Madness, Chaos, and Heavy Metal: The Legend of Bus 57

Before we begin, I must request that you turn to your music streamer of choice and play your favorite 80s metal. I’d suggest Metallica, Megadeth, AC/DC, or Judas Priest as you read this blog. Make a playlist. Do you hear it now? Does it feel dangerous? Good. This is a story about breaking all the rules. Now let us begin…

I had a random memory today. Not the kind that neatly slots into a grand narrative about finding yourself or being shaped by a wise old mentor. No, this was different. I realized that my favorite person in elementary school wasn’t a teacher who saw my potential or a principal who offered guidance. It was a bus driver named Cotton. And Cotton liked heavy metal.

Cotton wasn’t an ordinary bus driver. He was a growling, hard-rocking, denim-and-leather-wearing force of nature who navigated the winding roads of Hebron, Kentucky, like he was headlining a Judas Priest concert. He had calloused hands, a beard that looked like it was in a constant battle with gravity, and a farmer’s tan that suggested he spent his off-hours working a tobacco farm—or maybe just standing in the sun, glaring at it for fun.

For the entirety of my bus-riding years in elementary school, Cotton was a constant. Every morning, every afternoon. He was there. He wasn’t chatty. He didn’t hand out life lessons or offer warm encouragement. He wasn’t even particularly friendly to us. He mostly just grumbled through that wild beard of his and drove. And he went fast. Too fast, probably. But I wouldn’t have noticed because I was too busy gearing up for Friday’s war. I needed ammunition.

That was Cotton’s masterpiece—the unspoken agreement that made Bus 57 legendary. If we behaved all week, we were rewarded with a Friday free-for-all: a paperball fight of epic proportions that lasted until you reached your destination. Kids would wish they were the last stop so they could keep fighting! We stockpiled our weapons like seasoned generals, backpacks filled with crumpled notebook paper, rubber bands stretched to capacity, and paper shurikens folded with deadly precision. We lived for the battle. It was our Friday Showdown, and I spent the whole week looking forward to unleashing the beast.

It was a long ride home, out in the sticks where the roads coiled through farmland and past distant houses with rusting trucks in their driveways. That long ride was our battlefield. Our strategy sessions began early in the week, alliances were forged, rivalries stoked. By Friday, it was all-out war. And then, one day in fourth grade, Cotton outdid himself. "Y’all ready?" he growled.

We looked at each other, confused. Ready for what? We climbed aboard expecting the usual slow build of anticipation, but instead, we were greeted by something new—something glorious. Four massive speakers, one in each corner of the bus, wired in with the kind of ingenuity that suggested Cotton had either been an electrician in another life or simply had a reckless disregard for fire hazards. There was no way that any of this was legal. It had the feeling of something dangerous. Something forbidden. Something METAL!

And when the first chords of Megadeth’s “Symphony of Destruction” blasted through those makeshift sound cannons, something shifted. Maybe I was going deaf? Perhaps I was hearing chaos for the first time? We weren’t just kids on a school bus anymore. We were warriors charging into battle, adrenaline pumping, fists full of paper ammunition. Judas Priest, AC/DC, Metallica—they became the soundtrack to our Friday battles. It was, in a word, legendary.

Cotton never said much to me, and I’m unsure if he even knew I existed. Probably not... But years later, I still think about him. About how he carved out a space where a chubby nerd in a farm town could feel like a champion. About how, in his own quiet, gruff way, he gave us something to look forward to, something to make the week bearable.

Cotton left his mark on me—not with words or advice, but with a pair of roaring speakers and a battle tradition that made us feel like we belonged to something bigger than just a bus route. He came to represent the embodiment of METAL.

I still listen to Iron Maiden. And every time “Run to the Hills” comes on, I don’t just hear the music. I hear the chaos of paper missiles flying through the air. I hear the laughter of my friends. And somewhere in the back of it all, I hear the low rumble of Cotton’s voice, growling along with the lyrics, hands steady on the wheel, guiding us home, breaking all the rules, and making life just a little bit more epic.