Bos to Buston

The bus was scheduled to leave at 2:22, we all knew. It was printed on all our little tickets, and it was an easy number to remember (all the twos, and all). I got on the bus at 1:45 or so, which was lucky.

“This is your driver speaking,” said the driver over the intercom at about 2 as soon as he staggered onto the bus. His voice was breaking. The bus was only half full or so. “We’re going to be leaving a little early today.” Immediately, he threw the bus into reverse and pulled away from the station. A couple people with suitcases handing their tickets to the guy behind the desk just watched us drive off.

The easiest way to get out of the city would be to take the highway. We all noticed when the driver sped past the onramp, through a yellow light.

“This is your bos to Buston,” he said [sic]. “We’ll be arriving at nighttime.”

I looked at my ticket. I was supposed to be going to Washington. I was worried for I second I had gotten on the wrong bus, but then I noticed everyone else looking at their tickets too, and everyone noticed everyone else looking at their tickets, so we all settled back in our seats and tried to relax.

“YOU GET ON MY BUS AND YOU FOLLOW MY RULES,” the driver suddenly shouted over the intercom, apropos of nothing. “NO TAKING A SHIT ON MY BUS.”

I peeked over the seat in front of me to get a look at the driver. The woman sitting in the seat in front of me was wearing a large cowboy hat with a feather in it. I peered around the feather and saw that the driver appeared to be weeping openly.

Boston is to the north and Washington is to the south; we were going east. The driver parked the bus outside a brownstone somewhere way uptown.

“I’M SORRY!” the driver screamed into the intercom, cradling it as if it were a dead child. “I’M SO SORRY!” We didn’t know if he knew he could only be heard inside the bus.

A woman on the third floor opened the shades and looked out the window. The driver pressed himself up against the door of the bus. The woman was frowning. She closed the shades and the driver collapsed in a crying heap on the steps.

This crying went on for a while. Then he composed himself on got on the intercom again.

“We should be in Philadelphio within the hour,” he said [sic]. “We’re gonna stop at a flower shop so you can get out and stretch your legs.” By my watch, it was 2:52.

“Poor guy,” said the old woman who was sitting next to me. She was reading a mystery novel called Who The Fuck Murdered That Woman?. “Makes you feel like nothing can ever go right in the world.” She put her hand down her pants and I looked away to give her some privacy.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK,” the driver yelled into the intercom. “FUCK.”

We circled around the block a couple times. “This bus to Los Angeles is delayed,” said the driver. “Looks like God decided to take a shit all over us today.”

We ended up on the same street and the driver drove the bus right into the brownstone. We plowed through the brick like it was a Hollywood set. The driver may have been screaming like a kamikaze at this point, or that may just be my imagination. The woman sitting next to me intentionally hit me with her purse several times as soon as the bus came to a stop and plaster dust started to fall on our heads.

The driver began moaning into the intercom. “Ooouuhhh,” he moaned. “Cheryl…”

The house was basically missing a first floor now, but it somehow still stood, even when we pulled away and started barreling towards the river. The bus was in remarkably good shape. It was as if nothing had happened. It even looked a little cleaner on the outside, from what I could see. “This is your driver speaking,” he said, but by then we were already suddenly up to our necks in dirty river water that was murky and strangely still, and we began to wonder if we should get up and make for the exits. The driver remained in his seat, panting heavily into the intercom. A couple pedaled past on a swan boat, squinting to see inside past the bus’s tinted windows.