18

Editor’s Note: This story was originally published in 2012. No details have been changed so as to retain the spirit of the original story. 

His salt and pepper hair didn’t seem to match his unweathered, chocolate skin. As he opened the doors to let me in I made sure to ask,  “Does this thing go to Kennedy Plaza?” unwanting to repeat my previous day’s mistake. He looked at me for a moment before replying, “Yeah, eventually,” waving his arm with a subdued welcome, beckoning me forward with the words, “Come on.”

I sat down staring at the empty bus aisle a moment, relieved I was headed in the right direction. We sat there outside of Cranston East High School, my thoughts scattered when suddenly he spoke, “Miss you need to check-in.” Thankful there was no one else on board, I stood and approached him, not knowing what to say. “Can you tell I’m new at this?” I managed, starting to wonder if this would ever become second nature. Fumbling over my wallet, the man cast a sidelong glance my way before picking the ticket out of my hand. He looked me up and down, saying, “We’ll get you trained,” but his eyes said otherwise…

“I need a transfer,” I said defiantly, wanting to show him I wasn’t wholly ignorant. Again his eyes moved down and back up; gently he said, “It’s printed on the back.” I walked back to my seat and sat down, happy to lose myself in A Song of Ice and Fire for a while.

I had been running late that morning, and when I saw “the bus” turn left off of Pontiac and towards me on Park Avenue, I frantically crossed the street determined not to make another mistake. It then occurred to me that the 22 bus I missed yesterday had gone straight down Pontiac; this bus had just made a left turn.

Without standing up I asked the question I had already figured the answer to, “Is this the 22 bus?” I asked. “No,” the man said, “this is the 18. Goes down Union Avenue.” I hadn’t stood to look at him, but I could see his eyes in the oblong mirror that hung over his head, watching me. I crossed over to him, asking what time we’d get to Kennedy Plaza. Again, he watched my face with eyes that questioned me. Looking down at his watch, he looked up over half-moon shaped glasses before stating “7:55.” The 66 bus to work from Kennedy Plaza was scheduled to leave at 7:54… if I didn’t make that bus, I would be late logging into my work phone (which was not well looked upon).

I continued reading with bated breath, silently hoping I wouldn’t miss the 66. Luckily, we arrived on time, and as I ran to the bus I felt able to breathe again. As I boarded, the bus driver commented on the number of books I had with me; I had taken out some library books from Bryant that needed to be returned through the friend who lent them for me, so my load was heavier than usual. I smiled and made small talk with the grandmotherly woman, red hair shining atop large horn-rimmed glasses. I sat in the front next to a sleeping man and immediately opened my Kindle case. The habit of untimeliness has kept me from reading before work, therefore the hour of free time was a welcome gift.

Across the aisle, a middle-aged woman chatted intermittently with the bus driver, yelling to be heard over churning motors. She had a kind face, which made me feel sorry for her when I noticed her disfigured arm. Whether she had been in an accident or had some type of condition I can’t say, but it was hard to look away from. Unsettled, I looked back down to my book, trying to keep my focus on the character named Jon Snow and not the woman in front of me. After a few moments, it began to drizzle, and I heard from a high pitched voice, “Yowzah, Yowzah!” I pulled the Kindle closer to my face until the words blurred together, noting that my seat in hell was solidified as I held back from laughing.

Karma has a knack for retribution. As we neared the bus stop at the end of Fairgrounds Road, I stood up, grabbed my things, and started walking towards the double doors to make my exit. My footing was a little wobbly, and just as I was about to reach for a pole near the door the bus came to a halt. Thankfully, I was close enough to grasp the pole before flying headfirst into the front windows; I was far enough away that I gave the rest of the bus reason to laugh over my physical catapult. “What are you, trying to jump out the windows?” the bus driver asked, her eyes less kind than they were before. “Might as well be,” I replied, trying to avoid conversation. As my feet touched ground at the end of Fairgrounds, I was happy to be in familiar territory.