Bus

I drive a year 2006 Freightliner C2 Thomas school bus. It’s got a diesel engine, automatic transmission, it can hold seventy-seven passengers, it has air conditioning, two cargo bays, and a radio alongside the CD player.

I’ve always thought it was in pretty good shape. I like cars, I like learning about them, and if I had the resources, I’d pimp the hell out of my stupid sedan I have to drive when I’m not piloting the bus. I never feel the bus’s transmission slip, and it’s pretty rare when it has to be taken into the shop for repairs of any sort.

Today is the first day that I’ve ever seen my bus act up right before my eyes.

We’re on our way to Alta Vista, going home on a Thursday afternoon, and everything looks fine so far. The brats are bundles of energy waiting to go home and be even more annoying tomorrow, and God knows I’m sick and tired of being exhausted and I just wanna go home and sleep or chat with Carrie or Mercedes over Facenook…

Suddenly, the dashboard beeps, and a blinking light is raging among the fuel gauge and speedometer.

It’s two words in all-capital letters – “CHECK ENGINE.”

Right next to it are the words “EMERG. EXIT.”

For a second I feel my heart drop and I chalk it up to confusion. It’s probably nothing, the stupid thing’s probably just acting up because of an electrical shortage or something. I’ll let the county know and they can take care of it.

Well…that’s when smoke starts coming out from under the hood.

I grumble a swear under my breath as I yank the bus over to the side of the road despite various questions coming from nobody other than the very same kids I’m stuck driving; cars pass us as I park in the desert outskirts, and faster than anybody can even ask what the hell I’m doing, I turn off the engine. The beeping still blares. The lights are still on and my chest feels like it’s gonna explode.

Wouldn’t it be funny if I died in a fucking bus? Yeah, that’s fuckin’ hilarious.

Well, I don’t wanna die in a fucking bus.

So I rip off my seat belt and stand at the front of the aisle to block anybody from trying to escape from the front end, because that’s a huge no-no when your goddamn engine is smoking. And I hold my hands up when they try to question my motives, and I tell them, “Guys, you’re gonna wanna start getting off through the back emergency exit, and you’re gonna need to run as far away as you can.”

I try to be calm. Even though every sane part of me wants to scream and run away to protect my precious life from being cut short by a big stupid vehicle, I don’t want to pass that on to vulnerable tweens.

Cadence, sitting in the back, pulls out one of his earbuds and shouts, “What?”

“Open the emergency door and start getting out,” I tell them again in a louder voice.

“Wait, do we bring our backpacks?” Keke asks, her face contorted in questioning.

“I don’t frickin’ care, just do whatever’s quicker. Get off!” Okay, now I’m annoyed. They have to see the smoke coming from the hood, since some of them are even staring in shock at it.

All of them shut up for once in their tiny little negligible lives.

“Get the fuck off this bus!” I bellow, slapping the plastic leather divider that houses the handrail up front.

That’s when they start moving, and I swear to God, they move quicker than any bus evacuation I’ve ever seen. Within thirty seconds, everyone’s off, I jump out the back and surprisingly land on my feet before closing the door behind me, hoping that it might buffer any kind of impact that may happen.

Nobody’s running, but they’re powerwalking pretty far away from the bus – we’re a few hundred feet away when the leader of the pack, Cadence, just kinda looks back at us as if asking for approval.

Raising my voice to be heard above the gaggle of confused monsters, I tell them, “Okay, we should be good here just in case anything happens. Everybody, stay calm.”

“What the hell is up with the bus?” Andre pipes up. “Why are we standing here?”

Sara answers the question in my place. “Don’t you see the smoke coming from the front of it?”

“It’s a safety precaution,” I kind of lie. (I was never told what to do when the engine starts smoking, but I assume that what I’m doing is at least somewhat right. I don’t want anybody suing me over this.) “Listen, guys, keep it down, okay? I’m gonna call the county.”

It’s a miracle that my stupid phone even gets a signal out here on the edge of the desert; I’m not one to question it, though. I call the county bus loop and tell them about the situation, they ask what I did to take caution, I tell them what I did, they say it’s a good move, and they tell me they’re gonna send another bus out so I can pick up where I left off. When I hang up, the kids are off in their own little groups, talking about who knows what, and I flip my phone shut and put it back in my pocket.

