Thoughts from a Bus By Foster Trecost

I think they want me to feel important and that’s why they stack my seat so high. But it doesn’t work. I don’t feel even a little bit important.

I like the early morning folks; I call them the Six O’clocker’s. We’re all wearing uniforms with our names stitched on the front pocket. They always put the names nobody cares about on the front pocket. When they get on, they don’t look at me because they don’t want me looking at them; we’re all a little bit embarrassed, but still, I know their names and they know mine.

The Eight O’clocker’s get on my nerves. Neckties and perfect hair, smelling like too much cologne. They don’t care about me, but they look at me anyway. So proud of themselves, just hoping I look back, but I don’t.

My boss thinks he knows how long it takes – who made these schedules? And he’s always hiding some guy on the corner with a stopwatch. I get a report every month, says I’m never on time. Hell, I’m always on time. The Six O’clocker’s don’t say nothing; it’s the Eight O’clocker’s always complaining.

How many times I got to say, Exact fare only? What I want to say is, Buy a pass. If someone takes the bus twice a day, why don’t they just buy a pass? But I say what I’m supposed to say, “Busses don’t give change.” I guess he won’t be buying any fancy coffee today. I guess he’ll just have to drink the regular stuff, like the rest of us.

Now there’s this little girl, staring right at me: “What do you want?”

She looks at her mom: “Why doesn’t he say it?”

Her mom looks at me: “She wants you to say, Move on back.”

You’ve got to be kidding me! What do I look like, a circus?

“Yes,” says the kid. “The driver on the bus says, Move on back, like the song.”

They don’t pay me to be a clown, they couldn’t pay me enough. “Go sit down!” She starts to cry.

“You’re a very mean man,” says the mother.

I don’t say a word, just point to the sign: Do Not Speak To The Driver.

More Eight O’clocker’s, lined up. “Good morning,” I hear, but I don’t look. I never look.

“I said good morning,” he says again.

Man, take your good mornings to your office because there’s nothing good about mine.

“Can you hear? Good morning!”

He don’t need to shout because I can hear just fine and I can see just fine, too. And I don’t like none of it. I don’t even like the smell of it. “Move on back,” I mumble.

“Excuse me?”

Now I’m pissed off. “The driver on the bus says move on back!”

If they stack my seat any higher, my head’ll hit the ceiling. But the truth is, they can’t stack it high enough.

© 2011 Foster Trecost

Foster Trecost started writing in Italy, and he still writes, but now from Philadelphia. Sometimes he works paying jobs that involve corporate taxes. When he’s not doing that, he usually goes back to Europe. His stories have appeared in elimae, decomP, and Dark Sky Magazine, among other places.

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