The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 2.03)

Thursday, 11:00, route 40 westbound

Mr. Pyus snores in the front of Rick’s bus, one arm draped over a mound of paper grocery bags. One of his bags has been balancing and bouncing on the edge of the seat for several minutes now, but by some miracle, it hasn’t fallen down yet.

Outside, thin metal fences loop around the sagebrush and sand, marking out freshly planned shops and suburbs. Even the vague crisscross of roads has already been cleared. It seems the old Talisman estate may be gone before summer starts.

At the command of an orange construction sign, Rick slows the bus to a crawl and bumbles over a section of gravel where a new main road is supposed to intersect. The jostling sends Mr. Pyus’s wayward bag tipping over the seat cushion, but Mr. Pyus blinks awake and reigns in his bag without a semblance of panic.

“Lucky catch, eh?” he asks. “Thank the One God for that one.”

Rick grunts and presses on the accelerator. “Pretty sure only people who live on Catkill Street have that kind of luck,” he says under his breath.  Thankfully no one else is on board to hear him complain about a passenger.

Somehow, Mr. Pyus hears anyways. He gestures grandly with the hand that ought to be holding his groceries together and closes his eyes like he’s daydreaming. “Only the One God can make miracles. No place or person can endow humanity with the same gift.” One of the grocery bags falls off the seat, and Mr. Pyus scoops it up in mid-air, eyes still shut.

“And here I thought everyone in Franklin City knew about lucky Catkill Street,” Rick mutters.

Mr. Pyus raises his non-grocery hand and points at nothing, probably about to argue, but he is cut off by a thump that sends a shockwave rocking through the bus. Something huge and shiny and lavender crashes to the asphalt right in front of Rick’s window.

Rick slams on the brakes, and the ensuing squeal is so sharp it can make ears bleed. A clatter of aluminum cans and crinkly paper rolls through afterwards, but Rick can barely hear the cacophony inside his bus. Instead, he trains his focus outside.

Atop the purple beast is a blur of tan and black and blonde. A woman in leopard print clutches the scales on the beast’s neck with one hand. Her other arm flies free behind her, a small box peeking through the fingers. Rick immediately thinks of the rodeo.

The purple beast swooshes its head around to face the bus, and Rick gasps. A dragon’s slit-pupil eyes glare through his front window, and curling smoke from the dragon’s nostrils are enough to make Rick quiver.

Then, without warning, the dragon screeches. Its cry is a chorus of untuned piccolos, abrasive and sharp. Purple scales gleaming, the dragon thrashes and flaps its iridescent wings. More smoke spews from its mouth, shooting into the air and drifting to the ground in sleepy, lethargic clumps. Just when it seems the dragon might collapse in defeat, another tremor rumbles through the bus.

A loud, clanging thunk slams the top of the bus. When Rick turns to look, he swears there are four little dips in his ceiling.

New flashes of bright red draw his attention back to the fight. A tiny dragon clambers over the purple one, crimson wings shuddering as it scrambles upwards. Dust clouds mingle with the misty smoke, but the red dragon is a beacon to the eyes. It pulls itself to the top of the purple beast and bellows a deep, raunchy note, unbecoming of its stature.

“Shut up, you dumb beast!” the woman screams. “It’s mine now!”

With another fog horn roar, the red dragon charges the woman. Its black claws burrow into the shoulders of her coat, and its open jaw, full of white, jagged teeth, presses towards her face. They both teeter on one edge of the purple dragon’s back before smashing into the asphalt and sending tremors through the ground.

A few moments later, the purple dragon beats its giant wings, chasing away the smoke and dust. By some miracle, both the woman and red dragon are alive and scraping themselves from the road. In the little dragon’s mouth is the woman’s package, crisp and tan and untouched by the madness surrounding it.

The woman scowls at the long tears through her faux fur coat and whips out a hand to point and shout accusations, but the colossal head of the purple dragon dips behind her, and with the firmness of a mother cat, the dragon lifts the woman up by the collar of her jacket. Then, in a breath-stealing gesture of apology, both dragons bow their heads towards Rick for a second before launching back into the air. Their beating wings send a quiet breeze rustling over the hollow metal of the bus.

Rick is a statue in his seat, mouth hanging open like a codfish. His right foot stays locked on the brakes.

“Hey, Mr. Pyus,” he starts, swiveling under his seat belt, “did you see that?”

Mr. Pyus seems to pause a second longer than usual before delivering his aloof reply. “See what? Do you need me to pray for the One God to rid you of some awful vision?”

At this, the cars stretched out behind the bus honk in applause, and Rick bolts to hit the gas pedal. He wishes for a moment that retirement wasn’t still a million miles away.