Buses

A Story by GwenLark

A bus journey through Edinburgh, Scotland

An unwelcome draught creeps its way down my neck. I hold myself tighter. The slightly cushioned seat is not what it once was. It is worn, torn and over the hill. The subject of subconscious comfort to dozens of local commuters a day.

The cold light of morning has pierced its gaze through the small, balding trees. I soar above them at 30mph.

Then we stop.

Holy Corner bus stop.

The clang and buzz of new passengers from down below reaches me at the lofty deck above. The flood of students infiltrating my towering haven begin to noisily adopt a seat as their own.

With a shudder and jolt we continue on our way through the urban jungle of impending Morningside.

Peering out my section of plastic window pane, evading the sun’s unforgiving glare, I enjoy the menagerie that this inner city safari has to offer this early Wednesday morning.

I spy on shoppers, I eye runners, my gaze preys on this subterranean world below.

They puff, they pant, they huff, they push, they shove, they rush.

My inner monologue is disturbed by another river of passengers invading the lower and top decks.

Eyes now cemented in the realms of flying commuters, I realise that the two worlds are not a parallel as first examined.

These people… these human beings are so absolved in the self-importance that grips their perception of reality as it is, they are incapable of seeing what is actually happening in front of their very noses.

The less than grand spiral staircase of this transporter of the public, everyday is trampled with rushing feet, heavy shoulders and busy minds.

The concerned look of a young woman creases her face, the worry is a pale grey paint that masks her once youthful appearance. The large beige bag harassing her left shoulder, lingers down by her hips, heaving her body towards the floor. Her etched, brown eyes are drawn and filled with impatience. The occasional huff of displeasure connotes that she is either late or detests standing.

A boy on the cusp of becoming a man is talking, practically shouting, on the phone:

“Aye… Aye! I’m on the f*ckin’ bus… Ah cannae make it go faster, can ah?”

Patches of stubble being bathed in spittle attracts no one to the vacant seat beside him.

I return to my window, to the fast moving world below. A sudden moan from the halting wheels nearly man handles me over the bar of the seat in front.

A middle-aged man on his phone rushes out in front of this mechanical giant. No waving, no warning. The man careers for the other side of the road then slinks into a side street.

Starting off again.

I can’t help but notice that everyone is miserable, not one happy disposition amongst them. The depressing sight of so many scalded and intense, aggressive eyes is an intimidating picture.

I’m filled with remorse. The undead of the daily routine.

They are oblivious to all the sights, the sounds and the scents that are dancing around them.

Why become so blind to the little wonders?

The same could be said for my entertainment through the looking glass, beneath.

They are so rushed to get to where they are going, so busy to move onto the next task, they never take the time to enjoy what they are doing.

I return to my reflection in the window pane.

My damp mirror image is faint.

The condensation dribbles its way down my face. The droplets are a forewarning to the cosy commuters surrounding me like a horde of penguins fighting for warmth.

I have been listening to a conversation between two strangers.

They discuss the differences between where they grew up.

Tennessee and Sweden.

Their discourse stems from politics and rights, they share a smile a drift into the topic of American television.

A brash southern accent clashes with the soft, stuttering interpretation of English:

“Have you ever seen Dexter?”

“Ehh… Yes… I kind of… stopped watching… Incest… Eh… it is a bit far for me.” He laughs, candidly.

“Are you talkin’ ‘bout the sister havin’ a crush on ‘im? Yeah, it got weird. Ah’ll give yah that!”

“Ehh… I do like… Um… The Wire.”

“Oh ma Gawd! It’s the best! It’s awesome!”

“Yes… I need to watch… it on the, eh, internet… when I am home.”

“Oh! Do you guys nat get it on tv? That has t’ suck!”

They eventually leave each other as unlikely friends. They shared no feud and they shared no political loyalty. All they shared was a mutual appreciation of the other’s opinion and The Wire.

I turn to the-

“Excuse me? Can I sit here?”

A little startled, I stare like a frightened rabbit at a girl. About my age. Her straggled, blonde hair hanging limply down by her ears is smeared across her face. Her rake-thin, bony physique is covered delicately with an oversized jumper clinging to her shoulders like drapes and electric blue jeans hug her lean and lanky lower limbs.

I immediately apologise and remove my handbag full of books and mints from the free seat and placed it clumsily on my lap, slightly embarrassed she had to ask.

The translucently pale girl elegantly fills the void between us.

It was then I realised that I would now have to escape from the upper floor and make my way downstairs, for the next stop was mine.

I humiliatingly have to ask the girl to move again.

She laughs sweetly, and kindly obliges.

I brave the steps.

They move as fast as the wheels and absorb every knock and break this poorly-kept road has to offer.

This is dangerous.

I sheepishly take the first step.

Then. The bus halts abruptly.

I seize this small window of opportunity of safe passage between the two worlds of above and below and leap down with haste and anxiety.

I render the driver astonished as I lunge for the doors before they snap shut, nearly tumbling onto the familiar safety of pavement.

My temporary observatory rolls into first and, almost, floats away.