The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 3.11)

Monday, 11:30, route 38

The school lunch rush, full of obnoxious, inexperienced drivers desperate for something other than rubbery cafeteria pizza, hits Rick with its full force. He is not literally hit, but as he makes a left turn off of the main drive, a tiny blue car almost t-bones him, and a hulking, rusty clunker cuts in front of him, engine howling. A puff of black smoke belches from the clunking truck’s exhaust pipe, and Rick winces.

“Why can’t we make the driving age eighteen, like it is everywhere else?” he mutters. Another round of smoke floats from the truck in front of him, and he is tempted to bonk his head on the steering wheel. “Someone get that kid a hybrid. This bus probably has better mileage than that old thing.”

Unfortunately, Rick must pass Franklin High School before he can escape the madness, and as he nears Catkill Street, the stretch of cars in front of him grows only longer and slower. It is at times like this that Rick wishes he could drive in the left lane.

On the left side of the street, a stream of teenagers strolls in and out of a gas station, clutching assortments of the prized junk food not available in school. The few adults in the crowd stick out like sore thumbs, either because they are too well-dressed, or because their thick jackets and jeans hark back to the fifties. As he waits for the traffic to crawl forward, Rick even spots, with some distaste, a woman dressed in gaudy leopard spots.

“Who wears a fur coat to a gas station convenience store?” he asks himself. He lets up on the brake and drifts forward for a few seconds, and he cannot get away from the mess soon enough.

By the time Rick passes Catkill Street and the school, he is six minutes behind. He’s always late on this route, but some days are worse than others. Swinging onto a side street, he sighs, and his shoulders drop in relaxation.

As anyone would driving around a neighborhood devoid of cars, Rick zones out. The stop signs are ingrained in his memory, and he obeys them without even noticing. He is so ignorant of red that when a crimson sports car materializes behind him, he doesn’t register its existence.

Rick’s route loops back onto the main street, and he notes with satisfaction that the school traffic has trickled down, leaving only the truant and those honking cars who are only late once in their lives and will never drive out for lunch again. Teenagers swarm the school building like ants converging on dropped bread, darting in and out of groups and doors, only their bright backpacks setting them apart from the grey buildings.

For a moment, Rick wonders if he’ll be able to hear the outdoor school bell ring soon, but some other car roars behind him, and a blood red sports car spurts into the left lane. It shoots ahead, its slick, aerodynamic silhouette blurring, and in his surprise, Rick’s impulse tells him to brake. He snaps forward in his seat, eyes shut for a moment, and when he peels his eyelids apart and forces a foot back onto the gas, it seems as though the red car was never around to begin with.

“What the?”

A block ahead, the stoplight is red. The red lines on the convenience store sign glow, somehow eerie despite the happy orange and innocent white also printed in the plastic.

No cars sit between Rick and the next intersection; his view is clear, and he should be the best witness yet for the accident about to happen. On the sidewalk stands a woman in a leopard print coat. A black hat is pinned onto her head, and she holds a crinkly tan bag in one hand while using the other to hold a phone to her ear. She steps into the road, off the white cement and onto the black asphalt.

Then she is gone.

The air in Rick’s lungs turns lighter than hydrogen and flies from his chest, only to stick in his throat and lodge there like popcorn in the larynx. His mind races with questions. What was the red car’s license plate number? What brand? What model?

More importantly, what should he do? He is now only three minutes behind on his route, but Rick has already been late too many times in the past week. He could stop and examine the scene, take it in, and try to understand what tragedy just unfolded, but he’ll learn nothing that will help him when he talks to the police for the third time this week.

So, feeling rather ashamed at his inability to do anything, Rick drifts to the right side of the outer lane, trying to stay far away from the gore on the street, and notes that he is just passing Catkill Street. He speeds up as he leaves the accident behind, watching the clock on his dashboard and hoping he is still allowed to drive over the speed limit in a bus.

He’ll call the police when he has safely parked in the West Side Station.