There is an innate terror you feel when you have children and you get a call from someone who tells you that something has happened involving your child.

Before I go on, aforementioned Duck is fine and dandy and sitting right next to me as we speak, so that is the positive to take away from this I think.

At twelve minutes after twelve, auspicious if you are into that thing, I received a call from the Transportation Department of the Rochester City School District.

Now, there are problems with that sentence that I want to break down individually for you to make sure you get the full effect of why I am angry.

So, lets take a look at the sentence in parts.

Twelve minutes after twelve.

My youngest son leaves the house to go to school no later than twenty minutes to eight, and arrives at school a little less than an hour later.

Thusly, and please correct my math if it is incorrect, there was, at a minimum, three and a half hours between the incident, which I will explain presently, and the phone call that I received from the Transportation Department. Three. Hours. Now, I am a logical man and understand that, Goddess forbid, he had been injured that I would have been notified immediately. I am also cognizant that my son was not the only child involved in the incident and Ia m not the most important, go to the front of the line, kind of dude.


The incident, which was my sons bus hitting, albeit at a near stop from what I understand, a passenger vehicle and another bus, think one car trying to shove between a bus and the other car involved, occurred less than a mile from my house. I am a big fat fuck sure, but you see how fast I go when my Ducks need their Bear. I could have been there in less than five minutes.


The call came from a number whose Caller ID read “Service Center”. I screen all my calls and the only reason I picked this up is because I quickly Googled the number and saw it was RCSD related. Perhaps these people could identify themselves in the future a little better, or, as I have told them for seven solid years, contact me on my motherfucking cell phone which is always two inches from my fucking hand, if not in the damn thing.

This phone call could not have been more than two minutes long. My questions were not answered or even acknowledged. She said what she was clearly reading from a script that I assume they have for moments like this and then promptly told me to have a good day and hung up.

Maybe I am being irrational, I can accept that because it is my children. However, is it so wrong that I ask questions that included things like “Is he okay?” and “Do you need me to come to where he is?”

I am not mad at the bus driver, or company. No, they handled their shit and he even talked to me when he got home with the little dude an hour or so ago.

Compassion people, fucking learn it.

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