The Bus Stop

The Bus Stop

by Mark Burton

Wednesday, 2/21/01 12:04 A.M. Thursday, July 21, 2005, 7:43 A.M. the last section was added.

The man looked at his watch. It was exactly twenty minutes till his bus would arrive at this bus stop. It was freezing cold outside, and the wind whipped around him, but there was no other place he could go that really mattered. He shifted his dark brown trenchcoat closer around him, pulling his ears down within the collar, his old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat covering most of his head. Only his eyes, like dark desperate diamonds shone out of the trenchcoat collar. “Its so goddamn cold,” the man said. He looked at his watch. It was 19 minutes and 40 seconds till his bus should arrive.

It was a desolate street corner. The bench had no shelter to block it from the elements, and was mostly stark. The graffiti carvings seemed like dead scribbles in the mind-numbing cold as the man looked at the bench. “Suzie hearts Tommy,” the man said, with some unknown irony in his voice. He couldn’t tell what the irony was, but it seemed fittingly ironic somehow. It was 19 minutes and 25 seconds until his bus should arrive.

Up the road, grizzled brick buildings hunched close to each other, a couple being dead ones, but even the dead ones hunched with the live ones. Down the other way, a few signs brightened the otherwise dead gray buildings. A gas station, a liquor store, a dentist office, some printing company, the post office, all looking tired of advertising and all starting to look the same with age, with only color to distinguish them. It was 19 minutes till his bus would arrive.

Trash was in the street, but it was cold trash that didn’t blow around, it was stuck in the slush from the snowstorm, in the black slush leftover from the cinder trucks. A few saplings were lined along the other side of the street. They were naked and cold and hibernating. It was 18 minutes and 30 seconds till his bus should show up.

The man thought about going to one of the stores with the dead cold signs. They wouldn’t all be closed at 7:43 P.M. If he bought liquor, he’d need to finish with it before the bus came; he figured he could do that, but he didn’t see much point in getting drunk. He could go to the gas station and buy a snack, eat it in the store, most likely it would be an old run-down gas station with terrible bathrooms and a couple of beat-up booths to sit in to smoke or eat your overpriced food. He looked at his watch. It was 18 minutes and ten seconds before his bus would come.

He got up. The words of his mother came back to him, “Don’t ever stay out in the cold when there’s anyplace warm to be had, don’t need a son of mine catching pneumonia.” The man trudged up the street towards the gray buildings with the tired signs.

He stepped into the gas station. It was 17 minutes and 35 seconds until his bus would arrive. He made a resolution to go for more than a few seconds before he looked at his watch again. Then he began to take in his surroundings.

It was, indeed, a run-down gas station. The floors were somewhat dirty, the lighting was dim, and stacks of beer and cigarettes and lighters were in plain view everywhere. The tired utilitarian rows of food and ubiquitous items that ultimately led to the drink refrigerators seemed to lie out like an old woman on her deathbed. He turned to look at the cashier.

Blonde hair, long flowing thick soft strands of blonde hair cascaded around a beautiful heart-shaped face. Blue eyes with intellectual depth and lush sensuous lips brightened even more the beautiful face. A woman of perhaps 23, who was beautiful in a cashier’s uniform. She had glanced up when he entered, when his hat and trenchcoat still obscured his face, and was now reading a book again. “Damn,” the man said in a breathless whisper.

He quickly decided on some jalapeno cheese crackers with a Dr. Pepper as his small snack. He walked up to the cash register. She turned her eyes from the book to him.

The woman saw thick, mysterious curls of hair, a jawline as hard as a boxer’s, gray eyes filled with curiosity, not a weightlifter but the man had solid shoulders just the same. He looked to be around 30. He looked very tired, though, as was she. Not momentarily tired, but a long-term weariness.

“This all for you?” she asked in a musical voice, giving a half-hearted smile.

“Mm-hm,” he said with a nod and a small tired grin. Her nametag said Gloria. She rang up his items.

“That’ll be $1.51,” she said, running her hand through her hair. The man flipped out his wallet, thumbing past various dog-eared pieces of paper. He laid down a one, then fished out two quarters and a penny.

