Bus

Today’s the big day.

Probably the most exciting thing that’s gonna happen to me in some time…

I get up extra early. Well, around the time I normally get up, but this time I’ve actually got something to do to spend the extra time I have. I take a nice, long, warm shower. I shave. I make sure to brush my tongue as well as my teeth. I even go back into my closet to look for a halfway decent-looking collared shirt, and that takes some effort. Most of them don’t even fit anymore.

But I gotta leave a good impression on Carrie, you know? I don’t want her thinking her brother’s some complete deadbeat loser. I mean, she probably already thinks I’m pathetic, but maybe she’s still got a little faith in me. So I want to build on that hypothetical glimmer of hope in her.

She calls me at around nine and tells me she’s in Arizona, which is good. She says she got a hotel with Ezra, her little girl, back in New Mexico, and she left at around eight. Any time now, she’ll knock on my door.

So I sit on my couch/futon thing in the main living room of my apartment, mindlessly flipping through channels. It’s a Wednesday, which means that during the daytime, nothing is on except for stupid preschooler crap and soap operas. I can feel my brain melting already…

I wonder what the substitute bus driver’s doing…

I shake my head violently as if to expel that useless thought from my head.

No, but really…no, shit, stop it. Jesus Christ. If there was ever a moment where I just had to force something out of my head – and believe me, I’ve had plenty of those – this was one of them. Doug, your sister is going to be here – you’re gonna see her in the flesh. This is supposed to be a happy day for you, and you can’t flush it down the crapper by thinking about your damn job.

I tell myself that over and over again like a broken record. But seconds after the thoughts of those tween rats are expurgated from my head, they come right back like a stupid boomerang.

They’re probably jumping over seats and throwing condoms out the window again. I’ll bet the sub is some useless old fart who can’t hear anything quieter than a jet engine and he’s just happily driving along, with a goofy old smirk on his face while the kids are back there having sex and throwing parties. Wouldn’t doubt it. He’s probably enabling them to get into all sorts of trouble that I’ll end up getting blamed for.

The windows are probably broken. The seats are most likely ripped to shreds with the yellowed foam puffing out through the holes and scratches. The walls are probably littered with drawings of penises and shit. That hellhole is probably a zoo by now with wolves and elephants and various other animals standing up, hooting and hollering like they got a free pass to act like morons.

I blink. My vision goes from blurry to clear again and suddenly I realize that I’ve been watching a workout channel for the past ten minutes.

Groaning, I lean forward and accidentally muss my not-really-groomed-but-the-best-it’s-looked-in-a-while hair. That’s a habit I gotta break. It’s one thing to think about my freakin’ craphole of a job, but it’s another thing to think of all the crappy things that’re going on while I’m not there.

Positive thoughts. C’mon.

I glance over at the clock. It’s 10:14. Ripe time for Carrie to be here, so I can’t start something else since she’d most likely knock on the door right in the middle of it, but there’s nothing on the vast wasteland of cable television…

My mind wanders back to Yuma Middle School and how much I hate everyone there. That goes on for a good couple of minutes until something major snaps me out of it and I jolt up, feeling, for once, a genuine smile creeping up on my face – the doorbell!

I nearly skip over to the door like some fool in a stupid cartoon movie, though I calm down and take a moment to chill out. I do a quick breath test – minty fresh – and straighten my shirt out the best I can.

Feels like lightning is shocking my fingertips in the doorknob, yet I twist it open anyway. Sure enough, Carrie’s standing there right in front of me with her daughter attached at her hip.

I can’t speak. What the hell am I gonna say? I just kinda stand there for a while with my mouth twitching from smiling so hard. I’m not used to this.

Carrie does that little crooked smirk I know so well and flips her short dyed-black hair out of her eyes. She still looks so young.

And the first thing she says to me is, “My God, you actually shaved?”

I wrinkle my nose up at her and shoot her a dirty look, killing my smile instantly. Leave it to her to murder my decent mood.

She holds Ezra’s hand, who looks a little bewildered and stares up at me in questioning. They both walk into my apartment without even asking. Carrie glances around for a moment, looking like she’s thinking real hard about something (who knows what), and then stops, letting go of her daughter and putting her hands on her wide hips.

“Doug,” she snickers, “you need a girlfriend. This is the most obvious bachelor pad I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Carrie,” I cough. Somehow I knew we’d end up insulting each other sooner or later during this whole ordeal.

She throws a familiar smile over her shoulder at me, sticking her formerly-pierced tongue out.

Ezra, meanwhile, is busy checking her fingernails, her eyelids drooped over her eyes halfway like she’s bored with everything on earth.

“Honey, why don’t you say hi to your uncle Doug?” she ushers, nudging Ezra’s arm.

My niece sighs heavily and stares up at me, giving me a long, hard look before opening her mouth to say anything. Then, of course, she does. “You look like Santa Claus.”

And Carrie bursts out laughing. Not that I’m surprised, really. Still, I feel that scowl coming back to me and I shoot both of them some pretty nasty looks. I kind of hope that four-year-old brat is scarred for life because of it.

“I liked you better when you were in the womb,” I mutter, half-hoping she hears me and half-hoping she never catches it.

Carrie leans on my shoulder playfully, still laughing a bit. “Sorry,” she gasps, red in the face. “Ezra doesn’t get out much.”

“He still looks like Santa.” My niece’s voice is flat and emotionless.

“So what’re we doing today?” I ask, trying desperately to change the subject. Every year around Christmas I get that from various stranger kids.

My sister rolls her eyes, sighing. “Jesus, Doug. We just got here. How about we put our crap in here and then figure out what we’re gonna do?”

“Who pissed in your corn flakes?” I ask her, squinting my eyes.

“That’s a naughty word, Uncle Doug,” Ezra warned, wagging a finger at me. Since when do toddlers tell me what to say?

There’s a little bit of an awkward silence there. So I take that as an opportunity to do something nice for once.

“Hey, how about we take your bags in and you guys make yourselves comfortable? I’ll, uh…look in the paper to find something to do,” I offer.

My face is on fire. (That always happens whenever something I’ve got decent hopes for doesn’t turn out that good.)

Carrie walks past me out the door to her and Ezra’s suitcases in her car, but before she leaves, she turns back to me and smiles a little. Patting my shoulder, she whispers, “Good to see you, Dougie.”