Seven Stops

I adjust my skirt for the third time, pulling it a little higher towards my waist. I'm not happy at all, plus if the wind blows, I'll struggle to keep it against my thighs. I undo the side latch and let the skirt fall to the floor, pick it up with one leg, and throw it over the pile of clothes on the bed. Clothes that I've tried on that I didn't think were an inspired choice for a job interview I want. I'm not so indifferent that I'll wear anything. Come on.

The songs that play on my phone are constantly changing. I put on a pair of jeans, glancing in the mirror. I need new clothes. I'm going to get the shopping bug again. It's okay, Emma. You deserve to treat yourself, I tell myself.

I walk out the door, lock up, and check my phone, hoping the time will change, but the clock shows me I'm still late. My heart is pounding, and my keys seem to slip through my damp palms. In two minutes, I should be out front and walking through the door like a punctual person who shows up on time, not the kind of individual who shows up twenty minutes early to make sure he’s on time, but I will be just very late.

I've always felt lucky that my block is right in front of the bus stop, but bad luck was also not absent when I came out of the staircase, and the bus was already leaving the stop, which happens very often, including now. I sigh and sit down next to the pole on which the nameplate with the name of the station and the numbers of the buses that stop here is hung. Well, I have seven stops to go, and I informed the lovely lady at HR when I woke up that I would be late. Now that I think about it, it would have been wise to pick out my clothes the night before and not put myself to bed past midnight.

After a few minutes, the bus came, and I found it unbearable. It was as if I had spent too much time at the stop, which was the reason for the delay, not because it had taken me forever to get up and get ready. I clench my jaw as the bus doors open, but only two people get out. Because I have many stops, I get on and try to make my way through the many people stuck together—during rush hour.

First station. It moves so slowly that I feel like getting off and running to the building of - I hope - my future job. My new job... my new salary... my new colleagues. So many changes create an excellent feeling akin to setting off on a new adventure and a fear like I'm plunging into the great unknown. My skin crawls, and I get a few shivers, but then I think of the more satisfying paycheck. I could afford more things, like an apartment on which I could pay installments for the next 30 years and more vacations.

Second station.

Ah, I wish I could go to the sea. To plunge recklessly into the cold, salty, itchy water, to be violently buffeted by foaming, aggressive but not so dangerous waves, just enough to sink me underwater and feel my head all over the place, and the hot sand stinging my soles. How I'd love to get in my boyfriend's car and drive there, to hear him complain about the infernal heat in the vehicle because the air conditioning uses more gas and we can't throw money out the window, although we could use a new car, possibly with rear-wheel drive to fool around in once in a while. Let's not forget that we don't have the money for too much gasoline either, and there is no way we can afford a second-hand "new" car. I remember how many sandcastles I used to make at the seaside when I was little and how I wished I was an adult because I wasn't allowed to sit in the water all day, hoping that adulthood would bring me the right to spend a whole day in the sea. Yes, I can do that now; I thought dissatisfied. But now I'm on the bus where I face the heat from the hot, sweaty bodies of the grumpy adults who are still going to work today and will be going all their lives because we're not lucky enough to win the lottery.

I'm already at the third station, and my phone is vibrating in my hand. I pick it up and see the name above the Answer or Reject options. Great...

"Yes", I say as soon as I answer.

"Yeah", hello to you too. 

I'm not saying anything.

"You couldn't do the dishes last night? You are always like this."

I look to my left and notice a lady giving me a judgmental look that raises a particular curiosity, making her not take her eyes off me. I press the button that turns down the volume on my phone, and my heart begins to pound. I can't articulate any response to my brother, who is fidgeting and reminding me of various responsibilities I didn't complete yesterday, so I keep quiet. I look to my right and see several middle-aged people scrutinizing me from head to toe as if waiting for a response.

"I'm on the bus; I can't talk", I say flatly.

"Sure, arrogant. See you at home. When you come, pick up the laundry. I want to do the washing."

