South Bound 10:15

-Tuesday: September 18^th, 2012 10:19pm-

John Henry watches a man in his bus window. The callus face does not seem to mind his interest, but the eyes twitch with knowledge. The man's thick hair woven into a net of black grime. Like a cage he thinks. He wears a pair of blue overalls, worn away by engine oil. The face crumples into an abstract grimace. John winks playfully at the reflection, his reflection, in a wry self humored joke before he sinks deep into his bus seat. He eyes a ragged ball of cloth and newspaper across the aisle. A hand is barely visible in the filth, but he can tell it belongs to an old woman. There are a smattering of other people spread throughout the seats, like carelessly thrown trash.

The bus is just as decrepit and sad as its occupants. The seats are worn down to jagged plastic blocks, scratches and cuts gouged deep into the light blue headrests. It seems like some kid has taken a knife and tried to carve his initials into every clear surface. The seat cushions have long since become building materials for a colony of mice. John often muses how they managed to even board the bus. The only way he could see is with a ticket, but the thought of a tiny whiskered face holding up a piece of paper that enormous in comparison just makes John chuckle. Even after thirty-five years he still has a joke in him. Maybe he could tell it to someone, anyone. He glances across the aisle and clears his throat quietly. The woman's hand does not twitch, does not move. All John manages to do is lodge his thoughts in his windpipe, again.

The hunk of metal and plastic careens down Maple Street in an attempt to burst through every green light. The bus driver has worked out his schedule to the second, always on time. He is in his early thirties with thinning brown hair and a broad bearded face. John imagines him with a shaved head and bright orange overalls. His eyes widen and he shrinks closer to the window, as far as he can get away from the image of the inmate he has superimposed over the bus driver. I gotta stop doing that. John shivers and forces his imagination back under his cage of hair. A young woman walks down the aisle and sits in the empty seat in front of him. John thinks she looks familiar.

The driver continues with his foot glued to the floor, but the bus is halted unexpectedly at a blazing red light. John is thrown from his seat and flies straight into the headrest in front of him. The shriek of brakes and metal kills all silence. The bus finishes its sudden stop three inches from the white line and creaks painfully to a stop. John flops back into his seat and the world bends as his head spins. A gentle, worried face talks to John. He knows because her lips keep moving but all he hears is ringing, though it begins to subside. He raises an eyebrow and comically lifts his hands and shoulders in a classic show of confusion. Her smile caresses years of loneliness from John's face and his gaunt cheeks fill in slightly with his reciprocation. His flood gate of terrible humor opens to this woman and he feels the pressure release from his sore head. His words become a silken and smooth syrup, his throat is soothed and not a single syllable becomes stuck. Her blond bangs sway beautifully as she laughs.

The Manchester streets pass by quickly, the lights are all timed to be green by the driver. But John doesn't see any of that, not the pastry shop at Sagamore Street, not Oak Park where he spends every Monday night watching squirrels fight. None of it is real. His world has been reduced to the two torn bus seats and this woman's face. Her name is Sarah, he finds.

They talk for hours, or at least for the twelve minutes until Sarah's stop at Spruce Street. She spreads her lips in a shy smile and flicks her hand in a mock salute before she steps off of the bus and onto the cold dry tarmac. John waves back dramatically, stops himself, and settles down with a nervous cough as a group of drunk college students stumble past Sarah on the street. The nearby bar is bursting with noise, light and bodies. John notices Sarah glance at the crowd with worry but quickly looks back at him with another smile. He watches her as the bus rolls forward and the distance spreads between them. We are shrinking into midgets John thinks, and wishes he could tell her this new and awful joke. He wonders if she takes the bus often. He presses his forehead into his hands in frustration, he forgot to ask.

-Monday: September 17^th, 2012 at 10:11pm-

Sarah Collins waits at the first stop for the bus. It drives from Union Street all the way down to South Willow Street every night and halts for exactly thirty seconds at 10:15pm at the first stop. Sarah knows this, and has known this for a year and a half, taking it every night. The tepid New Hampshire air cannot hope to warm Sarah as she grasps her brown paper bag close to her chest and waits quietly. The buildings begin to weep and rain attacks her precious cargo. It slowly disintegrates in her embrace until bright red tomatoes in the bottom begin to fall to the cement in a juicy mess. Sarah crumples up the hole and shakes her head. Her long soaked stream of hair drips down her back. She looks straight up at the black blocks of re-bar and glass and wonders if there are men on the roof crying.

