The Bus Stop

Sometimes the most ordinary places are also the most disorientating.

Since I started to write fiction, I’ve always been fascinated with those ordinary staples in our world. The local watering hole, the pub, the bar, the café (depending on where you’re from), schools, roads, the waiting room, or in this case, the bus stop.

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A piece of crushed bird shit stains the free side of the bench, so I stand even though my feet are tired. The bus will be here in a minute or two anyway. It’s an early spring evening, and the sun’s glaring into my eyes, searching for something hidden deep inside. The stop is busier than usual, and every few seconds, the crowd gathered on the curbside move their gaze up the road in practised anticipation. Headphones hang from their ears, and their heads hang from their necks. It’s the posture of modernity, here to infect everyone who earns their living in a chair or those that cannot stop swiping their thumbs. Next to me, taking up the clean side of the bench, a couple of ladies; with grey hair, woollen cardigans and tartan shopping trolleys placing them neatly into their stereotypes. They’re in the depths of a kind-hearted rally about the good old days, back when bus stops were a lively hub, inviting in congregations from the street.

“My father used to take his book and sit at the bus stop on the opposite side of the road after dinner.” One lady says to the other.

“That was a different time. People knew each other then. They spoke to one another. When did you last speak to someone new at the bus stop?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” she says, then appears to try and part the fogginess surrounding her thoughts with forced concentration. It’s the sort of focus everyone relies on now and again to get us out of trouble. But it seems nothing came into view, and they joined the gazing eyes looking up the road. Suddenly, it feels like the universe is talking to me, or maybe it’s my feet asking for a distraction.

“Do you know, I’ve never spoken to anyone new at the bus stop either,” I say, and they turn to face me. The one furthest away gave me a smile; it’s a smile that comes straight from the heart, like a wave of laughter you're unable to hold back no matter how hard you try.

“So what do you think?” The lady closest to me replies.

“I’ve never given it much thought to be honest. It seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. But nowadays, I think there are too many distractions.”

“What do you mean?” The one furthest asks.

“I mean our phones and laptops, our headphones,” I answer, quieter than before. I might be talking to old ladies, but I didn’t like the idea of pissing everyone else off when we’re about to get on the same bus.

“You aren’t wrong. My grandson's always telling me he's bored, but I doubt he even knows what boredom feels like. He’s always plugged in.” The one closest says, but they both nod in agreement.

“And what about you, young lady? Why are you not distracting yourself?”

“My headphones died earlier, so I guess I am distracting myself, but with you and not my phone,” I admit, and there’s another smile, this time on both their lips.

“So, you aren’t much different then?”

“To who?”

“Everyone else your age.”

“I suppose not, but at least I’m not looking at a screen all day. By the way, I’m Harriet.”

“Pleasure, dear,” the closest one says, stretching her arm out at an awkward angle. Her hand looks twenty years older than her face and it feels as cold as winter. “I’m Geraldine, and this is Marg,”

“Pleasure,” Marg says, and her hand’s the same.

“So where are you heading, dear?” Geraldine asks.

“... ” I’m drawing blanks. What’s it called again? I glance up at Geraldine and Marg. “I haven’t the foggiest."

There’s something in the air; it tastes like moss or wet grass.

“Well, dear, this is probably you,” Marg says. The crowd is shuffling its feet, inching up to the curb side. And now I see why. The bus is not completely full, although it’s almost definitely too full for all of us. I cut into the queue in front of a hoodie-wearing man with unkempt hair while he searches his wallet for his pass. There’s a groan behind me, but no one has the energy or the confidence to say anything, so I keep my place, and before I know it, my feet are no longer on the curb.

“Well played,” Marg says, and a smile breaks on my lips, although I’m too deep in the crowded aisle to see her.

***

The doors close with a hiss as they always do, and then we’re all jolted forward, then back as the bus moves off its marks. I rock into a man in front of me, then another behind. The latter’s more pleased about the accidental contact than the former. But it makes no difference who’s offended and who isn’t. There’s no way to move either way. We are sardines, tinned and sealed, waiting for someone to peel our metal lid open so we can breathe again.

But from where I am, I’m not even sure air would reach me if the entire roof was removed. Only the slightest glimpses of light find their way to me; when they do, it's only for a second before someone closes the gap with their arm or a bag. Someone's listening to a track with a heavy drum beat and a ripping guitar. A tall man, a few bodies further along the aisle, is attempting to read and succeeding only because of his height. Sitting to my left, a woman nods along in a meeting.

