In fact, my main problem as a bus driver was discipline. It's pretty hard to pull off a lecture when you're cracking up.

Now, just like with grownup persons, some kids are hard to like. "Weaselness" is apparently genetic, and even some kindergarten kids demonstrate a weaselly tendency early. After a couple of years on the bus, I could spot a potential weasel by his/her third day on my route. You gotta watch the weasels. They're more dangerous in their way than wolves.

But by and large, kids are people dough. They have the right ingredients, they're just not baked yet, and the experiences they have will determine how hard-baked they will become. I saw it as my responsibility as a bus driver to ensure that at LEAST the two hours a day (give or take) kids spent on my bus were safe and, if possible, fun.

Bus Dwivah's Rules:

1) You will not say mean or hurtful things to others. If you do, you will be consigned to the front Seat of Shame where Bus Dwivah can keep an eye on you and the other kids can go about their childish ways without worrying about YOUR bad self.

2) You will not hurt each other physically. This includes a myriad of specifics – of course you can't hit, punch or bite. You also cannot slap each other with your math folder, trip each other with a sly foot stuck out in the aisle. You cannot poke each other with pencils or licorice sticks.

3) You will not damage each other's property. You know what that means.

4) You will not behave in a manner that risks your own or anyone else's safety. This means SIT DOWN, boy in seat three. GET YOUR HANDS IN THE WINDOW, girl in seat ten.

5) You will not make so much noise that Bus Dwivah could not hear a freight train bearing down on the bus. Otherwise, you are free to sing or tell jokes or laugh . You're kids, after all.

And so, my faithful readers, here are some of my favorite moments on Bus #30. As always, identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the innocent. And me.

Connor Bains, 2nd grader, came to us from Tennessee. He had blue eyes, a Beatles' mop of platinum hair and a southern drawl. When I dropped him at his house on his second day on the bus, he stopped at my side and handed me a slip of paper. "My numbah," he said. "Call me. We'll go to McDonald's." He frowned. "You'll have to drive. I'm just a kid." Lil embryo wolf.

Later, when I encouraged the kids to bring decent non-obscene cassettes to play in the bus' tape player, Connor brought his favorite. He brought it every other day, and when I hit play, Connor would lean back in his seat, close his eyes, and sing along with the unofficial Tennessee anthem. "Good ol' Wocky Top, Wocky Top, Tennessee.WOCKY TOP, YOU'LL ALWAYS BE HOME SWEET HOME TO ME…"

It was Connor who christened me, and this series of stories. "Wessee," he said to me one day, giving me a fierce hug. "You ah the best bus dwivah, EVAH."

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Lincoln was a kindergartner when we met. He mounted the bus steps wearing cutoff jeans and a stained tank top and eyed me. I eyed him back. Was I really seeing MUSCLES on a five-year-old? I was. Lincoln was buff.

"You the new bus driver?"

"I am."

"I'm bad. Just so you know." A few days' acquaintance with Lincoln led me to the belief that he was a prime candidate for maximum security at some point in his future.

A week or so later, when Lincoln and his brothers (8 and 10 years old, respectively) were making their way to the bus, Lincoln juked off to the side of the dirt path in front of their mobile home for a second. When he came up the steps, he handed me a dandelion, half gone-to-seed. "Here," he said.

"For me?" I said coyly. "Why, Lincoln, I didn't know you cared."

He looked at me. "It's so you'll like me and don't write me up."

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Flaneé was a sixth grade girl, fat as a match and pot-bellied as a hoe handle. She'd have had to drink chocolate milk to cast a shadow.

One afternoon, she came to me in tears. "What's wrong, Flaneé?"

"Spring," she sobbed.


"Spring said I was the devil's assistant and I have a fat butt." She cried harder.

"Flaneé, you KNOW you don't have a fat butt." (I didn't feel qualified to speak to the 'devil's assistant' point.)

"I KNOW, but it's still MEAN!"

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Crazy little Mikie, a 2nd grader, very small for his age, wears a backpack, apparently full of bricks, and struggles under the weight of his backpack across the road in front of the bus every morning as though he is fighting a powerful headwind. Most mornings, the momentum he and his backpack have developed carry him past the bus door and he has to brake and come back. He has a comment every morning, every evening, delivered in a breathless busy-executive tone.

"I'm walking slow today because my ankles are broken."

You glance down to see no casts, and what appear to be perfectly serviceable ankles. "Your ankles are broken?"

"Yeah, on the playground I walked on the ground too much and I could hear them cracking." A slight frown. "Maybe they're not broken yet, but they're breaking, I know it."

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To be continued.

Bus Dwivah

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