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Bus

Sean MacKendrick

    “I’d like a one-way ticket to Denver,” I say to the pale man behind the counter. The man continues to stare silently at his computer for several seconds, like I don’t even exist.
    “What time?” he finally asks. He doesn’t bother looking up.
    “I don’t know. What time is the next bus leaving?” I fish around in the deep pockets of my jacket and find my wallet buried under a wad of tissues. My temples throb dully.
    “The next bus will be leaving at 10:25,” says the man. “It’ll be forty four dollars.”
    “Forty four,” I say, mostly to myself, and pull the bills from the cracked black leather of my wallet. I hand them to the man and ask, “What time is it now?” My phone is cracked and useless. Who knows where my watch went?
    The man sighs and takes a long and painful look at his own watch. “You have about forty-five minutes,” he says. “Do you have any luggage to check?”
    I start to say no, then remember the backpack I just bought. I set it on the counter. One sock is trying to work its way to freedom through the partially torn zipper. “I have this. I don’t know if I need to check it, though. I’m carrying it on.”
    The man sighs again, rolling his eyes. “You only check baggage if you want the baggage to be stored underneath the bus,” he says tiredly, struggling to be patient with the idiot on the other side of the counter. I could kill him so happily.
    Instead I say, “Well, then I guess I don’t need to check anything.” The man lays the ticket on the counter and walks away without saying another word. Asshole. I pick up my ticket and make my way to the misshapen seats, and sit down to look around the small bus station. Wonder what kind of company I get for my escape.
    No one else in the actual station, but there’s a couple sitting together in the makeshift cafeteria connected to the side of the terminal. They sit there and whisper and giggle, not touching their food. I can’t read anything from the girl, but the boy is thinking how funny he is. I don’t need to read the girl to see that she agrees. I hate them. My head is pounding.
    I rest my head in my hands, trying to block out the memory that keeps screaming at me. Seems like now I can block out almost everyone’s thoughts but my own.
    A little while later a hand touches my shoulder just when I’m about to finally get some sleep. I look up at the owner of the hand, and the lights stab into the back of my eyes. “What?” I try to say. It comes out as a croak.
    “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Do you want some aspirin or something?” The man comes into focus smiling. Looks sixtyish, slightly overweight, concerned in a somehow fatherly way. I can’t get into his mind, either. I clear my throat and try to sit up a little straighter. “I’m fine,” I mumble. Don’t want to look at the guy so I pick up my backpack from the seat next to me and set it in my lap, digging in the little pockets searching for nothing at all.
    “Oh, thank you,” says the man, and I can’t figure out what he’s talking about at first. Then he settles with a sigh into the seat my backpack just vacated, and I realize he thinks I was making room for him to sit down. Not much I can do but keep digging through my pack. Old bastard just sits there patiently until I finally stop. I set my pack on the floor and stare at it.
    “I just love traveling on the bus,” the man says cheerfully when I finally look up. “You can see such beautiful scenery. Do you take the bus much?”
    “Mm,” I grunt. I try to avoid conversation by looking out at the dark night through the window, but in the reflection I can see he doesn’t even notice. I look at the night for a while. Do a lot of sightseeing in the dark, old man?
    “I’m sorry?” the man says after a while. “Was that a yes or a no?”
    No, it wasn’t. “Uh, this is my first time on the bus.”
    “Really? Why are you taking the bus now? Airlines too expensive?”
    I swallow my heart, which is trying to climb up my throat and strangle me. “My car stopped working,” I say, “and I need to be in St. Louis in two days and my car won’t be fixed by then.” It’s not a complete lie. My car, sitting at the bottom of the Colorado River, really isn’t working well at all. I try to read the man to see if he knows I’m lying, but the effort just hurts my head. I don’t think he knows.
    “Oh, I think you’ll enjoy the bus,” Old Fart says with a big smile.
    “Excuse me,” I say, standing up. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
    “I’ll save your seat.”
