He had a nightmare. That’s all he had anymore, and he had
grown tired having them. He wanted some respite, some quiet relief. What
haunted him?…possessed him? What drove him to the point of desperation and
found him crying, curled fetal in the night. He can’t accurately recall, but the sheets,
his bed, the nightstand, the room … all were in disarray, even though the
evening before he took such pains to make it all just ‘so’. But always in the
morning he’d find that sometime in the night a beast had entered his tiny flat,
and destroyed the fabric of his reality.
His
mornings came too soon, he wasn’t ready for them, but there was no masking the
harsh light that invaded his room. It was dawning and you had to go on. You
just can’t stop…can’t stop the Workings. The Workings don’t depend on you, they
neglect you. And should you dally, they crush you. That’s how “it Works”.
So
he bundled up, bolted down a breakfast of whatever was available…cold can of
beans, if that’s all that’s in the cupboard…and went about his business.
City
bus. Number Nine. The Uptown, in the morning, and Downtown, late at night. He
preferred the double shifts because they kept him busy, and when he wasn’t busy
he found he had too much time on his hands, and he would wash them
compulsively.
On
the route, no one paid him particular attention. Oh, there were always three or
four passengers who’d say, “Have a nice day…”, but that echoed hollow, on a quick
entrance, or exit, from the bus.
Most riders were too preoccupied to pay him much
attention, and besides, he had a schedule to keep and they didn't pay him enough to "make with the chitchat". The day will come, and soon, he
speculated, when the bus would drive itself in automated syncopation. There
would be no need for driving skills, they’d be a thing of the past.
Then came ‘the Rider’. The Rider didn’t care where the bus was bound, if the driver was running late, or even if it broke down. The rider would sit, fourth row back, opposite, window seat, and wait her turn. Day in, day out, she became his constant companion.
Then came ‘the Rider’. The Rider didn’t care where the bus was bound, if the driver was running late, or even if it broke down. The rider would sit, fourth row back, opposite, window seat, and wait her turn. Day in, day out, she became his constant companion.
“We’re
stopping now. I need a break.”
“That’s
okay. I could use one myself,” she’d respond.
He
wondered if the cart she dragged behind, contained all of her worldly
possessions. Was she homeless, or just aimless? Surely, she could take another
bus, and another driver, but she honed in on him and trusted he would deliver
her, to where, he had no idea.
Two
lost souls, with nowhere else left to go. Did the dreams start with her? When did the
nightmares come? Was she the witch that cast the spell, or an illusion he created, to
fend off his loneliness?
Either way, she was bound to take his bus.
Either way, she was bound to take his bus.
V
