Storytime: Bus Stop.

November 6th, 2024

The bus was late. Engine trouble. That was okay, because I wasn’t due at work for a whole half hour after I’d planned to arrive – I like to be early. That wasn’t okay, because it meant I was spending longer in the bus stop with my nextdoor neighbour, making small talk.

“I like really little dogs,” he was telling me, making motions with his hands to show the really littleness of the dogs. “They’re convenient. You can keep ‘em in a bag or a satchel or a lunchbox and let ‘em out when you need ‘em. We need to make more dogs really little. I know what you’re thinking – if the dogs are little, what happens to the cats? Won’t they eat the dogs? And that’s where the brilliant solution comes in: we make the cats really little too. Like, kitten-sized. So then we have to make sure the mice get really little so they don’t eat the cats – you ever heard of the grasshopper mouse? – and I’ve got this plan for that, see, it’s oh there’s my ride see you later nice talking to you.”

I waited. His bus was not my bus, and had no trouble with its engine. And along with me waited my fellows in suffering; neighbours of our shared street if not the same building.

“It’s too cold out here,” one told me in a voice like chipped windchimes through her two mismatched gloves and two mismatched hats and two surprisingly well-coordinated coats and her fogged-over glasses and her tragically underinsulated boots. “You notice how it’s too cold out here this time of year? Something should be done about that. I keep telling them something should be done about that, and nothing’s ever done about that. Mark Twain said nobody ever does anything about the weather and that was well over a hundred years ago and STILL nobody’s done anything about it. Why hasn’t anyone done anything about it? I’m tired of being cold. Maybe I should set this bus stop on fire. Oh, there’s my ride. Goodbye.”

“I’m not in love with you,” begged the man sitting next to me into his cellphone. “No, wait – that’s a lie. I’m in love with someone else. Wait, no, that’s a lie too – I’m in love with nobody else, just myself. I love myself and that makes me jealous of being in love with you. I’m really upset about that and now I’m trying to cut myself off with you so I don’t cheat on myself with you, because I want me all to myself. Listen, you’ve got to listen to me: I don’t want this, it’s just that I want this. I can’t not stop myself from not stopping myself. I think you should write me off, forget me – maybe move in with yourself instead and feel better. Eat more fruit. Fruit is good. God I love fruit, not as much as you though, and not nearly as much as me. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to say that, I just said it because I wanted to drive you away from me. Baby, please, please, please, please never call back and call me again after work. Hello? Hello? Hello? Are you still there? I’ve got to go now, love you bunches but the size of the bunches is simultaneously very small and very large.”

There was a soft sound of worn rubber and metal and a cyclist pulled over next to our bus stop and made direct eye contact with me.

“You’re going in a bus soon,” he told me. I nodded.

“That’s a good decision. Buses are good for transit. Efficient, and the more they’re used the more efficient they become as total traffic on the road decreases. It’s an excellent form of transportation if you lack wings, which of course we all do, as we are all humans. Look at my human arms with opposable thumbs on their hands. Look at my human feet with their functional big toes and less functional other toes. Do you understand these relatable concepts I am expressing to you in this manner, through language, through a shared cultural context of communication?”

This was the first time since I’d woken up where I’d had to express myself to another human being, and I resented it. My nod was curt and joyless – not sharp, but robotic, like a dippy bird on the edge of a water glass.

“Joyous contact has been made,” said the cyclist. “I’ll be in touch shortly.” Then he folded up his bike, put it in his pocket, and flew away with a sound like a helicopter made of leather.

“I hate those guys,” said a seething mass of hair that looked like the guy who delivered the flyers to my mailbox. “They ride on bikes and act so cool just because they can transform matter into energy and use it to sustain their lives. They have epidermises and dermises! They contract muscles! I hate them! I hate them all! You know what I mean, right?”
I hated nodding again, but I knew not doing so would be a bigger risk.

“Right! Right! RIGHT! Right. I’m left now.”

He was left then.

“I don’t think that was right,” said the old guy who stood at the corner with a placard telling you where you could get a deal on pizza. “I think that was left. We used to have two lefts and two rights, back in my day, and in my grandpa’s day we have six each and five ups and two downs. I miss being young and have conflated that with my perception of reality, choosing to think of the universe as a story with my perspective featured as a starring role rather than one of trillions of products of it. I’m much better at this than the other two, aren’t I? You think I’m like you and I’m blending in flawlessly, aren’t I? It’s okay, you don’t want to nod three times before work. I’ll leave you to it.”

The bus should’ve been there. It wasn’t. Instead there was a woman in a big truck and a manic expression making totally inappropriate amounts of eye contact with me.

“I’m losing money,” she told me. Then she revved until her tires smoked and left.

I’m normal.

“Hey, get on,” said the bus driver.

I blinked for the first time in sixteen minutes. My face was numb. My hands were cold. I clawed loose my card, slapped it against the reader, and moved on.

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