The Bus Ride

The bus driver reached up and covered the fare box with his hand. "Broken," he said as he reached to take her fare. His hand brushed softly against hers as he took the ticket and dropped it in the trash can with a flourish.

As she moved aside to find a seat, I had stepped up, and was reaching out to present my fare. The driver, turned sideways in his seat and leaning forward, was watching my wife as she walked away. His gaze indicated that he was unaware of my presence as he ogled my wife. She took a seat and, finally, he turned to deal with me.

With a look of extreme horror, the driver fell back against his window. His legs tightened and his feet pushed his large frame back as far as he could go. He held his arms straight out in front of him with hands flexed back at the wrist as if to ward off evil. He was stuck in a corner and had nowhere to go.

He was trapped.

His face contorted in gruesome dismay. He stammered for words. His mouth moved but he made no sound.

I glanced to my left to see where my wife was sitting. She had found space for both of us in the second seat behind the disabled and elderly area.

At mid-day, the bus was not crowded. I could guess that most riders were either headed to or coming from one of the other hospital buildings. Some, like me, were leaving the medical center. Most of the patrons were near the front. A couple of younger men sat far at the back with their headsets blaring loudly enough to be discerned at the front door.

The scene on the bus was playing out in slow motion.

Passengers were staring, poking their neighbors and gaping with wide opened mouths. The whispers joined together made a sound like the penetrating buzz of a beehive.

I glanced back to my wife and her eyes were filling and spilling tears. She had begged me to let her call a taxi for us. I refused.

"We have to watch our money, " I had told her. "The insurance won't cover transportation back home."

I knew that our money was nearly gone. We had not been prepared for this.

My wife moved forward in her seat as if to rise and come to me but I motioned her to be seated. I returned my attention to the driver who had finally discovered his voice.

As he struggled to put more distance between us, he raised his hand in front of my body and shook his head in an effort to stop me from paying.

"Here is my fare. I need to get home", I told him.

I tried to place the money in his hand but he pulled it away, shaking his head.

At first his voice squeaked, but he cleared his throat and the words came out with clarity and force.

"You!" His voice was like thunder and he began to shake.

His whole body shook as he violently shook his finger at me. "You, you get to the back of my bus."

I dropped my eyes to floor. I had no energy to respond or react. I began to move to the back of the bus. My injuries had made it impossible to rush the long walk.

I glanced into the faces of the people in the front seats. Some eyes were awash with tears of compassion. Others held their hands across their mouths. Others made slow attempts to avert their eyes as they simultaneously attempted to take in every detail.

My wife stood to greet me and began moving forward (her stare was like fire) to confront the driver. I reached out and with a soft touch of my finger; she stopped. I watched her shuddering shoulders. I recognized the signs of her angry weeping. Her steps were quicker and she reached the seat before me.

The two young men were now very aware of their surroundings. Each had removed their headphones and were unashamedly staring me up and down. Neither made a move to help or hinder.

As I reached the seat I turned and glanced back at the driver. He was turned in his seat to face the back of the bus, watching as I took my seat. He was shaking his head back and forth as he returned his attention to the road ahead.

My wife inquired as to my pain while she wiped tears from her cheek with her shirtsleeve. My heart was heavy and hurting but none of the medications I'd been given could relieve that kind of pain.

The driver was talking, amplified by the microphone that he inadvertently failed to turn off. He was pointing at me and speaking to people as they boarded. At each stop, he repeated the same scene.

"Stay up here near the front," he would tell them. "You don't want to catch what that guy has."

Each passenger would glance around the bus and he would direct attention to me. I soon became weary of the sideshow audience the bus driver was collecting. I expected he would start selling tickets to get a glimpse of the freak at the back of the bus.

My wife was staring silently out the window and I kept my face turned down the remainder of the ride.

We had finally reached our stop.

We exited by the back door. I continued to keep my head down until we approached our house.

When I stepped into the foyer, I spotted two weeks of mail on the entry table. It was neatly sorted in to piles. Beside the envelopes I spotted the stack of newspapers.

One of the hospital orderlies had suggested that I clip the front page from the date I entered the hospital.

I pulled the bottom paper from the stack.

There was my wedding picture on the front page.

Beside it, in color, was the one of my burned down shed.

The headline told the story:

FATHER SUFFERS THIRD DEGREE BURNS

IN HEROIC EFFORT TO SAVE DAUGHTER

Five-Year-Old Dies in Fire

Note: This fictional story is based on actual events, as recited to me by an actual bus passenger released from the hospital with severe burns on his face and arms. He shared how he would face years of therapy and skin grafts. His heart was broken and his spirit was so weak. He reported the incident at the insistence of his wife but it was too late. The details needed to process his complaint were sketchy at best. The driver was never identified.