I grabbed the keys with a metallic clink off of their hook and opened the door, almost forgetting to put on my shoes, only placing my feet into the black dress shoes two nerve impulses away from taking a step outside. Stepping onto my porch with my shiny shoes, I closed my eyes and breathed in the fresh morning air, letting the cold oxygen purge my body. The hair on my arms rose up, warning me of autumn's icy tendrils.
”One step ahead of you,” I told them and took that step, followed by a further series of steps, down the stairs and onto the drive-in.
The warmth was steadily seeping out of my limbs, my soggy hair starting to freeze up. The gravel churned under the soles of my shoes in time with my rolling gait. It was too early for birds to be singing, too early for the postman to come by, too early for nightly or early morning joggers, too early for anyone but me. The churning gravel ended and the clacking granite begun. The sun hadn't risen yet, but the light on the horizon foreshadowed the coming morning. I looked up and was satisfied to only see wisps of cloud, nothing that would hamper the sun's warmth and guidance too greatly. They were sailing across the darkened heavens with such speed that promised inevitable wind. Not a perfect day before death, I believe someone sometime said.
I reached the large vehicle just as the first clumps of hair froze into spikes on my head. I pressed the button next to the double-doors and they hissed open, swinging outwards on hydraulic hinges. Snatching my cap from inside the bus, I traced a perimeter around the old vehicle, checking the wheels and exhaust. Soggy leaves, of every shade between yellow and red, clung to the bus, painting nature's touch upon the grey and brown base. I wiped the majority off of the windows, deciding to leave the others on as decorations. There's nothing more beautiful than nature, after all, and a faded old bus wasn't even a close second. Everything seemed fine with the mechanics, as always, and I walked back to the doors.
I alighted the three steps into the interior of the vehicle. I walked up and down the main aile, inspecting the seats and their undersides, coming up with two discarded candy wrappers and a long-since-forgotten cap which proclaimed that the wearer loves New York. I threw the wrappers into the bin outside my house and left the cap on top of it, leaving it for the garbage disposal to figure out what to do with it.
Back inside the bus, I opened the small gate to the driver's seat, a place of such holiness that your average person has never been inside it. I put on my bus driver's cap and twisted it to an angle; it came to rest almost sideways, but just enough under it to not look retarded. It was a practised angle, one I had perfected in front of the mirror for hours. I inserted the appropriate key into the depths of the bus and twisted. The ancient bus woke with much the same grace as a slumbering leviathan, grumbling and complaining its way into every-day life. I patted the steering wheel affectionately.
”Good gurl,” I crooned and gently leaned on the gas. ”Such a good gurl.”
The bus lurched into motion and I assisted her onto the road. I turned her around at the dead end of the lane, a semi-circle of granite that looked like Mother Nature's infant child had found her storage of paints. The leaves slid underneath the rolling wheels as the great oaks on the roadside watched on, implacable in their vigil of the neighborhood. She turned like a pregnant sow, but she turned. I found myself leaning to the left, as if my body weight could make the difference between making the turn or not.
We weaved through the suburban area, white houses and green houses and brick houses and wood houses flashing by, seemingly devoid of life, empty windows following the awkward journey of the bus like hungry, soulless eyes. Trees with bare branches twisted and waved at me and I nodded back, respectfully. We, she and I, hit the main road at 30 miles per hour. Traffic didn't exist at this time – except for the unlucky night taxis whose clients were asleep and unable to give further advice on their destination, and thus they wandered the empty streets, hoping to find an obscure street such as Tipsyturvey Lane, the existence of which the client had drunkenly insisted on – and I had no trouble easing the bus into the east-way lane, accompanied by the steady tictactictac of the turning signal.
