Bus Stop Bus Goes
A short story by Claudio D’Andrea
All he wanted was a little peace on this day, in this season of Silent Night, Auld Lang Syne and all that. Peace and silence. Some alone time while he sat there on the cracked vinyl seat three rows from the back of the bus on a cold, crisp January 1st morning.
Some quiet to collect his thoughts. Or, rather, to empty his head of them. To think of…nothing and nobody.
No book or iPod or cellphone. Heavenly peace. To sleep, perchance?
The empty bus steamed through golden brown slush and charred snowbanks, taking him downtown to a security desk post and chair that awaited him for the next eight-and-a-half hours. All was quiet, all dark except for the streetlights of a sleeping city.
Well, not all quiet. On this rickety ol’ bus, he could feel every window rattle and each shake, creak, lurch, clunk, stop, squeak and roll. But it was just him and the driver feeling all this noise. It was blessed.
The tick-tick-ticking of the signal and the screeching squeak of the brakes as the bus pulled to the curb would rob all that was holy and right from this silent morning.
The squeezebox front doors shuttered open and closed, three coins thunked and shuddered down the money chute and the bus driver pulled to the left and back into traffic.
The next passenger lumbered her way down the narrow aisle, past all the empty seats, to the row three from the back. She turned to her left and sat in the narrow space next to his bulky self. The only passengers on Transit Windsor bus 619. The only seats with people on them, besides the driver.
A shock of grey hair streaked down the back of her head, like a skunk’s stripe, and she had a tiny tuft of whiskers on her chin. She extended a rigid left arm fully and propped it against the armrest so her body could angle closer to his. Her face a smoker’s-whisper from his nostrils surrounding her other scent — mothballs — coming from her dun and dusty overcoat, she stared at him silently for several seconds before speaking.
She: Hi there.
He: Um, hello.
She: Snazzy uni you got on there. You a cop?
He: No. Security officer.
She: Hm. I’m not very secure so I guess you can’t do anything for me there, eh officer?
He: …
She: How come you ain’t texting or listening to any music through those little ear buds? Some guy like M&Ms? Ack! You know, kids like you should be listening to real bands like the Hollies. Ever hear of them? ‘Hey Carrie A- A- Anne…’ You know that actress Carrie-Anne Moss? That’s how she got her name. I wish my mama called me Carrie-Anne.
He: I know her but I don’t know about no Ollies.
She: That’s Hollies. You’re cute.
He: …
She: Bus is deserted. City’s deserted.
He: Hmm.
She: Know what I hate about these bus rides?
He: Not really, no.
She: People. There’s always people on them. That’s the problem with buses. The people who ride them. They’re the shits.
He: ….
She: You don’t talk much do you? You’re like one of them British bastards in red, standing there all stiff and sure of themselves in front of the queen’s palace. Won’t even crack a smile if you reached down and grabbed their crotch. What would you do if I reached down and grabbed you there, where it hurts — and feels — so good?
He: Um, excuse me?
She: John Mellencamp. Used to be John Mellencamp Cougar. John Cougar before that. That’s a line from one of his songs, Hurts So Good. Probably never heard of him either eh?
He: …
She: I wish I could change my name every couple of years like he did. But then when you’re famous and rich, you can do pretty well anything.
He: [coughs]
She: Relax there big red. I’m shitting with you. Just hang onto your big nightstick. They do let you carry a nightstick eh?
He: And a flashlight.
She: Gee. Bet the crims shit their pants when you shine a light in their eyes.
He: Look, I don’t have any money if that’s what you’re looking for. Or cigarettes — I don’t smoke.
She: Hold onto your big stick there. I ain’t after your money. And I got enough smokes.
He: Then what did you want.
She: A…slice of…your…time.
He: …
She: Ain’t you interested in why I hate all the people who ride the bus?
He: Let me guess — they don’t talk enough.