In a voice as slow and controlled as possible, I say:

"You gather, I'll wrap them."

He snapped on the receiver and I hung up the call without letting him throw the next insults. My stomach clenches tighter, my blood boils, and my muscles tremble slightly enough that I notice their spasmodic movements but controlled sufficiently that no one else notices. I put the phone in my pocket, and the bus leaves at the fourth stop. People turn their eyes on me and how I hate talking on the phone in public, especially in a space where dozens of people are crowded together. It annoys me, especially when I'm talking to him. It annoys me when I see everyone staring. However, these people have nothing else to do, which is understandable in such a boring routine. Going to work, work, going home, arrive and sleep, and a new day reveals precisely the same schedule.

We reach the fifth station. This is one of those times when I get angry enough to wish I was dead. Of course, I'd never kill myself, but it's times like this that I want my life to stop. To have nothing to deal with, no problems, and no one to blame me or someone close to me begging me to stop being angry as if suddenly all my negative feelings would miraculously disappear at their words. Ah, Mom and Dad do that every time I talk to them, when it gets to the point where I get angry. Even my boyfriend does that. And every time it happens, I wish I was dead. Who else are you going to tell not to get mad?

The bus is still too full and struggling to close its doors due to people trying to crowd in, trying to get in the vehicle, and disrespectfully pushing other passengers. If I had left earlier, I would have avoided this congestion. Even in traffic, there are more cars than usual. With all these accumulated nerves now, I'd have enough strength to push the bus from the back so I could get to the damn interview faster. Actually, no. I'd rather be at home hanging out on my laptop, pretending to work from bed because my little room has two desks occupied. One was assigned to my boyfriend when we decided that he will move here. I bought a new one for myself, but it has also changed its use, becoming a perfect holder for the steering wheel and shifter that my boyfriend and I occasionally play with after we finish our schedules at our mediocre jobs. I could take the laptop into the kitchen and do my chores on the new white table, which replaced the old brown one that supported numerous weekend family breakfasts and daily dinners, which Mom and Dad ate. The entire apartment was changed when they left the country, and the place looked like they never lived at home.

The bus stopped between the fifth and sixth stops in a massive queue of cars. The boulevard is overcrowded, and we last moved several minutes ago. To hell with the congestion!

I imagine my mother holding me, and my eyes start to water. I haven't seen them in almost a year, and when we see each other, the visit only lasts a week. At the thought, I begin to feel the morbid loneliness that fills me up and pops up from time to time. It's like I don't need anything anymore because I have this whole aura of loneliness that comes over me and takes the place of food and water. I sweat, and wet patches form on my shirt at my armpits. My nerves are frayed, and my stomach is increasingly churning, and I immediately feel a giant emptiness. It makes me angry how my privacy and personal space at home have been so brutally violated for several years. Even though I used to live with four people in the apartment as I do now, I didn't share a room with anyone back then, and the kitchen was always tidy. That's how I would like to make all those who hurt me daily pay back the way I do, with tears and snot. Sometimes, it only takes one stimulus for my nerves to explode in my body. I feel like screaming. Loudly. Right now. The scream always sits at the top of my lungs, waiting to come out, but it doesn't leave my lips now or ever.

And as usual, along with all these nerves and anxiety comes the classic guilt. I don't want to see my family suffer. Not even my brother. My boyfriend has no idea about my crying sessions because if I told him, I'd see his sad, helpless face. I'd like to have an exorcism, get rid of Bad Emma, and only have the Good Emma, who is always much happier than Bad Emma, even though she is sadder. Of course, there's no such thing. There are no two parts I can separate according to my wishes.

My body is numb with nerves, and I feel so guilty. I wish I could scream at Mom and Dad so loudly and accuse them of terrible things, questioning their love for their youngest child. What I wouldn't give to be Good Emma, who isn't angry and doesn't look for trouble with anyone. And if I feel guilty anyway, why can't I shut my mouth? Because if I did that, I'd be betraying myself. I'd let others behave as they please, even if it hurt like hell in my chest.

