The Magic School Bus Reprise

I want off.

It goes too fast. It never stops, and I didn’t buy no ticket.

Last I recall, I was told to leave my classroom. Was promised I’d return, so I followed the directions. I put a bin of files and folders into the back of a yellow bus. This was a Friday in March. March 13th to be exact. I’m certain, because every day since then I’ve been asking, “What the fuck happened?”

Oops. I’m a school teacher. Shouldn’t use such poor words. But I’ve been doing nice for years. It ain’t working. Besides, a mechanical euphony chiming every nine minutes grates on the nerves.

The next stop will be… Ding. Doors Opening. Ding. Doors are about to close.

The next stop will be… Ding. Doors Opening. Ding. Doors are about to close.

The next stop will be… But it never stops. It never slows. Doors open and doors close without no destination.

I ask passengers where we are going, but they keep their heads down, flick fingers to roll a phone feed. If they do look up, eyes slant and hisses push through lip snarl, tongue, and teeth. A passenger made eye contact. Once. She sucked the skin off of a chicken wing, left the grease dripping from her chin. She never broke stare, and she never answered my question.

I searched for a conductor. Found him sitting in the last seat of the very last car. “Excuse me, sir, where does this train stop? I need off. I’ll exit anywhere.”

“You conduct.”

“Excuse me?”

“Then you conduct it.” He dug a finger between teeth crevices with a high-pitch suck. Unearthed the half-moon of a fingernail. Inspected it.

“But I don’t know how to drive a train.”

He stood up, towered over me. A bulging belly struggled and exposed itself through tortured uniform buttons. A belt, weighted with coins, pulled at drooping trousers. He flicked the fingernail onto the seat in front of him, stepped around me and sauntered down the aisle, calling, “Tickets. Tickets. Tickets,” to no one.

“I have no ticket!” I hollered in the hopes of being ejected. He never turned around. “I want off,” I cried, slumped into a seat, pressed my forehead to its own reflection and whispered, “Please.”

Last I recall, I was sitting at a classroom desk counting permission slips. Then an announcement came over the intercom. Pack up. Leave. Return shortly, it promised. This was a Friday in March. March of 2020 to be precise. I’m certain because, that year, I planned to take my 18th field trip. Instead, I woke up riding on a fucking locomotive.

Woopsies. This poor language may tarnish my pristine community image. I don’t care. I’ve pushed words through a filter for years. Seems no matter how I say it, ain’t nobody listening. Ain't nobody seems to care. So I'll use the language again:

I fucking loved teaching.

As a little girl, I dreamed of being a teacher. I’d line up stuffed animals against the basement wall, give each one a pencil, and sit on a hard metal stool at my father’s workbench. Under a single light bulb, I pushed up safety glasses too big for my nose, and in my most authoritative tone, an octave too low, commanded, “Friends, follow me.”

Then I pulled a vinyl cover off an old, forgotten type-writer, and cranked a knob to feed it paper. Extra pressure was needed to get the G key to strike, and .87 millimeters past the line-up arrow yielded perfect margins. I’d crack knuckles, open a green, hardcover copy of The Secret Garden, and allow fingers to fly as I retyped the chapters. Afterwards, I took a pencil and traced diagrams of roses, lilacs, and hollyhocks from the book’s pages. 'Homework for the bears', I called it.

I’ve discovered, over many years, that teaching is much more complicated. But here’s what I got right playing in a dimly lit basement: Those students truly do become your friends. And there is nothing better than witnessing their faces light up once they discover the magic of nature. I believed, on Friday, March 13, 2020--after we were told to leave--I would return to that dream.

Instead, I woke up on a speeding bullet. It doesn’t slow. It doesn’t stop. And I never bought a damn ticket.

I took the corpulent conductor’s directive. Searched for the train controller compartment. Thought if I pulled a lever it would all screech to a halt. But this train is darker than that dimly lit basement and passengers behave worse than wild animals. I tiptoe over rivulets of soda, soggy wrappers, and styrofoam garbage, struggle to balance, pin-ball against passengers. When I apologize, they throw out grunts, ankles, and elbows.

I located the front of the train and pulled open a large metal door. A young man stood at the control panel before an expansive window, his shoulders spread broad and muscular under a thin jersey. “Excuse me, sir. Tell me. Where is the train going?”

His head turned around. His eyes were deep, dark, and brown. Stubble grew in a circular pattern on skin the color of sandalwood.

“I...I don’t know what I’m doing,” he stammered. A sheepish grin pulled at full lips, revealing a slight gap between two front teeth.

“But you’re driving,” I pointed to the levers and buttons.

