At the depot, Cyrus was known as a quiet man who could often be found reading a book in the locker room. Layne knew Cyrus they both worked out of the Manhattanville Bus Depot.
Then, on March 26th, Local 100 of the Transport Workers Union, which represents the city’s subway and bus workers, announced its first two deaths from COVID-19: Peter Petrassi, a forty-nine-year-old subway conductor, and Oliver Cyrus, a sixty-one-year-old bus operator. Throughout March, the sound of passengers coughing added stress to the job. As a rookie, Layne was attacked by an irate motorist wielding the steering-wheel lock known as the Club. Every veteran bus operator has stories about customers who screamed at them, or cursed them out, or spat on them. Layne has been navigating a bus through the streets of New York City for twenty-one years, and he knew how thankless the job could be. We just have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that sometimes the only recognition you’re going to receive is from the woman or man reflected back to you in the mirror as you are preparing for work.” He added, “If no one else thanks you, if no one else recognizes you, know that I do.” He uploaded the video to three Facebook groups for transit workers and continued on his route.
A survival story crack#
Let’s face it: the squeegee man of the crack era is held in greater regard and higher esteem than a New York City transit bus operator. . . . He went on, “Ordinarily we’re not appreciated. “We are helping all of these people live and survive this global pandemic.” “What about the person that needs dialysis? What about the person who needs regular cancer treatments?” he said. We are performing an essential and invaluable task.” He reminded his co-workers that they were not only delivering hospital personnel to their jobs. “Brothers and sisters,” he said, standing in the aisle of the bus, “I want to thank you all for stepping up and coming to work today and showing what leadership looks like. After his last passengers exited, he propped his phone in the bus’s front window and began recording a video message to his colleagues.
A survival story Patch#
Layne, who is fifty-five, wore the bus operator’s winter uniform-navy tie, sky-blue dress shirt-and a knit hat with a patch for his depot, Manhattanville, in West Harlem. Layne knew that his colleagues were terrified of contracting COVID-19, and as he drove along 116th Street he tried to imagine what he might say to them to lift their morale. Most of Manhattan’s workers were staying home, and many of its wealthier residents had fled the city, but Layne and his fellow transit workers were still showing up to their jobs each day, in order to keep the city’s buses and subways running. He went around parked cars and stopped at red lights, all the while contemplating COVID-19-the “microbial enemy,” as he called it, that was sweeping through New York City. On the morning of March 23rd, Terence A. Layne drove a half-empty M116 bus across Manhattan, starting on the Upper West Side.
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