The School Bus Experience

Back in the day, when I was in College, I was subjected to a daily school bus commute to and from my school, located about 20 km from my family home in Box Hill North, Victoria (Australia).

My school day started at about 6:30am, when I stumbled out of bed. After a breakfast of nutritious cereal (my mother was on a health kick) and a multitude of vitamin tablets gulped down with herbal tea, I began the rapid walk down Woodhouse Grove, across the very busy Station Street, to where I caught my morning ride to the bus stop, about 2 km away in Doncaster.

The ride was with the Pastor of our Church (he featured in my article “Did your Parents Deprive you of Fun?”), and two of his children, older than I, who were also students at my College. The family had some interesting cars, including a dark brown Holden HQ Station Wagon, (like the one pictured below) which was my usual ride, and a 1960s EH Holden sedan, which for some reason had no front passenger seat, resulting in the passenger sitting on the floor — probably not too legal these days…

The pastor usually arrived about 5 minutes late, which meant a rather hairy trip to the bus stop. I remember Pastor saying “Hang on…”, as he jerked the steering wheel to the right as we careered on two wheels into Whittens Lane, the road which led to our destination. We were all flung to the left of the vehicle by the motion.

After what seemed like seconds (due to the speed of the trip), we were across the road from our bus stop, outside the Municipal Offices on Doncaster Road.

The Killer Driver

After crossing the road, dodging traffic, we were at the bus stop, waiting for our daily road coach ride to College.

The wait was usually not long, and soon the bus came into view. It pulled up, and the door swung open, and a loud voice bellowed: “Where’s your ticket?”

It was our driver, who was known as “Killer”. I never found out why this was, but suspected that it was either because his surname was a lot like that of boxer Killer Kowalski, or that he had made an art form of killing the egos of male students who were bold enough to challenge him, or not show their tickets…

I will never forget a metal plaque bolted to the bus wall near his name plate, stating in bold letters: “Whether I’m right or whether I’m wrong, I am the driver”.

I did not take me long to find out the “heirarchy” of kids on the bus. The “toughs” had reserved seats in the back rows, as did the girls who admired them, with the rest of the kids occupying the rest. The “newbies” had to sit close to the front.

There were some interesting nicknames that the kids had too, including none bestowed upon a kid with glasses, who was knighted “Marihuana”. I never was able to find out why.

The bus was a lot like that pictured above, and transported us all to and from college in airconditioned comfort, especially on roasting summer days. But there were days when, because the bus company that owned it used it for chartered tours, it was replaced by something less luxurious…

This meant that our commute was reduced to a more noisy experience, involving natural air conditioning (open windows blowing in hot air during summer), diesel fumes, no radio and the back seat “toughs” sitting closer to the “newbies” at the front, which gave them an opportunity to practice their intimidation skills.

Some enterprising students also found out that, with some persistence, the oval windows in the folding doors could be removed, allowing more air conditioning…

But we all knew that it would not be long before Killer and his road coach returned, and were thankful that we were not blessed with this…

The coach also featured a rather cool stereo system, which gave us all a good education in early 1980s “New Wave” music, introducing us all to The Police, The Vapors, Kiss (of course) and The Clash, among others. This was a very welcome supplement to our College education, and maybe should have had assessments with it.

The Other Drivers

Every day, Killer would deliver us to a Church of England school, where we would then change buses, for our connecting ride to my College. Our bus carried students from this school as well as the College I attended.

There were also other buses there, from destinations in Melbourne’s eastern suburbs. Like Killer, their drivers also had interesting names. I recall one named Od Olsen (?) — we named him “Odd”. His nameplate in his bus had Od Olsen — we did not know why.

The Trip Home

When school finished each day, we boarded our buses for the trip to the Church of England school, where we then waited for Killer’s coach to arrive, for the luxurious trip back home.

When it arrived, we pricked up our ears for that familiar voice: “Where’s your ticket?”. He was very particular on ticket compliance, especially with one particular kid called Richard, who was one year older than I was. For some reason, Richard would only need to plant one trembling school shoe onto the bus’s bottom step before the “Where’s you ticket, Richard” would be triggered.

Then the door would swing shut, and we would be homeward bound, with the sounds of Elvis Costello, The Angels and Midnight Oil bellowing out through the speakers.

When we arrived at Doncaster, we were greeted by Pastor or his wife, and hoped that they were not in the EH Holden without the front passenger seat, as this would mean an interesting trip staring at the front dashboard.

Catching Up with Killer

Four years later, I embarked upon my first trip by myself, an interstate trip to Perth. I went by bus — the longest bus trip I have ever been on, across the Nullarbor Plain. It was to a Lutheran Church Youth Assembly, a week-long event.

After a week and a half there, I boarded my road coach with a group of friends, and lo and behold, heard a familiar voice. Yes, it was Killer, who now worked for a long-haul bus company (which no longer exists). He recognised me, from the College days, and had not changed much at all. It was great catching up with him. And yes, he did ask me for my ticket…