The bus is slowing down again, and there’s a collective reach for something to steady ourselves. But there are only bodies around me, male and female, slim and plump, steady and not. So I don’t bother reaching. Instead, I allow the bodies to hold me in place. The jolt is softer this time, and before I realise it, the bus comes to a standstill. There's a hissing as the doors open, and I feel the air after all. It feels human, like a heavy hand on my shoulder. Then without warning, it tightens its grip and pulls me out. There’s a moment of blurriness, with whistling winds singing in my ears and streaking colours passing my eyes. I land on the curbside feeling sick. It’s as if I've been sailing the oceans in a pedalo. I throw up. Now I’m hunched over, trying to see through blurry eyes. The bus doors hiss again, and there’s a warm exhale as it drives away.

“You look like you’ve had a heavy day,” a gritty voice says behind me. “Here,” it says, waving a handkerchief by my face.

“Thanks.”

“No problem." I wipe my face and blow my nose. My vision is returning now, but my head starts to spin.

“Where am I?” I ask, turning to the handkerchief giver. It belongs to a man. He’s probably fifty or maybe a touch older, he's wearing beige slacks, and collar shirt and a knitted pullover.

“Haarlem, dear. Where did you expect to be?” He asks.

“I mean, which stop?” I notice then that the road’s a different shade of grey.

“Nassaulaan,” he says, pointing up to the sign.

“But... I just got on here,” I say, and now my head is spinning faster. The bus stop looks different too. The electric board has been replaced by metal and laminated paper, and the glass and metal frame has been replaced by bricks and wood. And the streetlights no longer provide their usual white light. Now, raining from above is a golden glow.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The man asks, and I can sense his concern. I must really look like a mess.

“I’m okay,” I say and pass him his handkerchief.

“You can keep it.” I look at it, and his answer makes sense. It’s covered.

“Sorry about that,” I say, hiding it in my pocket.

“It happens. Don’t worry about it. There's another bus coming in a few minutes.” He says, walking to the bench sheltered by the bus stop. There’s a book waiting at the side, and he picks it up and looks it over.

“What are you reading?” I ask, trying to settle my spinning head on something concrete.

“Oh, this? It’s Orwell’s latest. If you ask me, it's one of his best, but I’m not finished yet."

“Orwell’s latest? You mean George Orwell?”

“I don’t know any others,” he says and flashes the book at me. I’m trying hard to make sense of the scene I find myself in, but the more I concentrate, the dizzier I become.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look as white as a ghost. Let me get you some water,” He says, and begins waving past me to a window on the opposite side of the road.

“Thanks,” I manage, then join him on the bench before I lose my balance.

“Don’t mention it. We’ve all been there.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” I say. After all, I’m not sure I’ve been here before. A sly chuckle breaks the seriousness on his lips, and he places Orwell back on the bench. There’s a few seconds of silence until a little girl comes clip-clopping across the road, carrying a pint of water.

“Thank you, Marg,” he says, and takes the glass from her hands and passes it to me. I drink it all at once as if I can drown myself into normality. But it just makes me sicker.

“You don’t look so good,” Marg says, in a voice only found in little girls. Curious and compassionate.

“Marg, don’t be rude.”

“But Papa, she looks sick.” Marg is right on the money.

“I know, honey. That’s why she needs water.”

“Yeah, I’m getting better now, Marg. There's no need to worry,” I say, capitalising on a moment of steadiness.

“Run along now, dear. I’ll be in in a minute.” Marg is quick to go. No doubt happy to distance herself from my deathly-looking state.

“Little girls, hey,” he says, and picks Orwell up again.

“She’s cute,” I say.

“She is. But if I didn’t have this bus stop opposite, I’d never get a moment to myself.” He says, and I can’t help feeling a little sorry for Marg.

“Some people think this makes me an absent father.” He’s using Orwell's last masterpiece as an extension of his hand. “But when you’re by yourself, you have to create time for your own thoughts. Otherwise, you'll end up souring your time with them,” he says, and I notice his voice is less gritty.

“And your wife?” I ask.

“She’s no longer with us,” He says, struggling with the weight of the words. He wipes a tear from his cheek and then looks up the road. There’s a grumbling in the air, a noise that belongs to internal combustion. “This is you,” He says.

“Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it. You’re not the first person to interrupt my evening read."

The bus doors don’t hiss when they open but clunk and thud into their position. Other than the driver and myself it’s empty. I look to my right and see the man with his head already glued to Orwell's next page, and I wonder if O'Brian has caught Winston and Julia yet. Then as we pull away with a jolt forward and then back, I look to my right and see Marg with her face pressed against the window, watching me leave.

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Love, Luke