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A/N: Very twilight zone-ish piece that came to mind while doing warmups in creative writing 101. Hah. That class is such a joke.
The Man at the Bus Stop
By Emilee Petersmark
“Are you okay?” a strong hand fell on my shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, but only managed to make me jumpy.
I turned to see the tired, kind face of a 40-something woman—her hair was streaked with embarrassing patches of grey, and her face was hugged by thickening wrinkles that marred her pale skin. She looked at me with concern in her aging features, the hand on my shoulder feeling heavier by the second.
“I’m fine,” I told her, trying to scoot to the other end of the bench as inconspicuously as possible.
The woman was relentless. “Are you sure? You look pretty worried, dear.”
I tried to shrug it off, but I was getting kind of nervous. I’d been waiting at the bus stop for nearly half an hour—if the bus didn’t arrive soon, there’d be no way I’d make it to the airport in time. My wife was coming back today from a little “vacation” with my mother-in-law, and I was supposed to pick her up in less than twenty minutes. It’d be my head if I was late.
“No, I’m okay, really,” I reassured her in a way that I’m sure was unconvincing despite my obvious attempts to make it not so. I started to bite my nails impatiently—a habit that used to drive my mother crazy—bouncing my knee nervously.
The woman didn’t leave, she simply pursed her lips into a taught line and furrowed her brow, accentuating the laugh-lines flanking the corners of her mouth. “I don’t believe you,” she told me bluntly.
I said nothing, a bit taken aback at her forwardness and nosey behavior.
“Look, darlin’…” she squeezed my shoulder and I realized then that she still hadn’t moved her hand.
I looked down at the thing clamping my shoulder and bit back a disgusted gasp—the hand was gnarled and spotted, showing signs of wear and tear that an old woman would have, not a middle-aged one.
“… don’t be scared. Accept what is and don’t exist in denial.” She finally took her hand back to thread a salt-and-pepper lock of hair behind her ear.
“I’m not scared,” I rebuked her immediately, feeling slightly annoyed at the philosophical mumbo-jumbo she was spewing at me, unwarranted and unwanted. “I’m just waiting for the bus.”
The woman sighed, sparing me a tired look. “You poor, poor man…”
Before I had a chance to defend my pride, there was the whoosh of air brakes as a long, blue and white bus pulled up in front of us. With surprising speed, the woman sprang up from the bench, smiling widely. Through the tinted windows I could see the bus driver smile back and pull the lever to open the door.
With another mechanical sigh, the doors flew open and the woman sprinted giddily up the steps, disappearing down the long isle and rows of empty seats.
Gathering my things, I made as if to board behind her, but the driver put up his hand.
“Sorry, mack,” he said in a gruff voice. “You can’t get on this bus.”
I froze. “Why not?”
The man gave me an almost wistful half-smile, one that looked extremely out of place on his grizzled face. “This ain’t your bus.”
I checked the schedule on the map I’d bought earlier and matched the bus numbers. “Yes, it is. I’m supposed to take this bus to Chicago—I have to pick up my wife. See?” I said, holding up the map; the driver spared it the sparsest of glances before turning to spit out the driver-side window. “Now, if you don’t mind, you’ve already come late and now—“
The bus driver cut me off with a long-suffering look. “Buddy, none of the buses ‘round ‘ere will take ya to Chicago.”
I blinked, confused. “What do you mean?” I peered at the seats further back in the bus and saw the woman, her aging face pressed against the window to spear me on her green eyes. “Where’s she going then?”
“He’s called fer ‘er. She’s in, so we’re takin’ ‘er up. You, ‘owever…” he gave me an almost catty once-over, “… ain’t been placed yet. So until that time, sit yer hiney back on that bench and wait fer the next bus ‘til it’s your time,” He answered almost cryptically, his hands clenching the steering wheel in an obvious apprehension.
“Sir, I’ve been waiting for almost forty five minutes—what do you mean it’s not my time?”
The driver looked at me incredulously, frustration showing in the way his shoulders tensed and his arms stiffened. “Kid, you ain’t been here for less than ten whole years.”
My brain stopped. “Excuse me?” This man was clearly losing his mind…
“Damnit kid,” he cursed under his breath, annoyed with my skepticism. “You kicked the bucket ten years ago at this bus stop. Dontcha remember?”
…Clearly losing his mind…
The lunatic sighed, then continued. “You were mugged and KILLED. Ten years ago. While you were waitin’ fer the bus to Chicago. Damnit, don’t you remember? I musta told you a million times by now!”
There was a thick moment a silence.
“What the Hell are you on?!” I nearly felt my vocal chords snap with the volume of my shout.
The bus driver sucked in a hissing breath in a heroic attempt to rein his frustration. “Look, mack, you can scream at me all you want, but you ain’t getting’ on this bus!” he sighed and rubbed his temples tiredly. “It’s been the same way for TEN STINKIN’ YEARS!”
I stood stock-still while the man ranted, his words sifting over me like a cold frost.
“Every damn night you come here ‘n fight wid me, rain or shine, always disruptin’ my route. Then you give up n’ go home. You call your wife but her phone is busy—any of this ringin’ a bell?” He glares at me but continues before I have time to respond. “So you fall asleep callin’ her ‘n wake up widout any recollection of the previous night. We’ve ‘ad this same frickin’ discussion every day for over a DECADE!! DON’T YOU GET IT? DO YOU?!”
By then, he was shouting after, because I had already turned and walked away.
“I am not dead,” I told myself, my heart was beating, there was blood in my veins, my fingers still hurt when I cracked my knuckles… “I’m not dead.”
As previously (and ominously) predicted, my wife’s phone had been busy for the last half hour. I’d called repeatedly in five minute intervals, only to be assaulted by the hars busy signal ringing in the receiver.
I was beginning to get a bit scared. It’s coincidence, I told myself. Purely coincidental… I’m not dead…
I fell asleep chanting the mantra insecurely to myself in a lame attempt to soothe my worried mind.
Today I was supposed to pick up my wife in Chicago.
It’d be my head if I’m late.
