I was suspended one month before retirement—all because a parent spotted me at a motorcycle rally. Forty-two years I’d driven that yellow bus. Never an accident. Never late. I knew every child’s name, who needed a morning smile, who needed a quiet word after a rough night. For four decades, I was the first face they saw leaving home and the last goodbye before returning.
None of that mattered after Mrs. Westfield saw me with my club at the Thunder Road Rally. Photos of me in my leather vest, standing beside my Triumph, ended up in her hands. The next day, she stormed into Principal Hargrove’s office with a petition signed by eighteen parents demanding the “dangerous biker element” be removed from our school bus routes.
“Administrative leave pending investigation,” they called it. We both knew it was a career death sentence—a shameful exit instead of the retirement ceremony I’d earned.
Sitting in Hargrove’s office, my hands gripping the chair arms, I tried to stay calm.
“Ray,” he said quietly, “several parents have expressed concern about your… association with a motorcycle gang.”
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