    In the bathroom I look at my reflection in the mirror for a long time. The cut on my forehead isn’t noticeable, as long as I keep my bangs down. Left eye is still swollen, though, and it’s starting to turn deep purple around the cheekbone. Someone’s bound to notice it sooner or later, and ask about it. Need to make up a story, just to be prepared.
    There’s a muffled announcement floating through the door, before I can search for other tell-tale damage. “Attention,” says Paleface over the scratchy speakers. “All passengers bound for Denver, please line up at the door at this time.”
    I splash some cold water on my face and push open the door to the lobby. Old Fart is standing there, holding my backpack. “I thought you might have fallen in,” he chuckles. Oh yes, you’re a comedian, pal. “Come on, we’re supposed to get on the bus.”
    I hurry to the door and hold out my ticket to the driver. As I climb the steps on the bus I can hear the driver outside mutter loudly to the guy loading the luggage, “Typical. One guy thinks he’s important enough to make everyone else late.” My head hurts too much to bother with a retort.
    I sit in the back seat in front of the bathroom, trying uselessly to adjust the seat to get it into a comfortable position. Finally I give up and collapse into it. Wonder who else is on the bus. I crane my neck to look at the other passengers. The couple from the cafeteria was sitting in the front seat, Giggles resting her head on Funny Man’s shoulder; another woman’s sitting about one-third of the way back, staring out of the window at the traffic lights. Oh, here’s a pleasant surprise: Old Fart is making himself comfortable just one seat ahead of mine, across the aisle. He’s smiling that big shit-eating grin at me. “You’ll like this trip,” he says before I can look away. Hey, it’s been a dream come true already.
    My gaze falls again on the woman staring out the window. I can hear music coming from her headphones, something loud and discordant. I can’t listen through her ears to figure it out. All I can get from her is a reading from the uppermost of her consciousness, she’s unsure about something. Man, I thought I would never miss all those other people’s thoughts crowding in, but now it’s kind of scary. It’s like being blind in a dark room. I don’t like it. All I can read from her is that she is going to miss Grand Junction when she leaves. Well, I’m sure not going to miss this dump. I’ve had enough over the past twenty years to last ten times that long.
    “It sure is pretty, isn’t it?” says Old Fart, interrupting my train of thought. “I like the way it just looks quiet,” he says, nodding to the window.
    “Sure, I guess so,” I mumble. I still can’t read a thing from this guy. The steering wheel knocked something funny in my brain. Then I’m just irritated. It’s going to be a long trip if that man is going to talk the entire time.
    “I thought he was in a big hurry to get going,” I say to no one in particular. I’m talking about the driver, who is back in the terminal. He’s leaning across the desk, talking to Paleface at the ticket counter. They’re both laughing at something the driver has just said.
    “Oh, we’ll be on our way any time now. You have to be patient with these drivers.”
    I close his eyes and try to ignore the man. I lean back in my seat and massage my aching temples. After a hell of a long time the bus shifts into gear and the bus lurches forward. The driver gives a little speech, outlining our schedule. I don’t give a damn about our schedule, I just want to leave. The woman is trying not to cry as she looks at the passing city. I can’t read her sadness, I can only see it in her face. Personally I don’t feel the need to even look back once at the miserable life I’m leaving behind.

    Something jolts me back into consciousness. The bus ran over a pothole, I think. The jerking bus bumps my head against the window, and for a feverish second I forget where I am. But it does turn out to be only a bus window, not a car windshield. It feels like my head is being squeezed in a vice.
    Looks like the sad woman got off somewhere during while I was asleep. Giggles and Funny Man are hunched down asleep in the front. I can see their reflections, sleeping with their heads together in a nauseating picture of cuteness. Old Fart across the aisle is also asleep. His mouth’s open and he’s snoring lightly. Then he wakes up as the bus bounces through another pothole, and his eyes open looking directly into mine.
    “Morning,” he says brightly. One of those people who can wake up fully in an instant, and be happy about being awake. In my book, that makes him an asshole.
    “Yeah,” I say, smacking my lips. Tastes like something died in my mouth. Just where are we exactly? A green road sign passing by announces the Glenwood Springs exit a mile away.
