by A.R. Rivera
The stitching of my back pocket keeps catching on the seam of the front seat. Still, I squirm, trying to find a comfortable position. My frustration erupts with a fist to the dashboard.
Nothing I want ever works out.
If I ever see that big mouth Sharif again I’m going to kick his ass.
After I got back to Abis’ place with my car, I decided to do something nice, to show her how grateful I was. I made her bed, loaded the dishwasher, took out the trash, vacuumed, and got out the clothes she said she would iron. I even set up the ironing board so when she came in, I could be caught in the act of doing it myself. Abi was supposed to be pleased with the way the house looked and find assurance she was making the right decision. I wanted her to smile.
Instead . . . well if I’m being completely honest, I probably got what I deserved. Still, it’s no comfort to my pitiful circumstances and aching chest.
I didn’t hear her come in because the music was too loud. One second, I was jamming to Guerilla Radio and next, the stereo shut off. She was standing by the audio pier with her arms folded. Like an idiot, I asked what was wrong. She responded by throwing her apron at my feet. The force she put into it told me she wished it could hurt me.
She said Angie came by the restaurant to have lunch with her and my heart sank.
“Why can’t you be honest with me?”
I shrugged, unable to call upon a decent reason. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” I knew she’d be upset, but I thought I could make her understand.
The story she heard was all twisted. Angie told her I came on to Bikini Girl. Abi didn’t have to say that she believed her cousin, who’d heard the whole story second-hand from Sharif’s sister. All she had to do was accuse me of never loving her.
I disagreed—the generalization was patently unfair— but she paid no mind, caught in a fit tears.
“So what if she was pretty? She’s not you and I can’t control what she was wearing!” I shouted, trying to make her understand that the situation didn’t warrant such a strong reaction—it was nothing more than me getting in trouble over something that wasn’t my fault and I knew she’d think I was flirting and get all worked up. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I knew you’d blame me.”
She threw my class ring at me, then her car keys, followed by the iron, without even testing to see if it was hot.
She drew a deep breath and pulled her hair back, twirling it into a bun as she shredded me. “I have learned to live with the fact that you have zero ambition. I deal pretty well with the reality that I love you far more than you will ever love me.” She sniffed as a well of tears spilled down her face. “But you repay me with disgrace. You just don’t get it, G! You live in this imaginary world where the only thing that matters is that you get what you want. You take no matter how much it costs me and never give back.”
“But, Abi, I love you more than anything.” I raised my palm to her face, caressing her cheek. I wanted to kick my own ass for making her cry. Again.
“Such a charming smile.” She observed and slipped from my grasp. “You’re a whore—you offer lip-service for a roof over your head.”
Then she threw my things out on the front lawn while I begged her not to. Abi’s not a screamer, but she did plenty of it—wailing to me and half the neighborhood my unforgiveable offenses. She told us all that I’m abusive in the worst way imaginable because I treat her heart as if it were my personal doormat. Coming and going from it at my leisure and she’s tired of being trampled. She’s obviously wrong, but knowing that point was easily proven in the last thirty six hours, I didn’t argue. I did repeatedly apologized, though, which only seemed to feed her anger.
She continued rolling down the list of injuries I inflicted over the course of our relationship. Most I caused without knowing, which apparently made it worse. Then she told me, what she feels is the most painful part of all: I am settling for her. No, that I feel like I’m settling for her—which is a complete lie: its common knowledge that she’s way too good for me.
So, I spent the next hour picking thorns out of everything that landed in the spiny shrubs while she cried and yelled her insults out her living room window.
Well, she may be within her rights to force my car off her driveway but there’s nothing she can do about my parking in front of her house. The sidewalk and street are public property.
So, here I am spitefully squirming on the leather seat and choking on my victory.
When I was growing up, money was tight—a stark contrast to Abi’s circumstances—but when I complained to my dad, he would say, “when you get older, you’ll understand.” It feels as though I am doomed to comprehend.
One invaluable tidbit he used to repeat on occasions when we were particularly destitute was, when it comes to choosing between paying rent and paying for your car, always choose the car. You can live in a vehicle if you have to, but you can’t drive your house to work. The obvious flaw in that logic is that I can’t drive my car anywhere and there is no work at the moment.