“Hey, guys,” I shout to get their attention again, seeing heads turn my way, “okay, if something explodes and debris gets flung our way, you need to cover your FUCKING -”

I try not to swear in front of the kids, I really do.

But since the bus pretty much explodes right behind us, there’s no filter on my language right now.

I stumble forward yet manage to stay on my feet, while all of them fall over like dominoes, scrambling to keep their hands over their heads and faces, which I was literally just about to tell them to do before…well, you know.

Thankfully, nothing hits me, and after a few seconds, I peek up from my spot crouched on the ground to see what’s wrong with the bus.

All of the windows are blown out, and the front end is on fire.

Well, so much for that “personalization.”

There’s not a shard of glass anywhere near us from what I can see, and so I stand up, so much taller than the huddled fearful lumps that lay on the ground before me. Brushing off the knees of my jeans, I say, “Is everyone alright?”

One by one, they look up, their hands still over their heads, and then they look at each other. Nobody’s got scratches, nobody has glass or metal sticking out of their skin, and after realizing that, I think they all just collectively share some kind of sigh of happiness. They all stand up, no matter how much their knees are shaking, and the first person to say anything is Amy, who tells me, “Yeah, I think we’re good.”

I blow out a long sigh and say, “Good.”

It’s a bit of damage control, making sure everyone’s fine. I go through and count out who’s here, making sure the number is the same as it always is – eighteen. I walk around the clusterfuck of people and ask each individual kid if they’re okay, if they thought they felt any glass or metal hit them or get near them, and none of them apparently have gotten injured. They’re all shaky as hell and I can see some of their hands quivering, but nobody mouths off to me. Some of them are smiling. Sara calls 911 while I check up on everybody.

At least I don’t have to use any of the emergency contact papers that have likely been burned to ashes by that explosion.

And eventually another bus comes, but this time it’s a way older model, a really angular and blocky one that looks like it’s straight out of the 1990s. It pulls up right next to us and some other driver I’ve never seen before in my entire life steps out, nodding at me before tossing me the keys.

There’s a van behind the bus, and this van honks at me. At first I want to flip it off for being such a dick to a bus that hasn’t even boarded yet, but when I see markings all over the side, that’s when something dawns on me:

A bus explosion is a pretty big thing. In fact, it’s even bigger when everybody ends up alright.

The van has the words “KYMA News 11” all over it. There’s a big satellite and a huge camera protruding from the roof, and as soon as it slows down to a stop, the bus driver guy hops in the back and this woman comes out of the passenger’s side. The bus driver guy comes back out with a huge camera on his shoulder, and I’m just left standing there with the kids, thinking to myself, “What the hell is going on now?”

The woman, a plastic-looking lady with a blonde bob and blood-red lipstick, shouts, “Sir! We’d like an interview, please!”

I have a history with cameras and me sounding like a complete dipshit/douchebag while being filmed, so I freeze.

I point at the new bus that isn’t practically engulfed in flames by now, and as I hear sirens blare by from the approaching fire trucks, my mind goes blank except for one thought.

“Uh,” I stutter, sounding stupid as hell, “I’d love to, but I have to drive them home right now. It’s kinda urgent. Meet me at the county bus loop if you wanna talk to me.”

And they say it’s fine, they tell me they’ll just keep updates on the issue over the Internet, and even though I furrow my brow at their rather strange use of technology, they keep their word. After dropping off the brats at their bus stops like nothing happened, after they get off and tell me “Bye,” with a sort of shaky cheer in their voices, I head back to the loop and park the rusty deathtrap in its rightful place – hopefully, it’s temporary.

Of course the news crew is still there, and there’s a camera in my face as soon as I step down from the bus. They ask me questions about how I knew what to do, how old I am, how long I’ve been driving buses and how the kids treat me, and I try not to be an ass. It’s one of the first times I’m really trying not to send out my rude-ass vibe to all of Yuma, and when the cameras stop rolling, I have to smile genuinely this time.

It may have just been by a few seconds, but I escaped death.

Nobody else in my whole family can really say that.