The Bus.

While I'm often reluctant to share with others much of the creative writing that flows from my fingers on a nearly daily basis, I have on occasion previously included some here. Writing can be an intensely personal process. And its fruit even more so. Yet it is such an integral part of my life, remaining so often shackled in this little box clad in keys.

Maybe sometimes it helps to establish some distance from words you have tried to twist your mind and heart around. In transferring files from my old computer, I rediscovered this short story, penned ten years ago. A lifetime ago.

I had been riding the bus a lot, watching people and wondering what was going through their minds as we traced maps we knew by rote. The smells, sights and sounds were unique, yet always familiar. Watching a microcosm of the world, bus imagery translated itself into a metaphor for life to me -- the adventure of getting on and off this mortal coil and realizing that sometimes you don't have the exact change. But we hold on for the ride.

the bus
Sitting in the bus, my bare legs glue themselves to the blue vinyl bench seat and my feet stick equally to a concoction of bubblegum and spilt soda pop. Office supply manufacturers should market a comparable product: it looks like I am stuck here. Held in place, at least I shouldn't need a seat belt if the bus is to crash.

Outside the window is dark; all I can see are the white, dust like specks that pass by with a rhythmic and hypnotizing regularity. These panes of two-inch glass distance me from the pain of the real world. Hectic. Corrupt. False. Removed. Artificial light within the bus colours everything the hue of parchment. The air is thick. Stagnant. Humid. A man breathes heavily, sweat causing his shirt to cling to his flesh with the force of the air which grasps onto my nostrils. No matter how much I attempt to expel it, there is a never ending supply eager to replace it. His shirt is yellowed, and not just from the light. He coughs. Stale stench is replaced by fresh odours, still growing in their infancy. Maybe they are not so fresh after all. He laughs heartily at the attention suddenly paid to him, exposing two rows of jagged, incomplete, ochre coloured teeth. They match his fingernails.

This laugh has been the only human noise of the entire voyage. The mechanical workings of the bus grind heavily upon my nerves as we jerk to a stop, leaving my pen to rip the page upon which I have been writing. People's tongues lie lifeless, unable to move. They were checked at the door. Silent. Distant. Removed. Their mouths, humid coffins, housing words, unformed. Aborted thoughts. Their eyes are transfixed upon the passing lights: funerary candles whose wicks are soon to expire into wispy grey plumes, easily carried away by the wind.

A woman, dressed as though her luxury car must be in the shop for the day, sits beside the man, unnerved. Upright at the edge of her hard plastic and mass produced seat, she sits – back still arched – looks skyward and rolls her eyes as the man readjusts his dusty jeans. A fly's paradise. His second skin. She straightens her dainty white gloves – creaseless – that fit tightly over her small inelegant pterodactyl hands. Bony. A cubic zirconia-encrusted wristwatch falls from its prestigious perch over the glove. She wears a lie. She lives a lie. A light foundation covers the bruise on her left cheek where her husband beat her. And has beaten her for the better part of forty years. And she still believes she is the winner. The skins people wear.

You sit there, knees perched upon the seat in front of you, a book nestled between them. The knowledge you have between your legs. The power. A man in a dark trench coat and a large hat that allows only a strand of his scraggly, greasy black hair and his beady, opaque eyes to jut out – like headlamps of darkness that pierce the light – peers over your shoulder inconspicuously. He hopes to steal your knowledge. I jot down a warning to you. The book slams shut as you cross your legs. Disappointed, he falls back down into his seat. Crushed. He will never know how the story ends. For him, the story never began.

The persistent drone of the bus's motor is hypnotic in its effect, and lulls some to sleep – the pocket watch of time stood still. It is the urban fairytale, the counting of sheep. Sheep herded off to the slaughter. Like someone who never shuts up, I tend to tune it out after a while. A retired man, his face glazed onto the window, looks like he is at the funhouse mirrors at a circus. Twisted. Contorted. He drools from the corner of his mouth, the result of which creeps down the smooth glass like a snail. A second emission threatens to race it. It races at the pace of his mind, slowed and stale, like the heavy smoke which stands guard over him, keeping people away. His hands are gnarled and yellowed from years of cigarette burns. His breath clouds the cool glass. Clouds from his lungs which are, for once, fresh. The white specks rushing past the window pass by even more quickly for him.