He shook his head. “I wanted off. I asked the train attendant for an exit. He told me to conduct, but I’m just a teacher.”

My heart jumped. “I'm a teacher, too! Maybe you can tell me what the fuck happened.”

Uh-oh. There I go again with poor language. But I’m not apologizing. I know the correct procedures; I transported students for years. A signature is needed for any type of excursion, yet no one asked me for permission on this damn train ride. I don't even have a ticket.

Last I recall, I sat at my desk on a Friday in March and followed due process to organize my 18th field trip. I emailed the tour guide, collected signed forms, secured passes for admission. Then a voice through a speaker instructed me to leave with a promise to return. It said nothing about speeding on a fucking railway. Oops. But not oops. I'll repeat the language:

I fucking want off this train.

I wanted to teach science because of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. As a child, I was fascinated by how nature turned an ugly, skinny little girl into someone beautiful. How a robin guided her to a secret place for her to heal. And the best part, she invited others into that garden to do the same. Even the saucy invalid everyone else shoved behind a curtain. As a little girl, I pretended to be Mary on the moor, skipping and running to the edge of the subdivision, cheeks wind-slapped pink. I’d dig into soil, whisper to animals, and revive dead roses.

Over the years, I discovered my classroom provided the same kind of magic. Nature truly is the key. I saw it on students' faces, especially during our field trips. In a yellow bus I’d sing, “Seat belts, everyone! Look out the window!” then turn the steering wheel so the breathtaking intricacy of the universe would appear. But my gaze stayed inside the bus, because there’s no better sight than students clamoring to press their faces to the glass. No better sound than their collective gasp of awe and wonderment.

I truly believed, in March of 2020, I’d take my 18th field trip. Instead, I’ve awoken on a train full of passengers who growl at each other and won’t look up from handheld devices. I press my forehead to the rattling pane; black fills the windows. The only view is a distorted reflection of my own image. I ask where we are going. I’ve yet to hear an answer.

The only thing I hear–every nine minutes–is a dulcet, automated message. Ding. The next stop will be…Ding. Doors Opening. Ding. Doors are about to close. Doors slide apart and doors slide shut, but nothing ever stops. I begged the young teacher in the conductor's compartment to turn the voice off.

“I tried,” he lowered long lashes. I followed his gaze downward to discover his hands zip-tied to a handrail. My mouth opened but no sound came out. His voice tremorous, “I asked for the destination. I begged to exit. They told me to conduct, but tied my hands to the control panel.”

“I’m so sorry.” Tears traced the crease of my nose.

“All I wanted to do was teach,” he lamented.

“Me too.” I placed my hand atop his. My fingers traced the zip-ties around his wrists. He lifted his gaze. Our eyes met.

“What the fuck happened?” we both questioned.

Forget the woops-a-daisy. I got nothing left but poor language. Ain’t nobody helping teachers. I lived that little girl’s dream; I created my own little garden in the classroom. Then I woke up from a Friday in March on a ride that will not stop. I endure it for my students, but it's been years.

I find myself in the train vestibule. Through small windows, I can see into the cars on both sides of me. Bowed heads bobbing to freight motion. The last I remember, I sat among classroom walls decorated in the solar system, through the stars swung student laughter. Then I was told to leave.

In the train's vestibule, I scream. I scream until my veins throb, my throat excoriates, and the space behind my eyes ache. Not one passenger picks up a head to listen. I scream again in sing-song rhythm, “Step inside: it’s a wilder ride!”

Ding. The next stop will be Main Street.

I close my eyes. Last I recall, I sat at my desk on March 13, 2020. My childhood book--a green, hardcover of The Secret Garden--rested at my fingertips. But then I awoke clawing at the cables around a young teacher’s wrists, trying to free him from a speeding train's control panel.

“Go,” he demanded. “They’ll tie you, too. You must find an exit.”

My arms wrap around the cold metal pole in the center of the vestibule; I feel the violent vibrations through my shoes’ soles. The train’s velocity increases. My body trembles; my eyes squeeze shut harder. I hum and quaver, “Strap your bones right... don’t be shy.”

Ding. Doors opening.

Thunderous wind surges inside the vestibule, thrashing ferocious lashes around me. Hair whips my cheeks raw. For a moment, I feel as if I’m gripping the smooth leather of a steering wheel. The deafening roar and rattle render remnants of a school bus engine.

I take one more glance through the small, vestibule windows marked with ghost imprints of students’ handprints, though not a single passenger lifted a head or moved in a seat. The whirring force of pressure pulls my feet off the floor, sucks my body towards the open doors. I clutch the pole tighter. “Come on,” I pray, “ride on the fucking magic...”

Ding. Doors are about to close.

Oops. I release my grip.