I’m way past fed-up with poverty.
There is no way I’m selling. It’s not an option. I’ve put too much time and money in this car to consider it. I would never be able to get back all I put in. It would be a seven thousand dollar loss to sell now.
I want to lie down, so I turn the key and press the lever to make the seat recline as far back as it can go, smashing the unimportant stuff stacked in the back seat.
Abi is vulnerable right now and I want to be close by, even if she can’t stand the sight of me. I refuse to go back to my apartment tonight. My mind was set on leaving and going back will only get me more depressed. I don’t want to leave my car out here, anyways. Besides, I flipped off the manager when she asked if I would have the rent money on-time. I knew it was stupid as I was doing it, but I didn’t think I’d have to see her again.
If I’m careful, I should have enough to stay afloat for a few weeks without making a serious dent into savings. I need a job in the worst way, so my meeting tomorrow has to go well. There’s still that to look forward to and my interview clothes aren’t really wrinkled. As a precaution, I laid them on top of the stuff in the trunk to keep them looking good until morning. I can dress in the bathroom of wherever I pick up breakfast. For now, I’ll focus on the positive, thinking only of how graciously I will accept the position of Packing Assistant Level One. Until my thoughts drift into sweaty sleep.
The sky is still dark when I wake, though there are hints of dawn in the pink clouds on the horizon. My knees have been bent all night beneath the steering wheel and I have to stretch. I swing the door open, feeling my bones pop in about ten different places, including my jaw, as I yawn. It hurts, but helps wake me up.
I wish I could go back in time. Knowing what I know now, I’d do everything different; study harder, make wiser investments. I would be a better person. I’d definitely be rich.
Memories of last night start sinking in. That heaviness settles in my chest. I knew there’d be trouble when Abi found out but I should’ve thought more about how she would be affected. I really hurt her. Worse yet, she thinks I would cheat on her, or attempted to. I might have looked, but touching never crossed my mind.
I unplug the phone and start the car, letting it run for a few minutes to charge the battery and listen closely for any new sounds that don’t belong. When the roar lulls into a gentle purr, I shut her off.
Wistful, I think, if I could only go over fifteen miles an hour . . . damned mechanic. He said the car was fine, that all it needed was a new timing belt when the real problem was the thermostat. So, on top of a new transmission, I need a new head gasket. Replacing that is nearly the same cost as a new engine. He really screwed me.
The sound of a door catches my attention. It’s Abi, locking the dead bolt and glaring. The light is enough to see she’s dressed for work. Her long, blond hair is pulled back. Whe
n she turns, I feel the heat of her anger, see her eyes are red and tired as if she hasn’t slept. The glisten on her cheeks reflects the orange sunrise as she tosses her work apron in the back seat. She starts her car, revving the engine, and backs down the driveway.
When our eyes meet in passing, I do the only thing I can think of.
Beg.
“Please don’t do this, Abi.”
“You better be gone before I get back.” The threat is barely audible over the screech of tires as she takes off.
There are things I need from the trunk. I open the back to retrieve my clothes and a backpack. Working slowly, lightly folding my slacks and dress shirt to avoid wrinkles, I tuck the clothes, iPod, and other essentials in the bag before closing it up. Lastly, I grab my savings from the glove box and tuck it inside the front pocket of my jeans. I’m not very comfortable carrying it around the city but I’m not leaving it in the car. I can’t put it in the bank. I made the mistake of getting a credit card through them. The card’s maxed out and overdue, so anything I put into my account will end up being drafted out and I can’t afford that right now.
Once my interview’s over, I should have a better idea of my situation. On the way back, I’ll visit Dad and tell him either way what the future holds. Then, I have to get the car moved. First things first: find a place to get cleaned up and eat breakfast. There’s a McDonalds a few blocks away, that is my destination.
It’s ten minutes door to door. I’m as clean as I can get with a sink for a bath and a wall dryer. I’m well-dressed and on my way to the bus stop, going over interview questions and answers in my head. The breakfast sandwich I ordered is piping hot and before long, I’m sweating. I take long sips of ice water, swirling the cold in my mouth, letting it linger on my tongue.