“I came in for a while to get warm. Cold work waiting for the bus,” he said during the process.

“Yeah, I know, weather man says it’ll be a high of 7 tomorrow. Sometimes I think about trying to move away, but I don’t know where I’d go. Exact change, eh?” she said bemusedly. She put the money in the cash register and handed him his receipt. “Thank you. So what are you doing waiting for the late bus?”

“My car broke down yesterday, so I’ve been taking the bus to work. I had to do some overtime work, and I got stuck with a bad bus run. I’m catching the 8:01… stupid, isn’t it? They couldn’t just make it the 8 o’clock bus,” the man said, hoping to spark some conversation.

“That is dumb, what difference would a minute make to their schedule? Anyway… the store closes down at 8:00, you’re welcome to stay in here until then and keep an eye out for your bus. Make yourself comfortable,” Gloria said.

“Alright, I guess this seat’s as good as any,” he replied, picking the closest booth to the cash register. As he started opening his Dr. Pepper, he asked, “So what book are you reading?”

“Oh, it’s just a mystery romance, something to pass the time. I wish I had a better job, but there’s no work for an art major in this city,” Gloria said.

“An art major? What kind of art do you do?” he asked interestedly, opening his crinkling cracker package.

“Clay pots, sketches, oil paintings, watercolor, I’m not very good, but I love to create things,” she said modestly.

“If I had artistic talent, I wouldn’t be doing other people’s taxes right now. I’d love to be creative if I had any talent,” he said around a spicy cracker, chasing it with the cold burning fizz of Dr. Pepper.

“We’ve all got a talent for something. Sometimes it’s hidden or suppressed. I’d go crazy if I had to do any more taxes than my own, you must be patient,” Gloria said, straightening up some cigarette lighters on the counter. There was an awkward pause while she straightened the counter and the man fumbled with the cracker package in the oppressive silence.

“After a while, it just becomes part of the gray of each day. I always love to get home and take my shoes off though, watch some t.v. or play guitar,” he said around another cracker.

“You play guitar? Oh, by the way, what’s your name? I’m Gloria Heartwood,” Gloria said.

“Jack Griffin, nice to meet you. Yeah, doesn’t seem like I would, does it? Here I am, a boring 31 year old guy who does taxes and wears gray business suits with a dark brown trenchcoat, but I play an electric guitar at night. It’s an old guitar, I bought it when I was 15 and it’s not very good. Me and a couple of my friends were going to make a rock band, but none of us were any good at writing songs. Over the years, I finally wrote enough songs to take a band on tour, but I’m too old and I’ve got a 401k now,” Jack said, with three crackers left.

“Its funny, how life ends up not at all as you expect. I hate normal jobs like this, but I guess I should’ve known better than to think I could just sell my art. We’ve already got starving artists in this city, and I just added to them. So, uh, Jack, what were you going to call your rock band?” Gloria asked somewhat awkwardly, leaning on the counter. Jack could see slightly down her loosened uniform shirt, the tempting cleavage teasing him.

“I, ah, we were going to call it ‘The Badland Rebels’. Isn’t it stupid sounding?” Jack said after swallowing his fourth cracker out of six.

Gloria failed to suppress a giggle. “It sounds okay, but you don’t seem to fit the bad boy image.”

“We tried to be cool by wearing black leather jackets, but Tommy was the only one that was really a rebel. The rest of us didn’t get in much trouble,” Jack said, then scarfed his next to last cracker.

Gloria was smiling wide now, and her eyes began to twinkle a little life. “Somehow, I can’t seem to picture you in a black leather jacket. So… you never wrote enough songs to do anything with the band? Not even bad songs?”

“Well, it was a little more than that. Tommy was the drummer, and the first gig we ever played was at a talent show. Tommy showed up in a drunken rage and basically destroyed our reputation. We were all mad at him, but we also got mad at each other over what to do about it, and the band broke up. I was still friends with the bass player George afterwards, but we eventually stopped talking. I haven’t seen any of those guys in… 12 years, has it been now? But it’s all old news. I don’t even know why I play any more. Relieves stress, I guess,” Jack said, slowly finishing off his last cracker as he spoke.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gloria said, standing back up again.

