The Bus

“Are we there yet?” I ask. 

“Happiness is not the destination. It’s the—” 

“Journey. Yeah, I've heard that one before.”  

“Will you listen to it?”  

“No.” 

“Then you’ll die on this bus.” 

I stare at the empty seats across from me. They are the adjustable kind that can flip up to make room for strollers and wheelchairs. They haven’t been flipped up in years.  

“This road you’re on will only take you to loneliness.” 

I pull my knees to my chest. “You’re on the same road as me. You've never seen where it ends. ” 

“Neither have you.”

“Right. But when I do I could be a millionaire. That’s what happened to a guy in my town, and now he is free to wherever and however he wants.”

“There is no guarantee that money will be at the end of your trip.”

“Right, again. But there’s a reason other people leave town on this bus and never go back.”

“So you choose to risk everything for a chance.”

“Is that a question?”

“An observation.”

“I’m sick of your observations. You say that today I risk everything. Tomorrow you’ll tell me I’m worthless. Which is it?”

“The only might exist, but so too might the ‘everything’ I speak of.”

“You can’t even make up your mind. I have made up mine. This bus will take me somewhere I haven’t gone before. There might be money at the end, as some people back home claim there is. Otherwise, why would people board this bus and not return?”  

“Some of them so.”

“So what? I didn’t buy a ticket to go all the way back.”

“And yet, you visit the past so often.”  

Outside remains the same: grey streaks that blur by without shape or colour. I try to focus on the engine’s low hum, but the rambling from the back of the bus continues.  

“Shut up, already.”   

“You know I’m not going to.”  

“No shit. Each seat I move up and away from you, the louder you get.” 

“I am trying to get you to listen.” 

“Haven’t I? You’re the only one I listen to. And the people who get on and off this bus can’t hear you.” 

“But you can.” 

“Yes, I can. And that’s what makes me different: I hear you, I listen, I watch my life through your eyes all while the other passengers get on and off the bus.”   

“They aren’t just passengers. “ 

“They are.” 

“Believe me…” 

“Stop it.” 

“…you loved them.” 

“No.”  

“Some of them, yes.” 

“Shut up.” 

“And yet you stay on this bus. You let it carry you away from them all. To stay here with me. Is it because you love me?” 

“I despise you.” 

“Ah, yes.”  

“I hate you.” 

“Go on.” 

“I hate that I can’t leave you. Why can’t I leave you?” 

“You don’t know?”

I stare into the dark corner at the end of the bus. I feel its pull. “Tell me why.”

“I shouldn’t.” 

“Please.” 

“I couldn’t!” 

“Why not?” 

“You won’t believe me if I tell you. You seek an answer that is different from the one you already know. You don’t love me, you’re stuck with me.” 

“I am so painfully aware of that.” 

“You don’t hate me.” 

“I do.”  

“No. It’s worse than hate. Stronger. It’s comfort.” 

“There are many things I feel for you and none of them are comfort.” 

“Listen with your ears for once, goddammit. You are comfortable with me. Like how an abused dog is comfortable in its shit-covered cage. Life isn’t covered in shit, you know. But you must leave the cage to see that.” 

Outside is only grey. It looks cold. 

I ask, “do you love me?”

“I can never love you. I can only protect you.”  

“What will you do without me?” 

“That’s a stupid question. I am you.”  

“I guess I already knew that.” 

“Is there something else you want to ask?” 

“No.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

“Fine. How come you’re talking about love now? That wasn’t the plan. The plan was to get the money. Get out, get the money, live free.” 

“I never promised any of that, remember? You thought that in leaving the stillness of that town behind, you would also leave behind the stillness in yourself. To answer your question, I think it is you making me speak of these things.” 

“You always do that. I am not the one to blame. I didn’t ask for this.” 

“You can’t even think straight. You admitted that you bought a ticket to board this metal tomb just minutes ago.”  

“That was years ago.” 

“Was it?”  

“Was it? How long have we been on this ride?” 

“However long you like.”  

“Can I get off?” 

“You can. But you won’t. I know you, you’re a scared little shit.” 

“But you’re me.”  

“You’re pathetic.” 

“…I think I want to get off the bus.”  

“You can try, but you’re dirty and gross. Your hair is unwashed, and your pussy hasn’t seen a good day since Oliver left.” 

“That was his choice.” 

“There you go, lying again! You’re such a liar.” 

“I want to get off the bus. Let me go.” 

“You won’t fool anyone out there. They all know you’re a disgusting, lying worm. They can see right into your crumby, shattered soul.” 

“Let me go!” 

“Hello? Are you there? Hello?” 

“It’s just like you to run away when things get hard...It’s just like me.” 

It’s been quiet for a long time. What colour did these seats used to be? Was that yellow signal cord above the windows always there?  

Ding.  

Did I just do that? Holy shit, are we stopping?  

“Driver, are we stopping?” 

The last time we stopped was when Oliver left. He got on this bus and rode it for a long time. So long that I thought he’d stay. Why are we stopping now? Did I pull the yellow cord? 

The bus stops moving. I can feel it. But outside is still a colourless blur, as if a rainstorm is whirling by in a silent film.

The bus doors open at the front. They squeal on rusted hinges. The last time they opened to let anyone on or off was years, years, years ago. Cool air rushes into the mobile tomb. There is salt in the wind.  

There is salt in my eyes and stones in my throat. I turn to the back of the bus and ask, “What do I do?” 

And no one answers. It’s only me. It’s always been me.   

  I walk to the front of the bus. There is no driver. Outside, the sky is still grey. The air is still cool and salty. Something about the chill urges my skin to feel more of it. My brain is on fucking fire. Everything inside me threatens to combust as I creep towards the doors. I step down from my bus and my foot meets asphalt. A parking lot stretches to all horizons. Fading yellow lines run end to end. Street lamps rise like dead trees in a swamp. Only one of them shines in the distance, and like a mindless moth with no other purpose, I go towards the light.  

The air around me cools even more, and darkness slowly takes over. The only light left pours down from that one street lamp, and the only things left in the world are me, the light, and the objects that sit beneath it. These gifts, I think, have been waiting for me.  

One of them is an open briefcase filled to its brim with wads of green cash. The wind does not disturb the paper fortune. It is frozen until I will it mine. And the other thing—I pretend not to know it, but I do—looks new. How could that be? I threw it out the bus doors after Oliver. Part of me was hoping he would pick it up and want to find me to return it. But as the bus drove away, and Oliver took shelter from the rain inside a bus station, I watched the little black book fall victim to rising puddles.  

Now, at my feet, it lays dry and new. I kneel before the journal and open its cover. The handwriting looks familiar, but the memories written on the pages cannot be mine. These memories are joyous. I read on, and as I do, a hunger comes over me. I rip out a page and eat it. And I eat another, and another. Is this what it’s like to feel full?  

Paper fills my gut, and it reminds me that even on the bus to nowhere, talking to myself, and living in my filth, I was still a person who wrote about things like love.   

“I still am.”