The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 3.06)

Sunday, 10:00, route 42

A bubbly bebop ditty bounces in Rick’s head, echoing over and over without ever moving past the one phrase he remembers. He’s had the music on repeat since he woke up that morning, and because bebop certainly isn’t in right now, Rick tries to remember if the song in his head is from the musical last night.

“Was it the tall guy who sang it, or the short girl?” he mutters. He glances to the side automatically, not expecting any passengers to be waiting at the next stop, and balks. Standing side-by-side are Mr. Talisman and Mr. Pyus, their contrasting figures casting short, squat shadows on the white pavement. Wrapped up in a light blue scarf and giant down jacket, Mr. Pyus waves for Rick to stop, his jolly, red-nosed smile shining bright as the stubborn snow still glimmering on the ground. Mr. Talisman stuffs his hands in the pockets of his peacoat and glowers.

Wary, Rick pulls over and releases the pressure on the door, eyeing the two elderly men for signs of an argument.

“Good morning,” says Mr. Pyus. He bumbles onboard, hugging three stacked boxes of donuts to his chest. As he drops them onto a seat by the door, Mr. Talisman shoves past and mutters an expletive, not even bothering to show Rick a bus pass.

The two old men sit as far from each other as possible, with Mr. Pyus at the very front and Mr. Talisman tucked into a back corner. His hunched shoulders turn him into a tiny grey smudge of depressing feelings in Rick’s mirror, and Rick feels a weight in his stomach, like he’s just eaten a slice of too-greasy pizza, telling him the route will not be pleasant, even if his passengers aren’t actively arguing.

After a few moments, the time-stained buildings of the old uptown disappear from view, and the brilliant collage of signs crowding the prospective park rise up instead. The signs look like water in a Seurat painting, since a number of them actually are blue. A rally has gathered on the far end of the property, and their bright winter coats blend into the background. Rick wonders when they will get t-shirts for their cause.

“Isn’t that nice?” asks Mr. Pyus. Rick can’t tell if the old man is speaking to anyone in particular or not. “I think a new park would be a lovely idea. The one on the west side has squeaky swings.”

Rick risks a glance at Mr. Talisman, but all the mirror shows is the same grey blob and menacing air.

“Squeaky swings are rather a problem when the park is the best place to commune with nature, but I wouldn’t think of shooing children away from a good swing set. The One God encourages providing a happy childhood.”

Happy childhoods are not really Mr. Pyus’s to provide, since he never interacts with children, but Rick figures Mr. Pyus does a better job of being cordial than Mr. Talisman at least.

The one-sided conversation about parks continues even after Rick passes the rally on the far end and starts up the hill towards the rich neighborhood. As the engine whirs in reluctance, and Mr. Pyus launches into another sweet-spoken argument for a new park, Rick wonders if Mr. Talisman can hear anything in the back of the bus.

He cannot. Mr. Talisman has his head down, eyes pinched into slits as though squinting will improve his understanding of whatever he is reading. After a few hard blinks, he curses and jabs at the screen, accidentally magnifying the text.

He curses again, and his red face reflects in the shiny screen. “Why can’t I set a password?” he hisses. “Where is that stupid button?”

The bus engine quiets, and he jerks up to look at Mr. Pyus. Through his bushy grey eyebrows, Mr. Talisman can discern little about the other man aside from size, but at least Mr. Pyus has not turned his attention towards the back of the bus. For the time being, Mr. Talisman is safe from any bellowed bits of the One God’s life advice.

“I’ve been a decent citizen long enough,” he mutters. “I have the right to be nasty every so often, especially when I’ve been keeping the city safe for fifty years.” He makes another series of quick jabs at his phone before giving up and slipping it into his pocket, the screen still lit. With a muffled thud, Mr. Talisman falls back into his seat and slouches like a teenager, glaring out the window. To the innocent woman outside walking her two tiny dogs, he might be entering a rather belated anti-capitalism phase.

“Maybe I ought to invest in a house up here,” Mr. Talisman says, and a few of his wrinkles unfold. He leans forward to better look outside, and by a stroke of luck, the next house has a realtor sign staked into the grass. It’s a white house, broad and wide with a shallow slope to the roof and floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the living room. His real estate baron’s interests piqued, Mr. Talisman reaches up and presses the stop request button. “I want the next street!” he shouts.

The bus slams to a stop, and at the front of the bus, one of Mr. Pyus’s donut boxes topples over. Mr. Talisman almost cackles. A wicked grin tearing through his features, he stands and speedwalks to the back exit, not even waiting for the door to open and instead pushing it out until the driver releases the pressure. When he bounces onto the sidewalk, his shoe soles seem to have turned to elastic rubber.

Tucked into a crack between cushions in the back seat is a phone with its screen still lit.