The Bus on Thursday
Page 17
It’s an odd feeling—not entirely unpleasurable—weightless and surreal and almost in some small way liberating. I mean, liberating in the realization that all connection has been lost with terra firma, and with it all the workaday cares and worries that are associated with terra firma. But in that knowledge there is also terror, and then out of nowhere comes a desperate hopeless imperative to reconnect somehow, no matter what. Let me say, it’s not a dignified thing. In my case, as I’m falling, I keep trying to grab hold of these clumps of long grass that are growing out of the side of the cliff face, and believe it or not, I actually succeed in clutching hold of one. I hang there for a second or two and (hope springs eternal!) I think, Phew, that was close! But then the clump of grass pulls right out of the cliff face, roots and all, and I realize, This is it, I’m a goner, I’m going to die like Miss Barker.
I was underwater for a while, and it was cold and very murky. I can hold my breath for a long time so I wasn’t particularly worried about that. I was more concerned about becoming entangled in something, or having one of my panic attacks. But oddly enough, on this occasion I felt a tremendous sense of calm and equanimity. My feeling of oneness with the universe had returned to me. I looked up and I saw these duck feet paddling above me, and the song leapt into my mind: Old mother duckie, and her little duckies nine. These little guys have no idea I’m lurking down below, and I’m tempted to yank one of the ducklings underwater, like an eel, just to see the surprised look on its face. I don’t, of course, but the thought of it makes me giggle.
I let the gentle current float me downstream for a while, then, when I reach the township, I wade out of the water through the sludge, and I trudge home. I’m feeling tired now, and very cold, and my bones are sore, probably from the fall. I can see the children heading off to school, and I’m surprised, because I have that feeling you get like it’s a Saturday or the holidays or something. Briefly, I think, Oh, gee, should I be teaching? And then I remember that they sacked me, and as a matter of fact, I feel relieved.
Because I’m going home. That’s my plan. By which I mean, getting the hell out of this place, like I’ve tried before. As I turn in to the driveway, I see my little Corolla waiting loyally for me, and it’s such a comforting sight, I smile. I dig into my damp pocket and find my keys, and as I clamber into the driver’s seat, I’m overwhelmed by the lovely stuffy way it smells of old vinyl upholstery and the long-ago residue of Dad’s cigarettes. I reach out and touch the Saint Christopher medallion, just for luck. Then, as a precaution, I push down the locks on all the doors. I even check under the sun visor, just to be sure that Miss Barker’s hand isn’t lurking up there like a spider.
It takes a few attempts to get the car started, and for a moment there I lose my newfound equanimity and I scream, “Come on, come on, don’t fuck with me!” But at last it sputters into life, and I put my foot on the accelerator to give it some juice. It revs reassuringly. “We’re outta here,” I say to my father, who is sitting beside me now, and I reverse out of the driveway, sideswiping one of the gateposts.
“Check your mirrors next time,” says my dad. “And maybe take it a little slower.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, chuckling, and then I glance at myself in the rearview mirror. I look a fright. My hair is all matted with duck feathers, and I have the strung-out look of someone who hasn’t slept in a while. Oh well, I think to myself. Nothing a good night’s sleep and some shampoo and conditioner won’t fix. Maybe we’ll stay in a motel tonight.
“Can you wind your window up?” I ask Dad. “I’m cold.”
“In a minute,” he says, because he’s sucking on one of his Marlboro Lights.
We wind through a couple of back streets and then turn onto the main road that leads out of town. I put my foot to the floor, and a feeling of exhilaration overwhelms me. I glance down at the speedometer. The needle is moving past eighty, then ninety, then a hundred, a hundred and twenty.
“What’s the speed limit here?” asks Dad.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I respond.
“You’ll give a fuck if you get a ticket,” says Dad, and I glance at him in surprise because it’s not like him to swear. He catches my look and he grins at me, a bit embarrassed, and then we both start laughing because, let’s face it, the whole situation is so insane! And just at that moment, as I’m rounding the last curve before the highway, I see a cop car tucked away on the verge and Senior Sergeant Saunders pointing a radar gun at me.
“Pull over, pull over,” says Dad.
I mean, please.
I cannot catch a break.
The thing is, I probably wouldn’t have pulled over if it wasn’t for Dad, but Dad’s always been terrified of offending anyone he sees as an authority figure. So I pull over like a dutiful daughter, and Senior Sergeant Saunders ambles over and leans in my window.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” he asks. “You realize you were fifty clicks over the speed limit? Blow into this, please.”
And he passes me a Breathalyzer. For fuck’s sake! Not that I’m really worried, because as far as I can remember I haven’t been drinking. So I blow into it and I hand it back to him.
“That’s funny,” he says, staring at it. He gives it a shake. “Try again. Blow harder this time.”
So I try again. He frowns. Then he goes through the whole performance. He stares at it. He shakes it. He taps it. Then he shows me the digital readout. Two digital Es flashing on and off.
“Error message,” says Saunders. “Which is weird. I tested it just before.”
He blows into it now himself. This time, a reading comes up: .006.
“See?” he says. “Works fine for me. You must have the lungs of a kitten.”
“Actually, I have phenomenal lung capacity,” I tell him. “I have the lungs of a free diver.”
“Well, try again then.” He wipes the mouthpiece with his hand and passes it back to me. “Really give it some grunt this time.”
So I blow again as hard as I can, but up comes the error message. What does this mean? Am I dead or something??
“Well, irregardless,” says Saunders, “given the speed you were traveling, I’ve got no choice but to cancel your license on the spot.”
“What??” I cry.
“Hand over your keys,” he says, “and get out of the car.”
I can’t believe it. I seriously can’t believe it. I turn to my dad, and I actually say: “Can you believe this???” But he has his head down and he’s pretending to study a map—conflict avoidance, his usual pattern. I’d forgotten how weak he can be, and I’m irritated. So I get out of the car and I slam the door as hard as I can in a pointed fashion, then I fling the keys at Saunders.
“You can have it,” I say. “It’s a shitbox.”
I start trudging up the road. Because I’m still getting out of here, Dad or no Dad. Nothing and nobody is going to stop me. I’ll hitchhike if I have to; I don’t care if I’m gang-raped and murdered and chopped into a thousand little pieces—that would actually be preferable to staying a moment longer in this hellhole. And as I’m stomping along and muttering to myself, I suddenly become aware of this rumbling rattling sound and these noxious horrible fumes, and I glance up and I see this bus, this dirty gray bus, coming straight toward me. My heart jolts with sudden hope. I actually feel so hopeful I could burst into song. Because of course I’d forgotten about the bus, the bus on Thursday. I run directly toward it, waving my arms, and next thing I hear this hoarse asthmatic squeal as it slams on its
Also by Shirley Barrett
Rush Oh!
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Shirley Barrett is an award-winning filmmaker and writer. She has written and directed three feature films and worked extensively as a director in television. Barrett lives in Sydney, Australia. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Begin Reading
Also by Shirley Barrett
A Note About the Author
Copyright
MCD × FSG Originals
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
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Copyright © 2018 by Shirley Barrett
All rights reserved
First edition, 2018
E-book ISBN: 978-0-374-71857-2
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