AGAINST THE ODDS:With shifty fleet controller "Socket" Twomey about to call, a convalescing Vinny Fitzpatrick fears he is about to be routed out, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE

THE HOUSE call from the controller of the fleet at Clontarf bus garage was not unexpected; indeed Vinny Fitzpatrick suspected it was only a matter of time before Seán “Socket” Twomey dropped into Mount Prospect Avenue to enquire about his wellbeing.

Vinny knew Socket long enough to know he had half a conscience and that part of him would be genuinely concerned about Vinny’s health. But he also knew that, deep down, he was a company man who wouldn’t hesitate to shaft anyone to justify his juicy salary.

From the moment he heard 90 buses were being taken off the roads and 150 drivers were to lose their jobs at Dublin Bus, Vinny realised what was coming. He knew that after 32 years of blood, sweat and gears on the buses, first as a clippie, latterly as a driver, he had reached the last stop.

At 52, in a broken down, blobby body, he was a stand-out candidate to take the lump and shuffle out of the forecourt for the last time.

There was a rebellious streak to Vinny which felt he should stand up and fight, argue his case on medical grounds, and stress that the doctors had predicted he could, given enough time, make a full recovery.

Yet, who was he kidding? As he half-dragged his left leg after him and uncurled his mostly unfeeling left arm, Vinny knew the notion of ever getting behind the wheel again was utterly half-baked.

There were alternatives, he knew. He could have demanded a change of responsibility as a consequence of his illness. As an expert at rosters, routings and timetables, Vinny could have moved from behind a wheel to pushing paper behind a desk.

He’d certainly have come up with a better business plan than the one the suits had just devised which would see passengers having to walk further from their front door to get to a bus stop and fewer buses on the roads.

“Don’t these smart Alecs realise how many elderly folk rely on the buses? Asking them to walk an extra couple of hundred yards each way from their homes is lunacy,” he said to himself.

He thought of going undercover as an inspector, in order to identify the drivers who operated the famed banana routes, such as the 16 and 16A on the northside and the cross-city 10. A part of him despised drivers who spent the day driving in bunches, right behind one another, punching massive holes in the schedule and leaving passengers stranded for ages.

Yet, ratting on his colleagues would, after a while, have driven him demented. While Vinny abhorred some of the covert practices of his colleagues, the thought of being a stoolie for the company made him uneasy.

For Vinny, being a Dublin Bus employee was all about being on the buses, nothing more, nothing less; it was about meeting and greeting people, with a smile and a ready quip.

It was about his route running on schedule, no matter if that meant flouting company rules and stopping for folk between stops.

It was about leaving his driver’s cab to help a heavily pregnant woman on board, or the aul wans burdened down with Henry Street shopping. All against the rules, of course, but not in breach of Vinny’s code of service to the community.

He remembered once when Socket warned him of the consequences of helping someone who took a tumble on the bus.

“Say you hurt your back assisting the punter and had to miss work, or were hospitalised. Because if you broke Dublin Bus rules, you’d be goosed,” he had warned.

“If someone goes arse over tit on your bus, leave them where they are or ask the other punters to help. An injured passenger is not your responsibility. Never forget that Vinny.”

Vinny never had, and had helped as many people as he could. It was one of the reasons he loved his job. He had been doing this gig since the summer of 1978, when Argentina won the World Cup and Kerry savaged the Dubs, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

He would miss the dawn patrol, the late shifts, the weekend work, the Bank Holidays; heck, he’d even miss the good-natured ribbing from the snotty-nosed urchins at ’Joey’s, some of whom still tried to sneak on without paying.

He’d miss Mrs Brophy from The Stiles Road in Clontarf who caught the 130 religiously every morning to attend Mass in the Pro-Cathedral where she lit a candle for her late husband Barney.

He knew this because Mrs Brophy sat close to the cabin and told him – at times he felt like a priest in the confessional.

He’d even miss the Nitelink “vomit comet” where drivers, at times, played a dangerous game of risk and reward. But what he’d miss most of all was his sense of worth.

The thought of it all coming to an end saddened him but it was something he had been braced for as he continued to convalesce.

Whiling away the hours at home, where his recovery was progressing at the pace of a cross-city bus at rush-hour, he had done the sums.

His basic salary was a little under €42,000 and the severance package deal on offer was six weeks’ wages per year of service.

With almost 32 years service to his credit, Vinny reckoned he could expect a whack of around €150,000 before tax.

Not bad, he thought, but hardly sufficient to help support Angie and the kids in the long term. Soon that money would be gone and what then?

Having just heard of Everton’s injury-time winner against Fulham, Vinny was in reasonably chipper form when he spied Socket dawdling in the driveway.

“This is it, Vinny, the end of the road,” he thought as he got unsteadily to his feet, aided by one crutch, and made for the door.

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