I flipped the switch that brought to life the bright neon numbers outside the bus. Their glare added a few photons more illumination to that of the headlights. I turned on the radio, surfed through a couple of channels before deciding on one that played music that more-or-less fitted into the genre of rock. Ten minutes, one Metallica song, 20 seconds and three pop songs later I switched off the radio. The silence would have been unbearable if not for the sullen grumbling of the motor and the creak of the leather-covered steering wheel. It was cosy, filled with the small, familiar sounds that make places feel like home.
My first stop was coming up. It gently slid into view as I crested a hill, the bright yellow of the bus-stop sign screaming halt. I didn't see anyone standing on the stop, but I pulled over anyway, flipping the tictactictac switch. I flipped another switch and the double-doors hissed open, my mind's eye adding billowing smoke and a dull spotlight. The bus-stop was located on the edge of a small meadow; I could smell the mildew and wet bark; I could hear the gentle vibration of the trees, humming a duetto with the engine of my bus. It was an odd place for a bus-stop, far from everything and anyone. It was a place for the lost.
I kept the engine running, threw one leg on top of the other, crossed my arms and closed my eyes. I waited. The vibrating of the engine lulled me closer to sleep by the moment together with the rhythmical tictactictactictac; the turning signal light from outside the bus pulsated softly behind my eyelids. The wind had started to excercise its lungs and the surprisingly warm wind curled around the edges of the door, blasted down the aisle, turned sharply at the end and flew back outside, taking with it the dusty air earlier inhabiting the leather-dominated inside.
I was just about to give into sleep when I heard hesistant shuffling steps from outside. I cracked one eye open and cocked my head. Standing in the doorway was a young man wearing jeans and a red leather jacket, furiously sucking on a cigarette, the red end glowing like a firefly. His eyes darted around him, barely having time to register one thing before they moved on to another. They stayed still long enough to look at me. He sucked the cigarette down to the filter and flicked it onto the ground where it smoldered sullenly amongst the wet mass that was mostly leaves.
”Where y'going?” asked the young man, his eyes scanning the woods behind him in obvious paranoia. The words came out as a single word, quickly flung before his trembling lips could betray him.
”Where it is you need to be,” I answered.
”Not home, no, not home. I need somewhere, somewhere, somewhere where I can lay low for a while. Yeah. You know? Yeah, yeah.”
He fished in his pockets and came up with a slightly bent cigarette which he jammed between his lips and clasped firmly. It took him four tries to light it, and he dropped the lighter afterwards; he left it where it lay. He took a long drag and blew out the smoke in spastic puffs.
”I'm going past such a place. I can drop you off there. You coming?” My voice was level and calm, the voice of someone who had the power to help you.
”Yeah.” A darting of eyes, a drag on the smoke. ”Yeah, yeah, yeah. Safe.”
”Hop on in, but leave the smoke outside, kay?”
”Yeah, yeah.” A final drag on that smoke, a flick, two smoldering cigarettes side by side. ”Yeah, I'm in.”
The young man walked up the steps haltingly, as if not sure if they would actually support him or not. He reached the top and stood there, not sure what he had to do next. He ruffled his thick hair, looking at everything but me.
I smiled at him reassuringly. ”The trip's not free, son.”
”Oh, yeah. Of course not.” He fished in his pockets for a while, growing more anxious by the second. Then he looked up, horrified. ”I-I forgot my wallet. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. I... shit.” His hands found his face, drawing his features downward, covering his mouth. ”Shit.” A tear leaked from his left eye, his lips trembled further, his hands found another cigarette. He held it in his lips, unlit, to still them; they were a line of chalk, trembling even more from the strain of keeping the cigarette in place.
”The coin in your hand will do just fine,” I told him.
He took his hands from his face and the latter twisted into an expression of surprise. The glimmering coin in his right hand slipped through his fingers and clattered onto the floor. I watched him stoop down and listened to him fumble around on the floor where I couldn't see him. A car whooshed by, a streak of red on dark, a roar of engine on quietness, the stench of exhaust on molding trees. When I looked back, the young man was clasping the golden coin in his trembling hand. I reached out with my right hand, palm up, gesturing for him to hand it over.