    “Glenwood Springs,” says Old Fart with a sigh. “You know, the hotsprings here are very therapeutic,” he says matter-of-factly. “Have you ever been to the springs here?”
    Well, let’s see. I’ve lived in Western Colorado for almost all of my twenty-five years. Probably been to the hotsprings twenty or more times in that two decade period. Not that it’s any of your business, pal. Maybe if I don’t answer him he’ll shut up. Might slow him down at least.
    “Yep, it’s real therapeutic,” the man continues, like I begged him to tell me more. “Glenwood Springs is probably my second favorite place in Colorado. Know where my first favorite place is? The Eisenhower Tunnel. That’s why I like this trip so much. You get to see both.”
    Oh, Christ. The Eisenhower. Why didn’t I realize that? That’s one hell of a lot of tunnel to be spending any amount of time in. It’s hard to breathe in this bus air. There’s no way I’m going to be able to make it through that entire goddamned tunnel. Why is it so fucking hard to breathe in here?
    A memory from childhood. I’m six, and Richard and me are trying to build a dam in the irrigation ditch behind Richard’s house. There’s not enough water coming through the big pipe bringing the water in to make a really good impressive dam, though, so I figure I’ll crawl in and see what I can do about that. Well, what else could happen except for me to get stuck about ten feet in. So while Richard runs to find my mother I try to back up and of course just wedge myself in a little better.
    We may not have been very happy with our little dam, but it backed the water up quite nicely in that pipe. The water level at my head just kept getting higher. After a while I had to struggle just to keep my nose above the water before someone finally turns off the flow. Then I feel something on my leg and I’ve got a whole other set of things to worry me. I can’t move enough to shake it off, and it’s about then that the pipe starts getting smaller on me. They start to dig up the pipe, but not before panic steps in and pays a little visit. We’re talking full blown crazed panic attack, only I can’t scream ‘cause every time I open my mouth the water comes in and chokes me.
    Everyone tells me I was only in that pipe for half an hour, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t at least a full day. Then again, I am damned, so maybe it was after all. Whatever. I can still feel that pipe trying to crush me. I can’t see. I can’t breathe.
    “Glenwood Springs,” announces the driver. Seems as if we stopped while I was under attack from my memory. “We’ll be here for about five minutes. If you decide to go outside, keep in mind that the bus will leave unannounced.” My sight clears just enough to let me stand and stumble over to the door.
    When I can finally see again I find myself leaning against the back wall of a Village Inn. The night tastes good, and I gulp it in as my head clears and my chest loosens up. That flushes out most of the panic. Out with the bad air, in with the good.
    There’s a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” says the old man. I forgot he was even here. “I didn’t know you were afraid of tunnels.”
    Chest is constricting again. I stare at Old Fart, trying to read him. Is he a reader too? No, that’s something I can always tell right away. Even now, I’m sure I could tell. “What?” I say finally.
    The man takes a step backwards, like my stare drives him back. “I saw how scared you looked when I mentioned the Eisenhower tunnel,” he says nervously. “Are you claustrophobic?”
    “No,” I say tightly. Asshole doesn’t have any right to know about this. No one needs to know little things like tunnels terrify me. That’s for me and my psychosis. “I just felt sick for a minute. Probably something I ate,” I say.
    “I see,” says Old Fart, raising his hands like he thinks I’m about to punch him. Maybe I am. He walks slowly back to the bus.
    I drink the mountain air for a bit and watch a small boy, looks to be about ten at the most, trying to lift a duffel bag as big as he is onto the bus steps. The driver just sits there and watches, doesn’t make a move to help. I walk up and grab the bag and carry it up the steps, and the kid looks grateful, even though I can read how scared he is of me, a big bad stranger. He mumbles something that would probably be a thank-you if it had any volume behind it.
    The driver stops the kid at the front of the bus and asks, “Do you have permission to ride this bus without supervision?” The kid starts to dig through his bag for some kind of form when I hand it to him, and I go sit down. When I look up again the boy is sitting in the front seat across from the two lovebirds. I close my eyes and try not to think about the fact that the kid is probably about the same age as the little girl sitting in the trunk of my car.
