Bus

They’re supposed to be sitting down.

Yes. These stupid middle schoolers are supposed to be acting like middle schoolers, supposed to know the rules of a bus - sitting down and facing forward, smiling like little angels, keeping their grubby little hands to themselves, and most importantly, NOT SWEARING AT THE BUS DRIVER.

But no. No, no, no! I don’t get that kind of luck. Of course not. God hates me. I swear…

I turned the radio on a while ago to maybe help them calm down or at least distract them a little bit, but like I knew it would, it didn’t work. They’re still as crazy as they ever were and I’m still dreading my life. Despite Usher’s voice blasting through the shot bus speakers, nobody is paying attention to it. What a waste of electricity. We could be using that to power an A/C, if this damn bus had one that worked worth a shit.

Every couple seconds I glance in the rear view mirror just to make sure someone hasn’t lost an arm. So far, so good. They’re only standing up in their seats and screaming obscenities…I guess it’s better than being sued for little Junior jumping out a window.

“Hey! Siddown!” I shout through the microphone connected to the speakers. I thank God for those things, even though they really don’t help. Seriously. At least I can say I tried to do damage control.

One of the little runts who sits back there – a seventh grader – throws a paper ball at another kid who looks like he skipped sixth grade and was meant to still be in elementary school. It doesn’t surprise me that I go unnoticed. But it still pisses me off.

Grunting swear words that I’d get fired for under my breath, I turn into the neighborhood these obnoxious brats live in.

Every day, I hope for something better than this. Something – something…more. A better life. A better job, mainly. One where I don’t have to deal with kids. But like I’ve said before, God hates me. Bastard. He hated me when I was working at Mal-Wart, he hates me now.

As I slow down to a stop, the first stop on the long road of misery that I’m forced to take every single day, two kids get off. Neither of them wish me a ‘have a nice day’ or a ‘thank you, Mr. Doug, you’re the best bus driver ever.’ But, eh. I’ve become used to it.

I stare at the mirrors jutting out from the nose of the yellow beast, the fisheye reflection of my life glaring back at me.

“Mr. Doug, can you drop me off at my house?!” an eighth grader screams. She does that every day. And every day she comes up with a new excuse. “I have to pee!” “I have to feed my dog!” “My mom will be mad if I come home later!” It’s like…shut up.

And yet for some reason I always drop her off there.

And this starts one hell of a chain reaction. Nobody wants to walk from the bus stop that’s only ten feet away from their driveway…

People ask me why I wanted to be a bus driver. Family, mainly. (All two of my family members, all the way on opposite coasts.) I used to tell them it was because I liked driving and thought I could deal with kids. (HA!) And you know, I actually used to think I could, despite my delusional state of mind.

Until I actually started driving the bus.

I then realized how much I’d lost touch with junior high school kids and how things used to be back when I was their age – shit, what was that, ‘91? That was when I was in seventh grade and that was a year before my dad kicked the bucket and my life officially went to crap. When I tried for this job, I had it all planned out in my head – the kids would be cooperative, traffic would be perfect, and my life would be a breeze.

Screw that, God must’ve said. Doug Tater? I hate that guy! I’m gonna make his life a living hell!

And so he did.

I maneuver around the neighborhood, driving down the streets I’d become too familiar with to be comfortable. I know this place like the back of my hand and I don’t even live anywhere near it.

One boy slinks up to the front seat behind me, singing along with the music on his SkyPod. Music, which, might I add, swears every two seconds and he just has to repeat the words. The wires of his earbuds bounce along as he sways his head to the metal he’s listening to, his dark hair swooshing over his eyebrows. Damn kids these days and their music.

I point up at the big rules poster slapped onto the emergency kit above me. “Hey, you’re violating four rules, buddy,” I grunt to him. “No standing up, no walking around, no SkyPods, no swearing!”

He gives me a kind of sneer and rolls his eyes. Then he flips me off.

I sigh. Remember what your boss told you about anger, Doug…

We’re at the intersection of Cruce and San Jacinto, and I open the doors to let the animals off. The sound of the door opening, the psssh sound of pressure relieving, is one of the only things that makes this worthwhile. Reminds me that the day is over. And sometimes that’s all ya need.

“Bye, Doug!” one eighth grader says to me. The smile he’s wearing is so fake. I can tell he’s only doing it for laughs. To see if I’ll fall for it.

Still, I wave goodbye.

Three more stops.

I peek up into the rearview mirror. The only kids left are eighth graders – by far, way more mature than the seventh graders. Anybody could tell the difference. And I did the first day of school, ‘cause I’d remembered them from last year.

The first day of school was a week ago. It’s only been a week since the first day of school this year. Seven days. Seven long-ass days. 168 hours.

After the hustle and bustle calms down, for once the bus is quiet. You can actually hear the radio. It’s nice. Even though the kids who are left are busy texting the day away or staring brain-dead out the window, it’s a hell of a lot better than getting pelted in the head with cans of pop or spray-on deodorant.

Two get off at the corner of Burro Malo and Vida. One more stop.

I step on the gas pedal, ‘cause it’s a Monday and I just want to get back to my apartment.

For the last time this day, I open the doors and the remaining four kids skedaddle off, slipping down the stairs to get home and do whatever it is kids these days do. Before they all leave, the last person – a seventh grade dude who I don’t think I’ve ever seen talk before – hands me a piece of paper.

I unfold it.

And right over the baby blue lines of the notebook paper is a beautiful drawing of a circle. A hairy circle, with a rat’s nest of hair and a bald spot. And a cigarette dangling from its mouth. (I think it’s a mouth, anyway.) And angry eyebrows, and a t-shirt that says, “PINK FLOYD,” across the chest. My heart plummets.

There’s an arrow pointing to the cluster that says, “Mr. Doug – fat douche bus driver”.

I look over the picture again, bite my lip, sigh heavily, and finally, I pound my head against the steering wheel. Five times, to be exact.

And this is only the beginning of the year.

I frickin’ hate this bus.