Route Six

Here's another essay from my nonfiction class. I had to tell a story about something that happened to me recently, from the prespective of someone at least twenty years older than me and over the opposiate gender. The narriator here is something of an amalgum of several people, although I pulled a lot of his views out of my ass. I suppose this was meant to teach us a lesson about the difference between truth and fact.

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The worst time is the in-between time, when people aren’t coming or going and the whole place empties out down to a few stragglers and the hollow rattle of the bus on the pavement. Times like that, you can hear your heart beat.

The rest of the day, it’s hauling cattle—loud, rude, and pungent. I turn down my hearing aid and my world narrows to what’s outside that window. Beer cans scattered across a brown lawn. Sullen students huddled over travel mugs, still resentful that eleven a.m. comes so early. Grey skies gear up for a soggy afternoon. Cars clog the intersections. Traffic is always terrible fifteen minutes before class. One of the old-timers who takes his lunch break at the campus hub, he once tried to explain to me how we’re in a noble profession. It’s a people business. Transporting folks is about more than traffic lights. You gotta know them to do it right. Well, I’ve seen the skirts these girls wear, and I’ve got a fair idea what I’d really like to know.

This is the least personal business. Even the shittiest desk job has you writing e-mails or making phone calls. Burger-flippers get to talk about the customer’s order. The only words out of my mouth all day are “Good morning,” “Good evening,” “You’re welcome,” and “Goodbye.” Telemarketers don’t know how good they have it.

Next time you’re privileged to ride public transportation, watch. I pack them in till they’re noses are pressed to someone else’s neck, and they go and look out the window, read a newspaper, press a cell phone to their ear, or wear those white earbuds and crank up the volume to compete with the Beethoven I’ve got playing over the speakers. These people could be inhaling their neighbor’s shirt without ever noticing its color.

It goes beyond looking. These kids carry on the most personal business on the bus like it was their bedroom, with no one paying them any mind. I’ve heard people break up with their honeys on their cell phones that look like fat credit cards, or discuss the nuanced tactics of getting freshmen girls sloshed. Moments like that, I turn the volume up on Beethoven.

There was this one time, though. It was a long hiatus on campus while the students shuffled in from their afternoon classes to go home. A girl came on and sat not three feet from my seat, cell phone in-hand. She dialed the number from memory.

“Hello? Oh, hey. Nothing. I just got out of class—we had to watch this tedious movie—and I wanted to call. What’s up?” She fell silent. In the dim reflection of the review mirror, she turned her head and her hair swept down like a curtain to hide her face. “When? Does mom…? Right. I’ve… I’ve got to go.”

One by one, students clattered up the steps and filled the seats until it was standing room only. Textbooks, sudoku, and ipods come out. The girl cried up until her stop came. No one noticed.