    It’s so quiet without all the voices.

    Standing outside the convenience store in Eagle, CO, watching some guy from another bus smoke about three feet away from the gas pumps. I’d kind of like to see him go up in a ball of flames, but not while I’m so close.
    Feel pretty damned good, considering. Nothing but a dull ache where the knifepoint was in my forehead earlier. Waking nightmares of that little girl not haunting me at the moment.
    The bell on the door tinkles as the old man and the small boy, who I can just barely read as Eric, walk out with a grocery sack full of junk food each. “It’s really over a mile long?” Eric is saying.
    “That’s right,” the man says. “Enter on the western side of the continent, spend a few minutes underground, exit on the eastern side. The Eisenhower tunnel goes through what they call the ‘Continental Divide’.” Old man, you better just shut the fuck up before I smash in your teeth. I go around the corner to the dirty little bathroom to escape their voices. A little cold water on my face and I feel good again. No tunnel is going to beat Michael Evans today, I can tell you that.
    “Hello,” says Old Fart cheerfully when I sit down in my seat. “Would you like a piece of licorice?” Damn straight I would. Eric has moved his stuff in the seat just in front of mine, next to Old Fart. Eric waves and I decline to return it. Instead I take the cheesy crime paperback I just purchased out of my pocket and flip the cover back.
    “What kind of nightmare were you having?” That’s Old Fart again.
    What the hell? “Huh?”
    “What were you dreaming about?” Old Fart says again. “You were mumbling and thrashing around quite a bit just before we stopped.”
    “I don’t know,” I say. Am I supposed to remember every little dream I have?
    “I was just wondering. It sounded like you were talking about some little girl. Like something bad had happened to her.”
    I hope my voice is steady and unconcerned when I say, “That so?” but I doubt it is. Yes, I do remember the dream now. And what could it have been anyway but the little girl stepping off the sidewalk while I sit behind the wheel struggling with the voices in my head, too distracted to see her? What could I possibly be dreaming about but her surprised face as it flattens against my hood?
    The man just shrugs when I don’t say anything else. “I was just wondering. I just thought it sounded pretty serious.” He turns back to Eric and starts talking about something I can’t hear over the ringing in my ears. I put my book down and notice the pages are already damp from my sweating, shaking hands. The pain in my temples wakes and hammers against my skull.
    The driver starts talking again, and it sounds like it’s coming through cotton to reach my ears. “This was our last stop before Denver,” he says. “Enjoy the rest of the trip, and feel free to catch up on your sleep.”
    That doesn’t seem like a very good possibility.

    I’m not sure what time it is or where we are when I wake up again. Feels like I’ve been run over by a truck (ha ha), but at least my mind is clear. In fact, I still can’t hear any voices even when I try to reach out for them. I think that shot to the head really did mess something up. Or fixed something, as the case may be.
    Legs are half asleep so I stand and massage them for a while, and try to clean the gunk out of my eyes. The old man is looking out the window at the black night, and he turns as I look at him. “Nightmares wake you again?”
    “No,” I say truthfully. “Slept pretty well this time.” And I had. Dreamless sleep; I couldn’t ask for more. Then I notice the seat in front of me is empty. “Hey, where did that kid go?”
    “Eric got off in Silverthorne. He’s visiting his Grandparents.”
    I try to frown but it hurts my head. “I thought we weren’t supposed to make any more stops.”
    The old man shrugs. “All I know is we did. So was the dream the same as before?”
    Didn’t we cover this, Old Fart? “I said I wasn’t dreaming.”
    “Oh.” He turns away and looks out the window, cracking his knuckles, and for probably the first time in his life, he’s silent. Now that my legs are waking up I sit back down.
    “I forgot how many tunnels there were on this trip,” Old Fart says suddenly. “You’ve slept through quite a few. There was one where all the lights were out, and it seemed like we were trapped in the dark and couldn’t get out. Pretty exiting, in a childish sort of way.”
    “Really. Sorry I missed it.”
    “You aren’t really afraid of tunnels, are you? I know you said you weren’t, but I’ll be quiet if the subject worries you.”
