The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 3.07)

Sunday, 12:30, route 38

By Sunday afternoon, a large portion of route thirty-eight is flooded. The street has always had perennial gutter issues, but Everett can’t remember ever getting enough snow for the subsequent melt to matter.

A teenage boy and his dog muddle through a gigantic puddle at an intersection, and Everett wishes there weren’t so many cars in the inner lane. He slows to a crawl and winces when the bus sends up a spray of water. The poor boy’s jeans are drenched.

“Please tell me no one is getting on between here and Franklin High,” Everett mutters. “I don’t think I can handle people who are both angry and sopping wet.”

Because of a wall of sculpted decorative evergreens, he can only see to the next stop, but that one, at least is empty. As he sloshes through the lake, he leans over the steering wheel to look for the Catkill Street stop, scrunching his nose when the crunch of the bus’s wheels quiets. He’s probably driving on the half-decomposed leaves clogging the drain.

When Everett is at last back on asphalt, he relaxes. The bushy evergreens turn onto a different street, and he can spot cars pulling back into the outer lane several blocks away. The closest bus stop sign passes in a blur of grey and orange, and Everett squints at the road ahead.

Three blocks down is the next stop, and to Everett’s relief, the shimmery puddle ends a few seconds before he pulls up beside the trio of women waiting for the bus. They make an interesting picture, lined up on the curb in order from tallest to shortest and most blonde to least.

The tall lady embarks first, scowling as she drops three coins into Everett’s change box. She smirks as she short-changes him, and Everett is so terrified that he spends too long deciding if he should call her out. When he turns around to request the full fare, the other two women are already onboard, and shouting out “ma’am” will get confusing very quickly.

Sighing, he lets go of the issue and makes a mental note to ask Mr. Bartram about dealing with problematic passengers.

Just as Everett taps on the gas, the blonde woman takes her seat across from the other two, right up at the front of the bus, and unbuttons the top of her coat. She slides her gaze to the others and pulls her phone out of her pocket, keeping it in her lap as she dials a number. Then she raises the phone to her ear and lifts her head, eyes trained on the two women across the aisle and a slight smile curling her crimson lips.

She squashes the smile into a snarl moments later and jabs at the phone again. In the back of the bus, another phone vibrates, its buzz muffled by the cushions squeezing from either side and drowned by the humming engine.

The blonde woman repeats her act, then encores and adds a tag ending, each time adding a crescendo to her curses and mumbles. Across the aisle, the shortest woman cups a hand over her mouth and leans toward her friend.

“Why doesn’t she just leave a message?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s boyfriend issues.”

“I am so glad I don’t have one then,” the short woman says. She giggles, and the taller lady curls forward like she might join in, but they freeze a moment later.

The blonde woman glares at them, fur coat bristling, angry lines carved around her knife-sharp nose. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, but thanks so much for the advice anyways. Voicemail definitely hasn’t been around since the freaking eighties.” Eyes still pinned to the other women, the blonde lady raises her phone to her ear and waits for the tone.

“Wow,” whispers the short woman. “Makes me wonder what she was doing with our neighbor. Does she know he’s an alchemist?”

The taller woman shushes her and starts talking about a new superhero movie that her latest boyfriend wants to see, and the shorter one frowns but keeps quiet. With some effort, they manage to keep their glances at the blonde woman to a minimum, trying to allow some privacy as she records her message.

“Sir?” the blonde lady begins. “I’m sure you know who this is. Five words: I sold your stupid chessboard.” Then, with a smug huff, she jerks the phone down and presses a red button to hang up. Her cheeks are flushed from her earlier outburst, but the color fades in seconds. After adjusting her coat and redoing the top buttons, she rests an elbow on the windowsill and watches an old park pass by outside, humming a jolly piano sonatina.

The two other women watch her, their fake conversation forgotten.

“I don’t think that was boyfriend issues,” ventures the shorter lady. Her friend agrees with a slight, quick nod.

In the back of the bus, the lost phone pings, its screen lighting up to notify an incoming voicemail.