The Bus

The bus 6 came at 6:36, as it did yesterday and the day before. As it did each morning. Anne stepped in the bus, smiled at the driver, the same old bald man wearing his white polo shirt, two buttons undone in summer and buttoned up in winter. It was winter now. The last button dug in the fat of his neck. He did not smile back but watched her tap her bus pass against the machine. She ticked her foot, 3, 2, 1 and there it was, the two beeps. She walked to her seat. It wasn’t carved to be so, but it is where she always sat, in the middle, in front of the wheels, by the emergency exit.

She smiled as she walked past the elderly man who got off before her by one stop and always occupied the seat closest to the driver. Each morning he got off at the post office. She always watched him anxiously as he dragged his cane behind him whilst the bus wobbled. She smiled as she passed Martha, wearing her black pencil skirt and black button down shirt. She only knew her name because each morning between 6:36 and 7:00 Martha would take exactly two calls. She’d loudly announce, “Hi, it’s Martha speaking.”

Anne sat down by the window; she didn’t watch the window though. She watched the door and the red luminous digital clock at the front of the bus. At 6:46, he came in. He wore a grey suit and brown shoes and carried a brown briefcase that matched his brown leather belt and brown leather watch strap. Each morning he’d come in carrying a metal thermos he firmly clasped in the hand not holding the briefcase. He took one sip as he sat down. At night she thought about his closet, how she imagined it to be. His polished leather shoes spread neatly, and his suits dry cleaned and steam ironed and hung straight in his closet. She imagined his bedroom, white and his suits, shades of grey, black and brown; colour coded. It was the last thing she thought of before falling asleep. She got off not soon after so unfortunately did not know where he got off.

After the man, came the schoolkids, except for Saturdays and Sundays. There was a group of them and they were not worth picking apart. Aside from their white polo shirts, untucked, they wore black. They moved in unison, sat on opposing ends of the bus and talked in zigzag patterns but their sounds always reached her first.

Anne did not listen to their conversations though. Instead, she turned to face the window, watched trees shrink and grow tall, buildings morph into others and stop. It was her turn to get off the bus.

It was morning again. Anne stood by the bus stop opposite the terraced houses. The bus stop consisted of a post, painted red and made of metal, no shelter. The red paint had started to peel exposing the rusty metal underneath. It was 6:30. She looked left, down the empty road where the bus would soon appear. It was an ugly monstrous thing. Grey and old and the council had proposed more than once to cut the bus route. Which meant she would have to walk 10 minutes down the street for the bus 9. A double decker that promised air conditioning, more leg room and WIFI. After reading the announcement in the newspaper she had called in sick from work. She had made 30 email addresses and had written 30 emails, each ranging in their anger. She felt proud then, exercising her rights as a tax paying citizen. The next week they had announced the bus route would remain.

6:33

She looked left again, at the empty road. Her left hand firmly clasped her bus pass. Which had replaced her work ID.

6:35

No bus.

Anne felt her breath quicken. She glanced at her watch again, at the seconds pushed forward, at the minute that reached 6:36

Fuck.

She exhaled and thought of a possible explanation. The bus driver had a stroke. He was overweight after all. A fire at the bus depot, a multi-car car crash with multiple casualties, or a traffic jam caused by a funeral procession, perhaps for the bus driver. The possibilities were endless.