I finally reach the seventh station. I didn't even realize when I passed that whole red zone. I get off and let the air cool me down from all the trouble. If only it were that simple. That way, I'd even let the sea breeze rustle my wet skin, making me feel cold, and then the scorching late July sun would come in and dry me out immediately and warm me up so much I'd get back in the water. I want to go to the sea.

I took the phone out of my pocket, and the clock showed a late hour for the interview I had scheduled about fifty minutes before. A 20-minute commute by public transport ended up being that long because of the rush hour in the capital.

I see more benches on the boulevard. I want to sit on one because there's no way I will make it to the interview anyway. I missed my chance again because of the evil thoughts I usually have. So what if I stayed dressed like that the first time and didn't try on all the clothes? I would still be late, but not an hour late.

And still, something imaginary in my body boils with nerves. I live in a confusion that I don't know how to get out of because, accompanied by these emotions that don't give me peace, I feel unfortunate and guilty for what I think and want instead of appreciating my life, which is not so bad. I've heard some people refer to these states as an illness like depression or bipolar disorder, but I've also heard the complete opposite from people who thought I was exaggerating. Whatever it is, it's very unpleasant.

I look up in bewilderment, seeing the building and thinking how foolish I was to think I could arrive an hour late and have the lovely lady in HR greet me like I wasn't even brazenly late. What an illusion. I needed this job so badly. You jerk. I don't even understand why I go there. I could stop at coffee shops on the boulevard, grab an Irish and walk through the park in peace, calm down and visualize my next move, and then get home and ask my boyfriend for a few beers to celebrate the interview. I wish I could lie to him, but I can't. I wish I could drink to numb all my feelings, at least for one night, which I might, but without the lying part.

Before I know it, I'm at the door. I decide not to go in. I feel exhausted. I want to shout at everyone, and at the same time, I want to keep my mouth shut so I don't make anyone sad, which I never manage to do because I get too angry. I'm such a loser. All the while, I'm constantly whining; I realize how many people would consider me lucky and wish for a house with loving parents who pay for everything and a caring boyfriend, while the money I earn helps me buy almost everything I want. Some people would now like to walk in the clothes I wear to an interview, even if it were a job that pays an embarrassing salary. But if I accept all of that, it's a denial of the feelings I have and disregard them. I don't want to treat myself superficially. I want to go home with all the hustle and bustle, sit in my lover's arms, and rest like a baby sleeps after crying for a few hours because his gums hurt.

"Excuse me," says a voice that wakes me from my reverie. 

I step aside, and another girl opens the door and holds it open for me to come in. Without thinking, I step over the threshold. She looks close to my age while looking rushed and stressed. Another person is late for the interview? Is it possible? Without another word, we enter the building together. Several chairs are set up in the lobby, and I wait to decide to sit on them. I wonder if this girl was late, but even if she was, I'm convinced she only made it in an hour.

A door opens behind me, and I turn around. The girl in the chair, who had just sat down, rises lightning fast. Out of the mysterious room comes a boy in a plain, white T-shirt, a pair of blue jeans, and an equally casually dressed woman who guides him out with a broad smile. In fact, I'm the only one wearing a shirt. Then the woman turns to us and asks:

"Hi, girls! Are you here for the interview? Can I have your names?"

Initially, I hesitated and let the other girl introduce herself first.

"Clara Taylor."

Then the woman looks at me, waiting for a name.

"Emma Wilson."

"You made it," she says with a hint of compassion. "Are you all right? Come inside, and then Clara, you’ll be next, okay?"

I am shocked. Somehow, I managed to get the interview. I also have a chance to get the job; I have a chance to get away from the current stress of the measly salary that won't allow me to move out of the house, sparing my parents from having to pay my ass a lot more and what I consume in the apartment we all once lived in. After all, they moved out due to the country's economy conditions, and now I'm old enough to support myself. I can do it; I have to assume adulthood.

“Thanks,” I say to the woman, following her into the room and closing the door behind me.