Bus

The next day, I don’t hesitate to drive back. I sleep until eleven in the morning, and by the time noon rolls around, I’m already on the way to Yuma. I drive until midnight and crash at a hotel in Missouri, and the next day I wake up and drive straight on through, refusing to give up until I’m back in Arizona. When I get back to my apartment that Friday, it’s the same time I normally wake up to go to work – six in the morning.

I can’t deny the fact that I’m exhausted and that I need sleep more than anybody on the planet right now, if not for my body, then for my mind. But I don’t unpack just yet. I toss my car keys on the counter and leave my SkyPod in a heap next to my keys, and I take my cell phone out of my duffel bag and turn it on for the first time in nearly a week.

There’s a text message from the county that looks official. It says that my request for the week off had gone through and they got a substitute driver to take over. Good. One little thing is off my plate.

There are four voicemails from Carrie, each one sounding more and more worried up until one she left on my phone last night where she’s practically in tears. I almost laugh in my delusional sleepy mind. Then I thumb up a text message that takes me about ten minutes to type out: “hey, nothings wrong, I just went for a drive, went to duluth lol. sorry the cell phone service there was terrible.” (Hey, she doesn’t know I’m lying.) “i’ll call u later today i guess, im gonna sleep for now.”

There, that should do. She knows me well enough to know that I don’t suck at driving.

There are still seven voicemail messages from Mercedes, though. I don’t want to listen to them. I know they’re gonna make me feel nauseous, having to hear her either fire off on how stupid I am or how she hates me for just walking out on Yuma for no reason, but I know I’m gonna have to hear her voice eventually if I ever want her back in my life again. I might as well get used to it.

The first ones are longer and she doesn’t even sound mad at all. As time went by, though, the messages get shorter and shorter, and all she had asked in the last message was, “Doug, where are you? Are you okay? Please call me back.”

And hell yes, it hurts. It hurts to listen to Carrie’s voice and her concern about me as well, because it makes me realize how much of an asshole I am, as if I didn’t already know it. It’s like I’m discovering layers upon layers of asshole-ness I never even knew I was capable of.

My fingers shake as I sit back on my bed and stare at the tiny screen of my straight-out-of-2008 cell phone. I have to do this eventually, because when I go back to work on Monday I’m bound to see her.

I dial Mercedes’ number.

I don’t even expect her to answer. She’s probably getting ready for work, she’s likely in the shower. Maybe she’s eating breakfast and doesn’t want to be interrupted. I don’t have high –

“Doug?” the other line answers.

I have to collect myself for a few seconds to comprehend what’s happening. “Uh, hey, Mercedes.” I clear my phlegm-caked throat. “I’m, uh…I just wanted to let you know, um…I’m back in Yuma.”

She lets out some kind of strangled gasp that sounds more like a large animal being poached before warbling, “What do you mean, ‘back in Yuma?!’ Where in the hell did you go?”

“M-Minnesota.” I don’t know how else to say it. I don’t even add an explanation right now.

She’s quiet for a second. “Wh – never mind, I won’t ask why.” She grumbles a few Spanish words under her breath that get distorted by the cell phone signal. “I just…you had so many people worried sick. The school would not tell me anything about why you were gone for a whole week, so I couldn’t tell your bus anything, I thought you were dead or you had moved. They got that old bus driver that had no sense of direction and the kids were giving him hell, God…just…I’m so glad you’re okay. But I guess you’re not coming in today, are you?”

“I’ll be back on Monday,” I tell her. I shrug and let out a heavy sigh. “And I don’t mind you asking why I was gone. I guess…I just kinda needed some time to myself.” Boy, if that’s not the dumbest fake reason ever made, then I don’t know what is. What’s alone time to someone who already lives their days alone?

Mercedes gently asks, “Are you okay, though?”

“Y-yeah,” I reply. “I think I’m better after all that, anyway.”

“Good.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “I just want you to know that I was really worried about you, Doug. After Saturday, I mean…I could tell you were really upset.”

Ugh, the last thing I want to hear about is Saturday and how much of a dickhole I am because of it. “Well, I’m fuckin’ stupid, that’s all I can tell you about as far as what I did that night. For a fat guy, I sure do like to run away from things.”

She laughs for the first time in that conversation and tells me, “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Everyone else does. I figure I might join in on the fun.”

“That’s not true.” She says it like it’s a fact.

“You know it is.” I glance over at my alarm clock and see the time creeping into sunrise territory. “Listen, Mercedes, I just drove for eighteen hours. I’ll be awake later but for now I think I’m gonna just pass out and sleep for a while.”

She laughs again, and suddenly I feel yet another weight off my chest and shoulders. It’s music to my ears. “I totally understand, Doug. I’ll see you Monday and talk to you later I guess.” Before hanging up, she shouts, “Sweet dreams!”

I couldn’t dream of a sweeter morning.