Finished! Critique all you want.

His name was Bernard. With his bushy white hair pulled back in a ponytail and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he looked like both an historical figure and a modern citizen. The fact that he was the latter didn’t stop him from thinking he was the former. After all, his sixty-eight years were starting to show.

He worked as a janitor at one of the nearby office buildings. It was a decent job, though he wasn’t paid much, because he could just wear slacks and the blue company shirt and he didn’t have to engage in conversations with anyone. He liked that just fine; the solitary life suited him. Which was good, seeing as he only had one living relative left, and that was his half brother who only called once a year to wish him a happy birthday and then talk about the new casinos he had found.

Bernard took a long drag on his cigarette and studied the cars passing by, rushing to work. For most people it was intimidating standing in the parking lot with only a strip of grass between it and the speeding cars, but he didn’t mind it. He had lived long enough to know that if anything was going to happen, it would have happened by now.

The steady stream of smoke he blew out mingled with his breath in the cold morning air and curled up toward the sunlight. He pulled out an old pocket watch and flipped open the chipped cover. Grunting, he closed it again and placed it inside his shirt pocket. He still had fifteen minutes before he had to report to work.

Bernard walked toward the bus stop slowly, noticing with a feeling of triumph that his knee didn’t hurt this morning. He observed a few young children running to school. Thinking about his own childhood, he almost envied their carefree days. Almost. The structure taught back when he was in school made him who he was today, and he wouldn’t change that for anything. Discipline built character, and he thought schools were too undisciplined now. Those kids’ll never learn the lessons I did. But whose generation will turn out better - mine or theirs?

As he turned that thought over in his mind, a few teenagers shot by on their bikes. Bernard eyed them indifferently. He thought his generation complained too much about the disrespect shown to them. Sure, kids weren’t always kind to them, but those were the times. You had to adapt or be pushed aside, and Bernard had no intention of being pushed aside. He may have been somewhat ascetic, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be invisible to the world forever. No, he was just waiting for the right moment to step out of the line to the retirement home and do something good for the world. If he managed to do it without much publicity, that was even better. But the time had not come yet, so he continued to clean the office and smoke and check his pocket watch.

The bus pulled up with a cacophony of squeaks, squeals, and groans. A few people at the stop climbed aboard, and Bernard watched them. He always wondered in the back of his mind where people went. As far as he was concerned, West Boulevard was the only street anyone needed. It had businesses, housing, and a school further down the way. What more could people ask for?

“Sir, are you coming aboard?” the driver asked, holding out an ashtray.

Bernard looked up at the driver silently. His first reaction was to give a resounding “No,” but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the fact that no one had ever asked him that before. He knew it had always been a choice, of course, but somehow it never applied to him.

“Sir?”

“I…” Bernard checked his pocket watch. He still had ten minutes left. The choices circled in his mind and he tried to figure out the consequences. There was really nowhere to go, and yet that freedom was tempting. It would mean missing a day of work, of course, but they probably wouldn’t notice anyway, unless their wastebaskets started overflowing. And he had emptied them yesterday.

But something stopped him. Everyday for the past fifteen years he had walked from his house to the parking lot, taken out a cigarette, lit it, and smoked until it was time to report for work. Nothing had changed, except for a few days last winter when he had come down with pneumonia and had to take those days off to recover. He checked his pocket watch yet again. Could he really leave behind his routine, his street, his life?

“Have a good day, sir,” the driver said, pressing the button to close the doors.

“Wait,” Bernard said hoarsely. As the doors opened again for him, he stared uncertainly and then smiled. He took a step forward, and then another. His knee was good today for a reason - just so he could climb the steps on the bus. He was certain of it. Putting out his cigarette in the ashtray offered to him, he paid the dollar to ride.

The doors closed behind him, and the bus pulled away from the curb with a reverse symphony of groans, squeals, and squeaks.