“Too late to be sorry about it. Anyway, we wouldn’t have amounted to anything. I’ve got a good job now, steady income, life just hasn’t been colorful,” Jack said.

“I know that feeling.” Gloria looked absently at the floor for a moment while Jack took a swig of his Dr. Pepper, watching her. “Sometimes I want to fly away from here, just live in the sky, go anywhere I felt like going, sail away, but I can’t. So much is in the way, money and my apartment and being alone,” Gloria said, moving her eyes from the floor to Jack.

“My job… I got my job right out of high school. I was a whiz at math, and I got a job doing taxes thinking it was temporary, and now retirement is tied up in it. Maybe I could move jobs, if I was qualified to do anything else… I’ve saved money my whole life, money isn’t my issue. It’s being able to leave and having any stability when I got back. Sometimes I feel like flying away too though,” Jack said, his Dr. Pepper forgotten absently in his right hand.

“Money is no problem with you?” Gloria asked as she walked over and picked up her book.

“No, it’s this job. I mean, I could work out some vacation time, but that’s not even like flying away. Where would I go to? Who would I talk to? So many things I’ve forgotten how to do after years of taxes pounded into my head.”

“Its like we’re both held here for opposite reasons. Say Jack,” Gloria said, then turned red. She thought she had mustered the nerve to ask him, but then had second thoughts.

“Yes, Gloria?”

“Um, its…” she looked at the clock. “Oh my gosh, its 8:03. Jack, I think you missed your bus!”

“What? Shit!” Jack said, and ran out the door just in time to see the bus pulling around a corner far up the street. He came back in walking slowly.

“I’m sorry, Jack, I should’ve been watching the time,” Gloria said.

“Its not your fault, Gloria, I guess I just lost track of time when I saw you, er, talked to you,” Jack said, but it was too late to take back the obvious expression of his feelings. Her eyes perked up suddenly, hoping she had heard what he felt. Gloria was lonely too.

“You know, my car isn’t much, you’ll have to forgive me, but I can drive you after I lock up the store. Or we could go out, get something to eat maybe, or… whatever you think,” Gloria said shyly, blushing.

“Or we could fly away, eh?” Jack smiled wider than he had for eight years, only half-kidding.

“We could, couldn’t we? You’ve got money, I’ve got a car, we could drive off into the west together feeling the wind of the warm southern winter, wouldn’t that be crazy? A 24 year old artist and a 31 year old tax filer, running off together?” Gloria asked, her face getting more ambitious and blushed as she spoke.

“I’ve got the checks and credit cards on me, we could go right now, leave our apartments and everything behind,” Jack said, thinking how crazy that was. His mind was sorting out clothes he could take in the two suitcases, the toothbrush, paying the rent for next month, he considered all he could lose, but then he was throwing out all the junk of his life as he thought about each thing that came up.

“Fuck locking the store, fuck the apartment, let’s get your guitar and go, hell with clothes, if I end up not liking you later I’ll drop you off at a car rental, but let’s go!” Gloria said.

“I think I love you! I’ll tell you how to get there, and then we won’t need directions. We can buy anything we need later!” Jack said, getting up and running behind the counter. She had torn off her uniform top, revealing a paint-stained old t-shirt, a white bra strap, and an elegant long neck. Jack grabbed her and kissed her more passionately than he had ever done anything his whole life. She pulled her winter coat out of a cubbyhole, and then they ran outside of the dismal building and drove away forever.

Jack blinked. The bus had just pulled up in front of him, and waited impatiently in the steam of its exhaust. Jack slowly stood up, brought out of his daydream, and walked towards the bus falteringly. Ominous and gray, it droned before him. The door pulled open, and the old careworn face of the bus driver looked down at him sadly.

Jack ran down the sidewalk away from the bus as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran towards the glowing business signs down the street, away from his dismal life, towards anything.