Half-way through the motion, he drew back his hand and clutched the coin to his chest, eyes wide. ”Your-your hand. What the fuck's wrong with it? I don' wanna touch that. No way. No.”
I looked at my hand. The skin was see-through in its thinness, the flesh that still clung to the gnarly bones looked pale and putrid, the nails resembled chipped talons. It was completely at odds with the rest of my body, which was youthful and plain. I checked the rear-view mirror and inspected my face, inspected my body in general. I grinned; I didn't find anything funny, it was just something to do with my mouth.
”What's wrong with it? Nothing, really. It's the rest of me that's wrong.” I clenched it experimentally, unclenched it. ”You don't have to touch it if you don't want to, just drop the coin.”
”N-no. Don'... wanna. E-evil.” The unlit cigarette dropped from his mouth, his eyes darted around for a route of escape. He was slowly back-pedalling towards the doors, the coin clenched in two hands to his chest. ”Don'... don' come no c-closer.”
I sighed. ”Of course, you have no obligation to come aboard. You can choose to leave now, and I won't stop you. But you must be prepared to walk these grounds for a long time if that is what you choose.” I didn't merely say for a long time, I said for a long time. The young man must have seen my meaning, for he stopped. His legs didn't completely agree with him, jerking awkwardly towards the doors while his arms flailed forward, trying to maintain balance. ”How will it be? I'm in no hurry, but I still wouldn't like to sit here all day.”
”I... I,” he said and took a step backwards; his foot tried to find purchase in thin air, failed, plummeted, slipped – his body tumbled down the stairs with a small yelp of surprise. He landed in a pitiful heap on the ground, his legs bent over his head, his arms sticking out. I got out of my seat, opened the small gate, and went over to the young man. I heard sobs coming from somewhere inside the knot of shaking limbs.
”Come on, up with you,” I said, not roughly. I offered him my left hand, which he took, and I heaved him up in one fluid motion, the muscles in my back creaking from the effort. His face was smothered in mud and tears cascaded freely, cutting canyons into the grime. I felt a solid object pressing into my palm between the softness of our hands. The young man hunched his shoulders, let go of my hand and trudged up the stairs, his every pounding step proclaiming to the world that he liked it not a bit. His steps pounded their way to the back of the bus, where he slumped into the second-to-last seat, fishing in his pockets for a new smoke.
I was left alone, standing in the chilly autumn not-quite-morning. I opened my hand and saw an unevenly circular coin winking up at me through a layer of muck. It was a coin completely crafted from gold by rough hands, hands more used to grasping the hilt of a broadsword than creating something of such value. Another car flashed past, its headlights causing my shadow to dance a half-circle in front of me. It looked weary and bent, tired of dancing. I felt the same. When I looked closer at the coin, I could see it pulsating like a beating heart, but only because I was looking for it.
Face emotionless, I transfered it into my right hand. There it gleamed, an object of purity caged in a hand of decay. I grinned again, all emotion gone from the expression, and clenched my claw-like hand into a taloned fist. A freezing burst of wind; I rocked forward with the force of it, my cap flying off into the woods. My skin stood up in goosebumps, the joints in my right hand popped with the force with which I held it closed.
When I opened my fist, the coin was gone. So was my grin. I got back into the bus, clicked the small gate into place, donned a new cap from under the panel and drove off, telling the young man that no, I didn't have a smoke on me and no, I wouldn't turn on the radio; he crossed his arms and stared out of the window, anger and misery clashing in the depths of his eyes. I watched my right hand clench the steering wheel and realized I couldn't remember what I looked like otherwise. I didn't bother to smile or grin.
Back at the bus stop, the two cigarettes burned out into black ashes, the autumn leaves crawling on top of them and smothering their existence. I drove on.
Spoiler! :
But please, rip this apart to whatever degree you find satisying. Toodles~
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