As a bus approaches, I see it’s the route I need and also a newer model, electric and bendy. This ought to be an adventure. I take a few swigs before the bus stops and the double doors open. There’s a sign posted just below the machine that prints transfers. In bold, red letters it reads, ‘absolutely no food or drink.’ I toss the cup away and board.
Of course, it’s nearly at capacity. I search for an empty seat but the odds are slim as dozens of people are already standing. But I was cramped up in that car all night and don’t mind. I make my way to the center section and stand behind a man who has already taken position at the center pole. I’m gonna take it if he gets off before me. There’s nothing to grab hold of, so I stuff my hand into a plastic strap that’s bolted near my head for balance before the bus takes off.
Most morning commuters are all busy with their headphones and lap tops. I take out my iPod. After a while, the guy in front of me gets off and I step over, making myself more comfortable by claiming the open space. A woman opposite me latches onto the center post at the same time I do. There’s a round faced boy clinging to her leg, teetering as the bus pulls out. I give way, stuffing my hand back inside the high, uncomfortable strap.
Looking into the boys’ small face, a tension sets in. He shouldn’t be standing in a moving vehicle. As I’m searching for someone to volunteer their seat, someone does. An elderly man with a bamboo cane, seated between two teenagers, rings the bell and rises. I see at least three other people try to lunge for the open seat, but the old man holds them back, offering the spot to the woman and her little boy. After they’re securely in place, he departs, hobbling down the steps. And I’ve wasted my opportunity. Another passenger has taken my post.
The bus is moving again and I feel anxious, more so than just a moment ago. I try to ignore it and start going over typical interview questions and answers in my head.
My biggest flaw? I work too hard.
The bus stops once more and there’s a shuffling up front—more passengers getting on and off. My arm starts to tingle. I use my free hand to turn up the music trying to drown out the distractions and stare at the intermittent spaces between buildings outside the long window. We’re in downtown now. The traffic is heavy but we seem to be catching most of the lights green.
The bus drags, picking up speed to make it through the next light. Cars anticipating the green fretfully inch forward as we pass. One honks.
I’ve faithfully ridden the buses in this city for the past four months and am familiar with the habits of some regular drivers. I wasn’t paying attention when I got on, but this driver possesses a recognizable habit. I can’t see who’s piloting through the crowd but when we go around the next corner, sure enough, the front tires clip the curb. One woman’s lap top falls and half the passengers grumble. An apology booms over the loudspeaker outside my headphones. As the bus straightens, bouncing curls and a face that’s older than one would guess from a distance reflect in the rear view mirror. Paula. Amid my wondering as to why she neglected to say hello when she picked me up—she usually does—I see something I’m not altogether comfortable with.
I can’t say why the sight is so disturbing, but it sends a haunting jolt through me just the same. All I can think are words that mean nothing when used in print, probably because they’re used too often in today’s news stories. Simple, benign letters arranged in a particular way, used to describe a general sense of fear. But seeing their human embodiment here, in front of me, they mean everything.
Danger. Threat. Hazard.
Terrorist.
Blood drains from my face, pooling in my feet, and cementing me in place as I stare at the bald man about half way up the front section.
He is standing in the middle of an open circle—a wide berth—granted by the wary passengers stuck next to him. Their bodies press against one another forming a wall of flesh, hoping to avoid contact. His back is to me and maybe that’s why I’m staring so freely. He’s solid, wearing cut off shorts, combat boots and no shirt. While we all watch, he slides on a white tank top and pulls up a pair of red suspenders draping around his waist. It’s not odd to see someone doing these things on the bus in the morning. Sometimes you’re running behind and you have to do what you have to do. What I find so striking is the massive tattoo that covers his entire torso. It’s not a collage like most people have, one tattoo bleeding into another. This is a single tattoo, comprised of crude dots instead of lines. It appears to be a snake, a giant black snake, painted as if it’s constricted around his upper body. The thick shape slithers up past the neck of his tank top, onto the back of his neck, where the head of the snake covers his scalp, all the way to the hairline. I watch, alarmed and simultaneously intrigued as he straps on a bike helmet.
Bulging eyes of several passengers rake over him as they whisper amongst themselves. “I hope he’s getting off,” someone mutters.
