The Driver

The nameplate over the bus driver’s seat said his name was “B. Love.” Big guy. Broad shoulders. Mid-fifties. Hands the size of supermarket chickens. He was our airport shuttle driver.

Our plane had touched down in Hartsfield-Jackson Third World International Airport. We were riding in the shuttle, which airline passengers affectionately call the meat wagon.

I was riding alongside a lot of people who were trapped in their respective, and invisible, anti-social bubbles, thumbing away on their phones, shutting out the world.

Nobody was socializing. A recent study found that Americans socialize 64 percent less than they did two decades ago. The article went on to say that only one quarter of young Americans physically “hang out” with friends anymore.

But B. Love was breaking through the barrier.

He was a natural comedian. He was happy. He was loud. He was great.

A young family was on their way back from Pigeon Forge when B. Love stared into the rearview mirror and spoke to them. “Remember y’all promised to adopt me?”

The young dad looked up from his phone. Zoned out. “Huh?” he said.

“Remember,” said B. Love, “you said you’d adopt me, when I picked you up in the shuttle last week.”

“Adopt you?”

“Yep. You said you’d make me your son and take me to Pigeon Forge with you, like one of your kids.”

The young dad finally got the joke. He let out a little laugh, then dutifully went back to scrolling Instagram like his life depended on it.

B. Love was unfazed. He was on a comedic roll. There were some musicians on the bus.

“When you taking me on your next gig?” said B. Love.

One of the musicians replied, “Can you sing harmony?”

“Only in the shower,” said B. Love. “But if you bring me a shower cap, I’ll get onstage and I’ll sing so loud I run everyone out of the building.”

Pretty soon, everyone on the bus was laughing. And in a few minutes, nobody was on their phones anymore. We were all watching B. Love. And we were smiling.

I asked how B. Love got into this line of work.

“Man, I’m from Charlotte, North Carolina,” he said, steering the shuttle through airport traffic. “Basketball was my thing. Got a full ride to Kansas State, people was saying I was gonna go all the way to the top. I had a lot of offers.”

B. Love told the story as he piloted through the labyrinth of a million parked automobiles, narrowly avoiding collision with other shuttles.

“I was in college when I blew out my ACL and MCL, and I thought my whole life was over. My career was gone, and I had no idea what to do with my life. I got transferred to Georgia. I never played basketball again.”

He grinned. “But you know what? Looking back, blowing out my knee was the best thing to ever happen to me.”

“Why is that?” I said.

“Because, man. I was an arrogant young idiot. I thought I knew everything. I was humbled, and it changed me. I finally realized what was really important in life.”

“What’s really important in life?”

He looked into the mirror. “People, man.”

By now, my wife and I were the only ones left on the shuttle. We cruised through the parking lot until we found my vehicle. He helped me unload my luggage. I can’t remember feeling so great at an airport.

“Is your name really B. Love?” I asked, before we said farewell.

“Yessir, it is.”

“How’d you get a name like that?”

“Ain’t just a name. It’s my philosophy.”