An old woman languishes in a puddle of yesterday's news on a chipped bench. She breathes gently as the papers become a plastered suit of armor. Protected by words Sarah laughs silently. Her brother had lived by this phrase. He printed everything he could in his column, terrible things that hacked him into bits years ago. Words had done nothing but shorten his life. And what would he have said about her now? That she is hiding, that she should move out of her apartment, leave the city, find a river to live by. Her shoulders sag slightly by this realization as the bus pulls up at precisely 10:15pm with a soft whoosh of stagnant air and a wave of foul rain water.

Sarah climbs on board and sees the driver pick up his phone. As she sits down he pulls out a pill from his coat and downs it. The old woman from the bench bursts through the door in a cloud of melted papers and rain. She falls into the nearest seat and exhales loudly like she has just lain down in a soft bed instead of a cushion-less block of plastic. Sarah blinks sharply and tries not to stare. What happened to her? Is that what is happening to me? She hasn't left the apartment for any other reason than work in months. Her friends have moved on, deciding that Manchester New Hampshire is too drab and simple for their busy lives. Sarah could almost be considered a hermit. Her table at home is covered in Chinese take-out boxes, her couch stained with soy sauce. The T.V. is programmed to record her daily shows, and she never misses watching them when she arrives home each night.

Sarah returns to the moment as the bus pulls up to Campbell Street and the doors force themselves open. An exhausted looking man wearing overalls covered in oil stains climbs aboard and falls into the seat in front of her. She notices his hair is slicked back into mangy ropes like a huge friendly dog. All he needs is some floppy ears she thinks with a smirk. She wishes she could tap his shoulder and talk to him. Sarah fills her lungs with air and holds the breath, intending to say hello. Or should I say something casual? Hi? What's up? What do people say to each other? She stops and thinks, and her chest burns. She lets the air out quietly and stares down at her ruined bag of groceries, the first real food she has bought in a month.

Maybe he would turn around and ask her about her day. She fantasizes about a smile on his lips meant just for her, and maybe a bad joke to make her laugh. But he is watching the green lights pass ahead, one after the other. He wouldn't notice her. Sarah sighs lightly, her hopes falling to the ground like tomatoes through a hole in a paper bag.

Sarah's eyes widen as she realizes there is a way. If she were to sit in front of him, he would see her, he would say something. But as she prepares to get up, the bus stops at Oak Park with a groan and the oil stained man lifts himself up with a cough and hops off into a puddle on the sidewalk. Sarah deflates inside until he looks back through the window and sees her, just as the bus pulls away and the man is drenched in a filthy wave. Sarah watches him as he shrinks into the distance, a midget. She knows if she sees this man again, she will sit in front of him. She mouths the words again and again. Sit in front of him, sit in front of him, sit in front...

-Thursday: September 20^th, 2012 at 10:12pm-

Golden eyes peer at Louise Fox through the windy and crisp night air. She gazes back calmly and carefully takes a bite from a toasted bagel sandwich. The lightly grilled sesame seeds crumble off the fleshy bread and spatter her jacket and blanket of newspapers. A huge gust of air knocks over a trash can and a small wiry tabby cat steps out, sniffing at the ground in front of Louise's feet. She coughs on the dry food and laughs openly. The cats were always trying to get her to care, to feel for them. But she has long since cut ties with any human and animal connection. They only ever wanted favors or money or food or organs. And she had none to spare, one kidney already gone to an ungrateful dead aunt.

A run down bus pulls up at the corner and the gruff driver waves her on quickly, his time schedule already in jeopardy. The woman with long blond hair jumps on quickly from where she has been standing at the corner. Louise shoves the last of her bagel into her mouth and jumps through the closing doors onto the grit covered floor. She rolls over onto her back as the bus's engine whines in a high pitched whir, the driver's lead foot weighs heavily on the gas pedal. Louise swallows and presents two blackened thumbs to the ceiling in triumph. She notices the driver glance at his phone on the dashboard as it lights up. He reaches into his left jacket pocket and pops a striped pill into his mouth. She grunts and lifts herself up slowly, everybody has pills for something.

Louise's entire world, her entire life, consists day by day of the stretch from Union Street to South Willow Street. The 10:15 bus is a twenty-one minute rest stop away from hard corners and languishing alleys. It also happened to be the only damn bus that didn't make her pay, or at least didn't care to check. It is her magic carpet. No cats to steal from her, no half-sympathetic looks. It is just her, the bus driver, and now those two sorry clowns. The guy in the blue overalls jumps onto the bus happily and plops down next to the blondie.

