Bus

I’m at the bus loop early a few Fridays later. Because spring is rearing its head, it’s a little chilly in the mornings, so I’m wearing jeans, but I know that the heat is gonna kick in once the sun rises and I’ll be sweating through my t-shirt soon enough. The sky is orange right now as morning becomes visible, and I’m on my bus, going through each seat and making sure the windows are up, because nothing bugs me more than an overnight open window. (The county frowns upon leaving your windows open overnight, anyway.)

Buses are huge. There’s a reason why I had to get a special license to drive it, and the fact that it’s taking me this long to make sure all the windows are completely closed is making me realize how much of a hassle it is. I only do this once a week and I have the same thought every time. I guess over the four years I’ve been a bus driver, my laziness is getting worse and worse and I do things less frequently.

One thing I always do every morning and every afternoon is sweep the aisle. I do it before I drive to school and I do it after I park the bus at the barn for the school day, and I do it after work is done for the whole day. I grab the broom from its handle and push various dirt and candy wrappers down the aisle to toss them out the back end, though I only do a full job once a week.

When it’s all flushed away down onto the concrete behind good old Bus 0634, I close the back door again and make my way back up to the front to hang the broom again.

That’s when I look around the inside of the bus. Everything’s gray except the deep blue seats. There’s nothing taped to the walls except for arbitrary numbers above each seat to serve as a counter of some sort. There’s a list of rules right above the emergency aid kit above the radio. Other than my the dent my ass has left in the driver’s seat, there’s nothing within this bus that lets anybody know that I drive it.

The other drivers I talk to have bobbleheads on their dashboards, student-made posters, photos and all sorts of other stupid knickknacks to identify their buses. And I realize it’s dumb for me to think about it all this late in the job, but…I don’t know. Suddenly it feels weird to not have at least something in here to make it seem like it’s mine. I mean, I have been driving this thing ever since I first got the job. It’s suffered as much as I have. It’s probably seen way worse things that go on in the backseats than I have, and that’s saying something, considering the shit I’ve had to experience in doing this job.

What could it hurt if I put something up that lets people know that I’m here?

I shuffle over to the tiny little compartment that hides below the radio. It’s basically an open glove compartment that holds a binder full of CPR instructions as well as a copy of my credentials and a copy of my driver’s license, alongside oodles of student identification sheets and emergency contact numbers that I thankfully haven’t had to use yet. Behind the binder is a roll of electrical tape, and behind the tape is a crumpled and dusty wad of paper that I make a grab for.

When I iron it out, it’s a blast from the past. It’s that picture that Mikey had drawn of me that first week of school – the one where I’m a hairy circle, the one that calls me a fat douche bus driver. I was insulted at it at first. Now I have to laugh. I’ve accepted my labels a long time ago, but he caught me at a bad mood.

It’s something.

I rip a few pieces of electrical tape off and place them at the corners of the picture. It sticks to the top of the bus, right over the emergency kit, right next to the sign that shows all of the bus rules.

It’s not nice, and it sure as hell doesn’t show any sort of respect or encouragement, but it’s something. At least it’s some kind of identification.

~~~

Later on that morning as I’m driving the brats to their prison, I overhear something that certainly goes along with the flair of that picture.

For starters, nobody points it out to me. Either they’re too caught up in their cell phones to notice the drawing, or they just don’t care. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jack and Ricardo’s exchange was completely related to it, though.

See, they tend to sit in the front. A lot of the times, they argue about video games and then Ricardo ends up firing off in Spanish about God knows what, but my high-school-level Spanish education lets me know that he’s just cussing him out at that point. Whenever I have to turn around and yell at Ricardo for swearing at him in a different language, he always looks so shocked.

This time they’re not arguing. No, they’re agreeing about something and laughing about it.

It starts when Ricardo asks Jack, “How old do you think Mr. Doug is?”

Jack snorts and then says back, “Um, I don’t know. How old is dirt?”

Ricardo lets out a slight laugh.

My first instinct is to scream at them for being the dicks they are, thinking I can’t overhear them, but I think a simple glare suffices. I shoot them a stink eye over my shoulder; neither of them see it.

April does, since from behind me I can hear her laughing her scrawny ass off, and it sounds like Stan’s laughing too.

And nobody sees it, but I can’t help but smile a tiny bit to myself for a second.