Toward the front, a teenaged couple believing themselves to be in love – her head on his shoulder – is so caught up in the moment of their being together that they are oblivious to all else that takes place around them. Nothing, yet everything. Apathy. His hair is cropped close to the skull, but is covered by a tattered and dusty baseball cap, worn backward. It has been carefully and intentionally dirtied, as is the fashion. Each of his earlobes is adorned – bejewelled by silver rings. A tuft of hair – brush bristles, sparsely scattered – sprouts from his chin. It is as patchy as his complexion. Unkempt, his clothes hang loosely, drooping over the edge of the seat. She slouches as far as does he, but her hair – unwashed – hangs longer and in multiple hues. The bus still makes the colours seem to be simply various shades of yellow. Her rings have lost their way: they cling to her nose – clasping their hands together in prayer, hoping for a reprieve from a sneeze. Their eyes are glazed over from the previous night's partying. They do not need sleep; life is young and the day is there to be seized. Nothing will ever catch up to them. They are immortal. This ride will never end; there is an endless supply of transfers to be had.

Seated in the middle are working parents who sit perched, ready to leap off this shuttle which carries them from one life to another. Lives that blend together but remain separate. Long hours that melt into days in what seems to be minutes. Seconds. The experience of the moment means nothing to them; there is dinner to make, a babysitter to relieve and, if there is time, sleep to be had. There is an eternity for that. His tie – conservative – lies askew, the top button of his shirt peeled open to expose the jugular. Between two lives he leaves himself vulnerable, yet his eyes dart around as though he is able to will the bus to travel faster. A modern Moses parting the sea of traffic in which we threaten to drown. Her eyes, blackened, though lacking make-up, hang droopily like wilted flowers. The flowers of her youth. Even her perfume – lilies of the valley – has faded like years of her life. Her figure. Her passion. There is little of her essence remaining. The woman's eyes are stern and seem to threaten all of the other passengers not to pull the cord that will ring the bell of freedom and stop the bus. It would delay the time of her arrival. What will snap first, the cord or her nerves?

At the very back, an elderly couple with many rides' experience sits, peering from beneath their layers of clothes. Dated, the fraying threads need mending like his heart, which is still warm, but pumps less of life's juices through his hunched frame. Now, his mind feeds life to his core. Will. Stubbornness. Love of life. The clothes are a life's long accumulations. It is as though they want all of their possessions with them when they take their last ride. Though their senses have slowed in direct correlation with their movements – movements cursed as being painful by the working parents, and cursed as being full of pain by the elders themselves – they are still the most aware of all passengers. They take in all of the surroundings: every action, every glance – realizing that they have precious few trips left to take. He jots down his observations in a small, tattered, and yellowed book. She reads, though it appears to be the eyes of those who surround her that are the novel of choice. The pages in her lap, wrinkled like her hands, serve as a guise, hiding her true motive. A decoy. A ruse. She whispers into his ear with a loving look that is more matured and more refined than the one she gave when she whispered and giggled to him during the years that they courted: years they sat at the front of the bus. Many years – many experiences – have taken place since. The rapidity of time's passing has left them slowed, but their minds are as sharp as the burning eyes which feed them. Food for thought. They fill their time observing anonymous people – people they may never see again – but who are not really all that distant to them. Through the years, they have met many like those found here. Everybody is someone else's twin. They have been the teens; they have been the parents crying for sleep. Their stop is coming soon. They will have their time for rest.

The bus slows, but nobody gets off. Another chapter is being written. The street light shines a white beam over two children jumping innocently in the puddles by the curb, careful not to drop the shiny fragments of metal that will guide them through, and gain them admittance to, life. Wet halfway up their legs, they have not paid heed to their mothers' pleas to stay away from the miniature oceans of their imaginations. Pools of life from the fountain of youth. Smiles still grace their faces. Innocence. Careful not to drop the coins clutched in their sticky little hands, they have awaited the bus's arrival with eager anticipation and with a look of glee in their eyes. Their voyage – an adventure – has just begun. The yellow glow no longer seems withered and dated as their childish exuberance, impish grins, and shy giggles fill the stagnant air of the bus. To be able to breathe life again in these aged lungs. A ray of sunshine – a more joyful yellow – enters my heart as the deafening silence is broken by youthful vigour and vitality.

They have a long trip to take, and many more to follow. I close my notepad and you place the wrinkled page marker into your book – the last page – and, taking your hand, I guide you slowly to the door. The bell has tolled for us, and, before reaching the final step, I pause, turn, and smile. The children giggle at the weathered and unironed faces heading through the bus's gates and the parents sigh, rolling their eyes at another frozen moment in their lives. He readjusts his tie. I give one final wave to those who have shared nothing, yet who have shared so much.