Oh she could do without them. What a pair. They had met two days ago and already were over the cliff for each other. Every time they press their noses together Louise's body involuntarily convulses and she has to cover her face with her half-gloved rag hands in mock terror. How can no one else see how Disney they are? Just slap a couple of big doe eyes on them and the world would melt into a cartoon landscape. There are enough mice on this bus for there to be a full god damn Disney choir she groans internally. Maybe I should bring them cats with me next time to thin the devils out...how did those little gray monsters get on here anyways? With a ticket? Louise grunts and coughs wryly.

The bus stops at Spruce Street. The sickeningly loving couple kiss and Louise involuntarily shies away again. But as the blond woman rises to exit the bus, Louise notices a look in her eyes as she stares back at her oil stained man. She remembers the look, one that her mother used to give her.

When Louise was a little girl and would come home after school, her mother would pick her up and hold her close. Louise always hated it, she remembers, but her mother would resist her tiny kicking feet and squeeze gently. And after she put her daughter back on the ground, she would ask how Louise's day had been, with soft eyes that welcomed her in. She wasn't really asking how her day was, she just needed something to say to fill the space. There was another message in her eyes, the same she could see in blondie's right now. Louise's forehead furrows and her lips twitch into an actual smile. Damn, she thinks as the bus pulls away from the sidewalk, now I'm stuck in this Disney crap dream too.

-Friday: September 21^st, 2012 at 9:56pm-

Charles Fenton slams his cell phone down on the kitchen table and roughly opens the fridge door. The words I'll come get my things tomorrow echo in his head sharply like small needles stuck in his pin cushion ears. He grabs a golden Twinkie from the top shelf and begins to tear at it violently, his ultimate comfort food. Charles glances at the clock over the fridge, a stupid bird clock that projects different bird calls on the hour. His ex-girlfriend got it for him. Probably be the last time he sees it. Right now it is chirping a chicka-dee-dee-dee chickadee call, marking 10:00pm. Charles chokes on the yellow spongy treat and runs for the door as he swears in unison with the clock. Chicka-dee-dee-dee, holy-s**t-s**t-s**t.

Outside the air has warmed from the previous day and the wind has stopped which promises a busy Friday night. Charles stumbles on a rock in his driveway as he jumps on board his beloved public bus. An army of mice scatter into corners as he slams the dashboard and turns the key in one motion and the engine roars angrily. Charles pulls out and heads to Union Street, his first stop.

The lights flash by green, green, and then a red. Charles swears again and bangs the wheel in frustration. He is never late. This route is his baby, probably why his other baby left him. He couldn't lose both in one night. The light flashes green and the bus blasts forward with a jet engine cry.

Charles pulls up at the corner of River Road and Union Street. He checks the time on his watch and sighs with relief as he realizes he is thirty seconds ahead of schedule. The regulars, the deranged homeless woman and the shut-in blond girl, step on quickly and find seats. Charles pulls on the lever roughly and the doors squeal in pain as they close. He grunts humorously. Both loves in his life complained about how he handled them. As Charles shifts into gear and the bus lurches forward, his phone vibrates on his kitchen table with a message. 10:15, take your pill. He remains ignorant of this fact and heads down Union Street.

The lights remain green the entire way to his next stop at Campbell Street. The lanky auto guy hops on and whistles a merry tune before he sits next to Ms. Blond Shut-In. Charles rolls his eyes, that pair of idiot lovers makes him gag. Nobody is that happy, it just isn't possible. And after only three days? He sees the homeless woman cover her face in disgust as the couple press their noses together happily. That's why I let you ride for free Charles thinks with a grin, we agree on a few important things. But he is quickly confused as the woman lowers her hands and her forehead creases with a gentle smile of contentment, her eyes trained on the blond girl and auto guy. Charles shakes his head, but continues to shift to first, second, and then third gears. The bus is nearing Sagamore Street when the green lights begin to flash suddenly in his vision. His eyes are held open by an unknown force and his brain freezes, then burns, then freezes again. His hands are stuck to the steering wheel with iron fists as his body begins to shake in an epileptic seizure. The road slants sideways. I'm not gonna be on time is all he thinks. As he falls into a deep darkness the bus careens straight into Michelle's Gourmet Pastries and Deli right before the turn on Sagamore Street at fifty-two miles an hour.