My music stopped. I look to my hand, checking. My iPod is dead? I’m sure it had a full battery.
Feet and shadows stir up front. Other passengers are moving around as the bus’s interior lights flicker and go out.
The bald man turns his head, staring or listening I can’t tell, but it’s enough to make me look away. Not before I see that he has a filthy beard, long and unruly like it’s never seen soap or a comb. And the unnatural color—it’s too dark for his pale skin. The only other notable feature is the peculiar, almost Grecian way his forehead connects to the slope of his nose. He just looks strange.
A moment later, I turn back. Dying to know what he’ll do, afraid to find out. I’m stuck staring while he pulls a piece of black fabric from a bag set near his feet. He slips his arms inside a long, black jacket and then draws a black backpack from the floor to his shoulders.
A trench coat in the middle of summer? Not a good sign.
He looks out the window on my right. Then, turns and starts making his way towards the back. He doesn’t need to lend a single second to who’s in his way. The crowd just parts like he’s a leper. No one wants to get close enough to touch.
My eyes are stuck on the faded black coat, wondering what he’s trying to hide. As he approaches, I notice how tall he is. His sudden black ga
ze sends another shock through me, waking my sleeping mind from this unreal scenario. Instinctively, I shrink away, turning quickly toward the long window.
A woman behind me is on her cell phone, talking urgently in a hoarse whisper. Normally, I would strain to hear, but what I’m seeing outside the bus window renders her qualms useless. Mine, too.
Fear no longer matters. Not anymore. Nothing does. Not the flickering lights overhead, not the end of the song I’ll never hear, or the threatening man stomping towards the rear of the bendy bus. His intentions, whatever they may be, are nothing compared to the real threat that lies just outside my window, hurdling toward all of us.
It’s probably my brain trying to savor its’ last few seconds of life, but each moment seems to stretch. Hundreds of thoughts occur and pass in a microsecond as I absorb everything. The tinted Plexiglas pane, the one I looked through to watch the city pass by, is the only thing standing between every one of us passengers and certain death. We’re on collision course with a shining red and chrome diesel fuel truck. As our bus passes into the intersection, I can tell by trajectory, the truck will strike through the accordion section, my section. It will tear the bus and most of us passengers in two.
My lips are just starting to call the driver when I’m hit—not by the truck, but the creepy bald guy. He’s slamming his shoulder into my stomach. While half of me recognizes that something needs to be done about the nuisance this man is causing, the other half wonders why it matters. It’s not like he can do anything about the huge truck that’s not supposed to be travelling on the inner city roads at this hour and consequently, heading straight for us, poised to burn us all alive when the impact lights the tanker on fire. None of us can. There’s no point in alerting Paula. Both vehicles are going too fast and it isn’t her fault, anyway. Some sort of power outage has all the traffic lights out. The ‘walk’ sign isn’t even blinking.
There is a terrible ripping noise. It takes a moment to realize it’s coming from inside my body. Another blow smashes against my chest, knocking me off my feet but I don’t fall. My purple hand is stretched beyond its’ natural limitations, held captive to the pleather strap above my head.
Gasps pour from terrified faces as the shiny grill of the huge diesel truck tears through the black rubber covering the side of the bus. Stupidly, some try to run only to stumble from the jerk of impact. I want to shout at them. Where do they think they can run? Others simply cover their faces. The little boy is holding his mother’s face between his tiny hands. He’s smiling at her.
Suddenly, the strap breaks and I fly away from the huge tires beneath the roaring engine. The crashes of tearing metal and pain roll through the ruptured cabin. For some reason, my mind conjures an image of Carrie. Life as it was before, when we were still a family. I wonder what it felt like when that car hit her.
I’m weightless, far away from everything around me, except the bearded man. He faces his death as I do, only him first because he’s in front. He’s falling back, too, thrusting his hands out locking the metal grill of the diesel in his grip.
Everything—the people, the walls of the bus, the buildings beyond it and the sky outside—all of them bend into a blur—nothing more than shapes in a wisping fog that swirls into the purest blue I have ever seen, shining like the sun while I float.
Another jolt sends my brain vibrating into nonsense. A shower of rainbows lights my tunnel drifting toward the dead.
Can Someone Tell Me What The Hell Just Happened?