She: They all fucked me over. They fuck everyone over. All of ’em. They could be my mother, always too busy primpin’ and preenin’ in front of the mirror to notice the little girl reaching up high to tug on the hem of her skirt for attention. Too busy to see that my ol’ man got off when he realized there was another hole in the home he could get off on … before he went off for good and left us. They could be my first boss, the fucker. ‘Look here Mary,’ he would say and smile and sneer, shunting his chair next to me and spreading his legs. ‘You could really get ahead in this company if you want,’ and his eyes would look to the open space underneath his desk. ‘I mean that. You’ve got the look of someone who’s really going places. You have the whitest teeth I’ve ever … come across.’ Fucker. They could be the little bastards and bitches at school talking and laughing behind my back. The uncle who fucked over mom and her share of the inheritance when granny keeled over. That sick fuck who shot up the trading floor on Wall Street Christmas Eve and killed all those people and sent stock prices tumbling down and pissed off everyone who just wanted to get back to the business of making money and couldn’t understand why the market was still shut down Boxing Day. The blonde bimbo bitch on CNN who delivered the news all somber and shit and then smiled while she told the next story about the trained dogs driving a car. The ungrateful daughter who holds her own daughter hostage from her mother. The bus driver all snarling and sullen ’cause he has to work New Year’s Day and his ’roids are itching like tiny butthole worms. Or the only guy out this time of day who drives past you at the bus stop. The woman you can see in the window pulling down the ornaments from her tree — too soon to be doing that, don’t you think? What’s her story? Justin Bieber. The Pope. Michael Bolton. Psychopaths and the NRA. Stephen Harper. Cherry-cheeked little blonde girls in ponytails. Seal clubbers. The doctor delivering his cancer diagnosis: ‘Sorry, you have about six months — give or take.’ The Tea Party. Steve Jobs. Muslim extremists. People, people, people. I hate ’em.
He: …I don’t know what to say. You’ve had a lot happen to you.
She: People have happened to me, that’s what happened to me.
He: And people are the root of all evil?
She: People are the evil — root, stalk, stem and leaf.
He: …
She: So you never heard of The Hollies eh? He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother. Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress. The Air That I Breathe — “All I need is the air that I breathe and to love you…” Sucker. Bet he died from starvation.
He: Huh?
She: It’s a joke. Boy, you got to loosen up. You’re not on duty yet. You mean you never heard The Air That I Breathe?
He: I think Maroon5 has a song with that title but it don’t sound like that.
She: That another pretty boy band — all looks and no talent? I hate pretty boy bands. I hate Bieber too. Did I mention Bieber?
He: Yes, you did.
She: You got a long way to go?
He: Ahem, too long.
She: What’s that?
He: Nothing. I have to go downtown.
She: Then me too honey. Downtown. Now there’s a classic. Petula Clark. ‘When you’re alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go—’
He:…
She: You’re supposed to sing the next word — ‘downtown’.
He: You mean like on Seinfeld?
She: Bingo! Finally, a connection. Boy, I thought you were like all the others who don’t know what they’re missing. Like that no-good child of mine and her useless boyfriend. Fuckers. If there is a god, why did he curse us with a womb? Just to give birth to ungrateful children? Fuckers. All of ’em — Hey, I thought you were going downtown! Why are you getting off here?
He: It’s a cool, fresh morning and I could use the exercise. I’m making it my New Year’s resolution. What better day to start?
She: You want some company?
He: NO! I mean, no thank you. I think I can take it from here.
She: What’s your name anyway?
He: Jesse.
She: I’m Marra. But people call me Mary or Maria. I wish I was Carrie-Anne — just like the song. Here’s your bus stop. Bus Stop — that’s another Hollies song. “Bus stop, bus goes, she stays, love grows under my umbrella.” You’ve got to listen to the Hollies y’know. That can be another one of your New Year’s resolutions. And in the spring, god willing, maybe I can share your umbrella. S’long there Jesse. Keep ’em safe and secure.
