Burden borne

Feet drag across the sidewalk, so slowly that you barely register their movement as your own.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

The same monotonous, weary tread, step by step. It was the same yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

Your bags are heavy on your shoulder and your head is down, because it's taking too much effort to lift it. Because it's there, you spy the grey gum right before you step on it, but there isn't much point in trying to avoid it.

Things get stuck to you whether you like it or not, and not all of them can be scraped off. Your whole life you've been peeling bits of gum off your soul, gum that you didn't even choose to buy in the first place.

The 2857 isn't far away at least.

Right next to the ache in your leg, you feel the coins clink in your dress pocket. Always easier to keep the fare on your person, so that it's easy to reach. No point in causing a fuss by scrambling through a purse. And if any young folk did snatch your purse as they rode by, well, they wouldn't get your fare.

You get to your usual stop, and though your legs cry out to sit, you remain standing. It isn't long now, and you'll be seated soon enough. You let your bags hit the ground gently, but it really doesn't make a difference, as you'll be picking them up anyway. A few bars of soap, cream for sores, a razor, and pads- all from Lee's Cut-Rate Drug Store a minute away. Thank goodness they don't weigh much today. Your shoulders complain and ache daily, and there's not much respite except when you aren't carrying. And you're always carrying something.

You aren't alone, but no-one speaks to strangers at a bus stop. It doesn't matter who you are or where you stand. Workers and young families and old couples all wait in their respective sections, ignoring each other in the cold December air. The sun is nearly down, and a chill hides in the darkening shadows, waiting to fall on those outdoors in half an hour. You don't plan on being one of them.

So you pull your head up and watch the birds flit from tree to tree, darting and diving around spindly branches without being pursued. They seem to revel in their flight, like they haven't yet grown tired of how they move.

Wouldn't you like to be up there, soaring and drifting without a care, heedless to the calls and cries of those who would rather see you underfoot?

To be a bird, graceful and smooth yes, but also fast. Speed means the ability to to move where you will, to evade, and to escape. It means the power to be free.

Instead, you're stuck waiting for a machine, dependent and powerless. Stuck.

You look left down the street but nothing comes rumbling towards you. So you turn back to the trees, and cast a quiet eye over the bare boughs. Your favourite is the flowering dogwood, though of course, it isn't the right time of year. It stands still, arms out in supplication, waiting for clothes that won't arrive until the turn of the seasons. Naked, it shivers in the wind that slides across the street, nothing to give and nothing to get. It remains as it always has (and probably always will)- steadfast, refusing to be cowed by the elements.

Still, it must be hard.

You hear the familiar rumble before you see it, and with a small sigh, heft your bags back up to your side. The stop isn't so busy today, and you're able to stand near the front of your line. A few here, a few there.

The bus trundles to a stop, its caramel lower half and white top split by the wood green stripe that cuts through the middle, all over the windows. How fascinating, that even on objects, colour separates colour.

Cleveland Ave it says on the front, not that you need to check. You get on this bus every day after work, and you would recognise it in the dark, sign or no.

You go to clamber up your normal steps, using the railing to steady yourself, and hand over the 10c like usual. But as you begin to climb, something sticks. Just like gum, it refuses to dislodge itself from your throat, and this time, you refuse to hack it out.

So you move along the sidewalk to the front with the others, and step up when a gap presents itself. No doubt someone is confused as to what you are doing, or they have stepped out of line to move away from you, but you don't really care.

You pull the dime from your pocket, and place it gently on the plate without looking at the driver. As you stare down the bus, you notice that it's remarkably empty for a Thursday afternoon. There are a few passengers already seated, but scattered here and there, like bread thrown to gulls. Space for everyone.

You can feel his gaze on you, pinning you in place like you're an insect stuck on a board, but you resist the urge to wriggle.

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and continues to stare. You know what he is going to say before he even opens his lips, but you're not going to give him the satisfaction. He'll have to say it.

"You need to move, and re-board from the back".

His tone is calm, but he isn't asking. You can feel your heart starting to creep higher in your chest, but continue to look down the bus. In as polite, but firm a tone as you can muster, you state calmly,

"I'm already on the bus. I don't see the need of getting off and then getting back on when people are standing in the stepwell".

You feel the passengers waiting to get on board behind you begin to shuffle, and whisper, and you can almost feel their pointing fingers. One of them tsk-tsks as you would to a child, and you almost say something. But you don't.

Most of these passengers just want to get home, and you don't blame them for that. But it's a been a long day, and now that you're here, it seems too much to stop.

"I'm not asking again".

You wait, hand clasped onto your bags tightly, and your eyes find the dogwood, outside the bus and across the street. Nothing to give, nothing to get.

He lurches out of his seat, and quicker than you could imagine, his arm is locked on yours like a pincer, so sharp that it bites.

You gasp, but swallow it. He releases his grip but is still standing over you.

"Get back and go up your stairs at the back".

You feel a surge of anger then, and something rises from inside. Stairs aren't people. They can belong to whomever requires their use. Not so for humans.

Before he realises what is happening, you haul your bags up and walk down to the middle section, climb up onto a seat, and hold your breath, staring out the window at the dogwood, waiting for the driver to close the doors.

He eventually does, and you feel a tremor as you begin to breathe again.

The bus starts back up, and you find yourself settling as you continue on your journey home, stop by stop. It is warm here, and nearly dark outside.

However, at each stop more passengers get on than get off, as the bus moves further out towards the suburbs, and you start to feel a quiet panic build.

You know what will happen.

Sure enough, by the time you reach Empire Theater the seats are all full. And there are still passengers trying to board.

The driver comes down the middle, looks at you, then turns away and gestures for a passenger four rows in front to move.

His seat is taken.

One man two rows behind you stands up before being asked, and his seat is taken. Then another, then another. Stop by stop, seat by seat.

At the next stop, the driver yells from the front.

"All you in the middle seats. Get up".

Your fellow passengers get up without complaint, hauling their bags with them. They squeeze down to the back, standing in the aisle shoulder-to-shoulder like cattle, eyes down and desolate.

You hear your own voice, steady somehow, despite the disturbance.

"I've paid for my seat, just the same as anybody else".

He steps towards you, and his right fist is now raised.

"Get...off my bus".

You shake your head, and despite the fear that is flooding your body, find your voice again.

"You better not hit me".

His face glowers, and he clearly isn't sure what to do.

"Are you going to get up or not? If you don't, then I'll have you arrested".

You respond as calmly as you can, hands on your bag and thinking of the dogwood, knowing that this will not stop here. Things are in motion now, and they will continue on.

"You may do that".

You're done walking.