the bad boy charter

last week i drove what is known as the 'bad boy charter.' i drove into new york to receive word that i would probably have to do drive a charter. ok, i thought, this may not be too bad. i looked at the orders. it was to pick up in columbus circle and drop off at a place in the berkshires at a 'boy's farm.' uh-oh. i've picked up on a few euphemisms like this before and usually the more pastoral the name, the more high security it is. after all, why is a jail referred to as the farm? the farm seems to be the euphemism that is used for whatever place that people and things go to whenever they are no longer useful or safe to have around. don't worry, son, spot has gone to the 'farm.' he's happier now, running around with other dogs. but the prospect of driving some juvenile delinquents to a small complex in the mountains didn't seem all that bad. maybe a few spitwads, paper airplanes or shouting, but how bad could that be? the longer that i hung around, the more i heard about this charter and the less enticing it seemed. other drivers asked me what i was doing for the day. oh, the berkshire charter. ooohh, they'd all say, the bad boy charter and laugh a bit.
soon, one of the dispatchers informed me that the 'guards' would show up after they had lunch. 'guards?' i inquired. yes, guards. sooner or later it became evident that maybe this so- called farm for boys was more of a correctional facility for grown up 'boys.' maybe they would even be in shackles and led onto the bus in a chain gang by shotgun toting sherriffs in mirrored sunglasses. as strange as it sounded, this was almost enticing to me. the idea that you wouldn't have to reply to any charter groups whims or fancies was appealing, despite the lack of any tip[ that i would be receiving.
the guards became 'chaperones' from other drivers and dispatchers and suddenly the idea of a prison bus was again replaced by pleasanter images of teenagers being driven somewhere accompanied by their guidance counselor and english teacher on a field trip. i secretly wished for the security of the shotguns again.
the quasi-counselors showed up around 12.30. they were a rag tag group of 20 somethings dressed informally in t-shirts and jeans except for the the jamaican man with dreadlocks stuffed under a cap. i was told that these counselors/guards with no shotguns of any sort were familiar with new york city and where we were going to be picking these kids up as i wasn't. my accompanying guest was mr. dreadlocks. so what's the best way to get to columbus circle from here, i asked him. huh, he says. i don't know the city. i'm from poughkeepsie. great. i followed the lead bus anyways through the afternoon rain and flood of taxicabs to a construction overhang where we were picking up this motley group of kids who were given the choice between voluntarily showing up and an arrest warrant. most showed up with girlfriends or mothers with some baggage in tow, looking just like they were going on a weekend adventure out of town on the bus. not exactly thugs, but they were quiet, a little scared maybe, but were just like any other group of kids going on a field trip.
we began to make our way back to the lincoln tunnel and one of my counselor/guards struck up a conversation. rick was a little older than some of the others and asked me questions about my job. where i drove to, how i got the job and what was required. hmmm... stroking his unshaven chin, he said that he might just think about putting in an application himself. i don't think that he was bus driver material, but i didn't think it too wise to let him know what i really thought. too often, you stay friendly with whomever in the seat behind you has taken a fancy to strike up a conversation with you because you realise that it would be all to easy to reach around while you are watching the road and slit your throat with a homemade shiv. perhaps borrowed from one of the 'boys.' and so we talked for awhile and rick every so often walked to the back of the bus and hung out with the boys. at moments like this he blended in and i had a hard time remembering that the boys had anybody shepherding them to the 'farm.'
after a few hours, we arrived at the complex and were greeted at the door by more counselor/guards. still no shotguns, no barbed wire. we drove the normal expected route for a chartered bus, that is, down tiny dirt roads and through ruts that were barely meant for passenger cars much less 20 ton busses, dodging, overhangs and garbage dumpsters, while mr dreadlocks forgot about the delineation between his boys and the driver. 'stop here' he would say in thick whispered jamaican and a few times i asked him what? 'stop at the next house!' he barked back, familiar in his role of tough love. not only was mr. dreadlocks rasta a counselor/guard, but he was also skilled at trying to control how we drove and how to back up the bus. pull up farther, turn this way, he said sitting in the front seat trying to direct my maneuvers. the grand finale ended at a deadend where the other driver and i took turns backing into a short driveway around an electric pole and dumpster while trying not to bury the tires in the muddy dropoff. mission accomplished. the bad boys were safely in their dormitory style housing, rick was dreaming of becoming a bus driver and i was on the way home without a tip or a thank you from mr. rasta dreadlocks and no mirrored sunglassed, shotgun toting county sherriffs.