A Bus Ride

“Good morning.” The greeting jolts me upright from where I sit on the bus with headphones in. It’s not directed to me, I realize, as I observe an older man exchanging nods with a elderly woman coming aboard. He holds a leather briefcase in one hand and a bus pole in the other, moving as he speaks to make room for her passing. Feeling slightly embarrassed, I relax back into my seat. The dull rumble of wheels and engine sound beneath me. The music is to help me think. A writer for the quasi-newspaper The Point, I’ve been assigned to write about beauty. That’s it. In some cases, the lack of instruction would be freeing, but I’ve struggled to think of anything. Four days until the deadline. I fiddle with the edge of my shirt and look at the glossy ceiling of the bus. I remember the beautiful sunsets back when I lived in Colorado, the gorgeous reds and oranges that streaked over the horizon. I can write about that. Or maybe I’ll write about the artwork of the Renaissance. I could call up my brother, an art history major; I know how he gushes over it all. I could write about the beauty in stories of love and sacrifice. Or the orchestral music that builds and spills over in beautiful and gripping song. The bus jerks and I catch myself lightly with a hand on my chair. The bus screeches with a hiss of air and continues moving.

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“Good morning,” I say to the older lady coming aboard the bus. She smiles and nods back. “Good morning,” she says. Her pink tweed jacket covers her purse as she moves to sit. I shuffle to make room for her passing. The yellow pole I hold on to tilts slightly, as with everyone else, as the bus lumbers forward. I sniff and reposition my hand on my briefcase. It’s made of Italian leather, given to me by my father when he passed away. It seems like a lifetime ago, and still it feels like yesterday. I take the same bus to work every morning and, after a while, years pass without you even knowing it. I can’t remember the last time I called my mother and asked how she was doing. After Dad’s passing, we coped in our own ways. Both quietly. Individually. My eyes move to the boy near the front of the bus, standing and staring blankly out the window, his arms crossed to grab onto the straps of his green backpack. I want to take his shoulders and tell him, son, you take life for granted and it’ll be gone before you know it. Gone before you know it.

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“Good morning,” I say back to the older fellow. He shuffles to the side, holding the bus pole, and I take a seat nearest to me, just before the bus starts moving. I exhale and smooth the front of my jacket. It’s pink, my granddaughter’s favorite color when she was young and one she never outgrew. People are still friendly nowadays, of that I’m grateful for. It’s not my first time in the city, but a lot has changed since I lived here––was it twenty? No. Must be coming on thirty, yes––thirty years ago now. Katie’s been working so hard, getting an internship along with her studies. I promised I’d visit one of these days, and so here I am. Her mother’s very proud of her. Much like I was of her when she first went to college. It was more than I could’ve ever hoped for for myself. The air is stale in the bus, but I’m glad for the relative quiet of the bus crowd. It definitely wasn’t like that when I lived here. Mornings were a ruckus of bleary-eyed people shoving around in a rush, yelling for whatever they felt needed to happen. Today, I sit quietly and rest my hands on my handbag.

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“Good morning.” Some old people in the back greet one another. The fabric of my backpack is stretched tight, fully packed. I get a better grip on the straps as the bus groans into motion. The hum of the street outside insulates the space inside the bus. I hear the rustling of movement and a few small conversations. Someone zips up their bag. It’s one of those quiet mornings. Not too much chatter. Everyone who sits faces forward and the rest of us who stand face in odd directions, one hand on a pole or extended to grab on to a leather handle from the ceiling. The old lady from the back of the bus pulls gently at her coat and pats it down, replacing her hand on the purse on her lap. I look out the window. I can’t stand to be done with college already, even with all the hours of work that I’m doing to keep doing it. Jae expects me home now that the year is done with, but I caught some work at the university over the summer. You’d expect our relationship to be the best––the older brother who took his sibling under his wing after that tragedy with their parents, the younger brother who goes to university, he must make his brother so proud!––but it’s just not like that. Jae tries too much to be like our mother and father sometimes when I just want him to be my brother. Too soon I’m interrupted from my thoughts by the gravelly voice of the driver announcing my stop through the tinny intercom. The doors squeal open and after a short rocking of the rubber-metal frame, I take the step down off the bus. “Thanks,” I say as I pass by the driver. 

“Yep. Have a nice day.” 

The bus chugs off with a gentle pssht, carrying the rest of its passengers to where they need to go.

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I continue thinking about beauty all the way until I’m off my ride. 

When the idea finally hits me, I know it’s good. It isn’t what is expected of me to write. But then again, The Point is hardly ever what anyone expects it to be. If I can meet briefly with my supervisors––difficult, considering they couldn’t afford the time to give me details on my assignment this week––I’m certain they’ll allow me to insert a fiction segment in this week’s issue. They’ll hate it, probably, after it’s printed. But even though the story is fictional, I can’t think of anything more real. Because sometimes beauty is found in even the mundane bus ride.