    “I said it and I meant it. And I would like you to be quiet, since you do mention it.”
    “There it is,” he continues. “The Eisenhower Tunnel.” He grins at me as the bus approaches the tunnel. I try not to look out the window, but I can’t help it. My god, it’s huge. It wants to swallow me whole.
    “By the way,” old man he says as he turns back to the window, “her name was Amanda.”
    “What?” I choke. We enter the Eisenhower and I can feel blood pounding in my head.
    “You know, the little girl. I guess she didn’t tell you that.” The man chuckles quietly. “And I guess you can’t read thoughts from a brain after it’s spread across your windshield, can you Mike?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” No way does this fucker know I’m a reader. No way in hell.
    “This tunnel sure is deep, isn’t it? Miles and miles deep.” The old man says as half the lights go out. “And long, too. Why are you so afraid of tunnels?”
    “It is not that deep,” I say somehow, even though my chest doesn’t want to take in any air. “Shut up.”
    The man shrugs again and gives me that shit-eating grin of his. “I think they’re pretty scary, myself. It’s like being trapped in a big pipe.” The old man looks at me, and his eyes are huge. “Did you ever go crawling through pipes as a kid? I used to love doing that. It was like traveling to another world on the other side. Only danger was getting stuck.”
    “Shut up!”
    “No, you’re right. It’s not like a pipe. More like a giant coffin. Wouldn’t you agree?” He smiles.
    “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
    “Look at that, Mike,” the man says softly. “Look at the walls.”
    I am not going to I am not going to look at any walls I’m not going to look at anything. But I do. There’s just enough light outside to show the walls moving, caving in, collapsing toward the bus. Can’t scream but Christ do I want to.
    “It’s all right,” the man says kindly. “You’re not going crazy. The tunnel really is closing in on you.” He laughs so loud my head feels like it’s about to explode. It’s like I’m just watching my body from the outside as it jumps up and grabs the old man’s throat and squeezes with both hands so hard the knuckles turn white. He keeps laughing though, and it’s actually getting louder.
    I scream as the flesh under my grip turns impossibly hot. I let go and my hands are tingling and bruised from the heat. Run to the front of the bus, maybe the driver can do something.
    “You know, they’ll find your car, and Amanda, in a few months,” the man calls from the back. “The mighty Colorado River is pretty shallow, as rivers go. The top of your car will be sticking out of the water by the end of September. After living in Colorado for nearly all of your life, I would think you knew that.”
    I fall into the empty driver seat and can’t see straight. The old man laughs and answers my unasked question. “The driver left the same time as Eric,” he says.
    Pull at the door, but that doesn’t work. Kick it hard enough to feel something pop in my ankle but the door doesn’t budge. The old man is still talking. “You would have been better off just leaving the scene, you know. No one else was there to see you.”
    No, there was no one there to see. But they would’ve found me. And how was I supposed to explain the voices? How was I supposed to explain that I was blinded by a thousand voices that wouldn’t stop in my head, and that’s why I didn’t see her? I can’t say any of this now, I can only scream.
    “Do you think Amanda was this scared, Mike? Do you think she saw you speeding through that light and knew she was about to die in a stupid accident?”
    Before I know it I’m in the back again and hitting the old man in the face. He just grins and my knuckles smash into two rows of perfect white teeth, and then they’re not white but red with blood. Don’t know if it’s mine or his until he licks my blood away and his teeth are clean again.
    He never stops grinning.
    Hammer the window and my blood is smeared across it. I can just barely see through to the walls that are still closing in. How can they keep getting closer all the time? Why don’t they just crush me and get it over with?
    Collapse to the floor, so at least I don’t have to see the walls any more. Old man is laughing but I look up and he’s not there. Don’t know if I’m screaming because the laughter is too loud to hear anything else. Can’t breathe.
    Please. Please God, help me. I don’t deserve this.
    Laughter gets even louder. Can feel the walls moving in. Please, I don’t want to die.
    The voice is deeper and more bestial, but it’s still the old man’s voice. “Oh, you will want to soon enough.”
    Of course, he’s right.

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