The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 3.02)

Saturday, 14;30, route 31

Everett suppresses a grimace as a blonde woman in a leopard print coat slams five coins into his fare box. Her black leather gloves make little sound banging against the metal box, but the coins nearly bounce back to the top and rattle so much that Everett winces.

“Which bus gets closest to Catkill Street?” the woman asks. She strikes a pose with her feet spread for balance and her arms crossed over her chest, and she glares at something past Everett’s shoulder.

Everett plucks the little lever that sends the woman’s fare tumbling into a quieter compartment. “Uh, that would be route thirty-six. Catkill is just before the Franklin High School stop.”

After wrinkling her nose and offering a dissatisfied grunt as thanks, the woman tosses her hair and strolls to a spot near the bus’s center, taking her sweet time in brushing off the seat cushion first. Clenching his teeth, Everett lets his foot off the gas before the woman manages to sit, and she stumbles for a moment.

As though his premature start had been accidental, Everett glances out his side window with a slow, callous lean. Only a tiny blue “green car” is behind him at the moment, and it’s rather far off, so he flicks on his turn signal and steers left.

Everett’s route is peaceful for the next several minutes, and he sets his eyes on the neighborhood scenery. Copious non-native trees, all of them covered in snow, rise over the houses, peeking out from within backyards and stretching barren branches over roofs. Half-rowdy shrubs line every front yard, save for those few with metal fences to keep in dogs, and even the houses have a careless appeal. They wear an array of pastels, and their curtains are drawn just enough to see the patterned fabrics while still showing a bit of the rooms beyond.

A hopeful smile graces Everett’s face; he aims to buy a house in this area someday.

He doesn’t daydream for long though. In his rearview mirror, Everett spots a sports car hurtling towards him, its red paint like a tomato sauce stain on a white dress shirt. It closes in and tailgates him, revving and breaking in turns.

“If the guy is so eager to drive fast,” Everett mutters, “why doesn’t he just pass me?” He catches sight of a speed limit sign and sticks to the limit like glue.

The red car still does not pass. It is so close, actually, that in the mirror, the car’s license plate number is hidden, and Everett can make out shadows on the driver’s face. The man is sharp of feature, and stark, grey blocks shade his nose and paint obtuse triangles under his temples. Everett can even see the man’s expression—a portrait of military calm with dark eyebrows raised in angular, aloof peaks.

Shuddering, Everett turns the next corner. When he looks back at the mirror, the red sports car turns with him and vanishes a split second later.

Everett’s breath hitches, and his heart thuds in his chest. He couldn’t have just seen that. Maybe the red car just started the turn and decided to detour instead, racing away so fast he couldn’t see it properly. After all, he couldn’t have just seen the hit-and-run perpetrator.

Nonetheless, Everett sets a fraction of his attention on the blonde woman riding his bus. She seems oblivious at first glance, dabbing makeup on her nose and cheeks and using her phone as a mirror, but every so often, she twists around and looks for something out the windows, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Everett shakes his head. Mr. Bartram’s habits are rubbing off on him, and it’s never wise to sacrifice road safety for pondering insane coincidences. With a gulp, Everett tightens his grip on the steering wheel and tries not to get sidetracked by the snowmen waving from front yards.

He finishes his route a tad later than usual, pulling into the bus station just behind the new hybrid-engine bus that services the airport area. A few passengers stand in wait at the Route forty spot, shifting on their feet and tugging scarves closer to their faces. One of them checks his watch, frowning as Everett crawls to a stop.

Immediately, the blonde woman shoots up from her seat and dashes off the bus. She pushes the back doors open and shoves through a collection of businessmen who have just arrived from the airport, and when she exits their throng, she is hopping on one foot and yelling something indecipherable. She must have gotten her toes run over by someone’s suitcase.

“Serves her right,” Everett says. He presses a button on his dashboard, and the front doors slide open with a sizzle, ushering in new passengers and a stream of cold air. As he listens for the clink of coins dropping into his fare box, he stares into the parking lot and widens his eyes.

The blood red sports car sits idle in a parking space, clouds of engine steam and smoke still floating from its exhaust pipe.