The pungent smell of McDonald’s morning burrito wafted down the bus aisle, mixing with the smells of various coffees and breath mints. Stacy stood in the middle of the bus, having given her seat up to an older woman carrying five different bags. She wondered what could be in those bags and why she felt the need to lug them across the city so early in the morning. Was she headed to sell something at the farmer’s market? She seemed too well dressed for that. Perhaps the bags were full of designer clothes for a client. That thought sent her mind on a tirade, the voice on her left shoulder complaining about how she never did anything she was supposed to do. When was the last time she went shopping for herself and bought some nicer things?
The voice on her fight shoulder gave excuses. What an angel of light, that one. Stacy rolled her eyes at herself, then blushed when the woman in front of her snorted, turning her body away from Stacy in a huff of indignance and offence. There was no use in explaining she hadn’t rolled her eyes at the woman. It was too early on a Monday morning. Offense was always at its highest on the bus on Monday morning.
Stacy looked toward the front of the bus, remembering the first time she tried to get on one just like it. New to the city she had handed over a five dollar bill only to have snorts and grunts be returned to her. Who did she think the bus driver was? A bank? City didn’t give out no change for bills. No time for that. Take your butt over to that newsstand and buy a ticket like the rest of the people in this city.
The response to her question of whether the bus would wait for her to return was met with peels of laughter, this time from the woman sitting in the front seat. She was missing two teeth, but that didn’t keep her from smiling. Stacy could remember fighting the urge to touch her own teeth, as though simply seeing this woman might have pushed her own canines from their sockets. Remembering how many hands touch the railing she had just touched kept her fingers at her side.
Despite missing that bus, she had learned a valuable lesson that day: read up about the city before venturing forth if you don’t want to be called out for being a newbie.
The bus hit something in the road, sending every half-awake body upwards and to the left. Stacy braced herself with her hips, spreading her feet just a few inches wider in their stance. Bracing for bumps in the road was easy enough after eight years of city living, but bracing against a hard stop required hands on dirty railings if she didn’t want to fall into someone else. Which sometimes she did anyway.
A curse from the bus driver rang out. His foot slammed onto the brakes requiring necks to brace themselves in ways they hadn’t been trained to, triggering a replay of theThe many memories of crashing into shoulders and bags and, once, a baby stroller. A shout of frustration from a veteran passenger was met with a sarcastic reply from the bus driver. A man sitting with his knees facing the aisle calmed the situation down with a joke that had the younger crowd cringing and the old crowd hooting. Those listening to audio recording with headphones could be seen clicking the volume up.
Stacy checked her surroundings, ducking slightly to see outside the window. Café Carlson. Best coffee in the city. And she had found it completely by accident. Never would have entered through the tiny patio and paint-chipped door if it had all been up to her. The first day of work Stacy’s heart sunk to the bus floor as she watched the building she worked at zoom by. In the few days on moving in and exploring she hadn’t noticed that the bus only stopped where it was called to stop. She assumed it stopped at every spot regardless. Paying attention as to what happened differently when the bus slowed down, she noticed a young man pounding his palm against a red button that said ‘call’. Three blocks away from her building, Stacy jumped off the bus behind the young man and arrived with beads of sweat plastering her shirt to her back.
It was the next day that she found herself in front of Cafeé Carlson. Too nervous to touch the button, but not wanting to miss her stop, Stacy got off at the intersection of Harry St. and Lombard Ave, where a group of people were always getting on and off.She still had five blocks to walk, but she had given herself enough time, already knowing what could happen.
Once off the bus she stopped to the side and pretended to look through her purse before setting off down the block in case anyone who got off with her at the stop bothered to call her out on her silly inability to push the call button at the correct stop. After ten days of doing the same thing, her heart always beating in her chest, pumping the blood against her temples, David approached her. He spoke in kurt sentences, his already wrinkled face set in a crotchety frown.
“Sit down.” His commanding voice cracked through Stacy’s imaginary search for tissues. “This city is too big for you.”
She was about to protest his insult when a cup of coffee smelling of heaven was thrust under her nose. She sat at the tiny patio like an obedient child. Next, he offered her a cigarette, squinting away with a grunt when she shook her head.
“Best that way. Don’t ever start. It’s too hard to quit. ‘Specially in this business.”
Stacy slumped back against the poorly cushioned standing area, fighting back tears. Six months had passed since that day. David’s funeral had been equal to his spirit: sparse, antiquated, bombastic and unapologetically compassionate and she’d taken a week long vacation to settle her soul with the fact that he was gone. The cafe passed to his nephew who left Mateo to run it. He had been standing at the doorway when she looked through the window, but hadn’t seen her.
The stop now gone, Stacy placed herself on alert. It was about time to press the button. It was no big deal. She’d done lots of other hard things since moving to the city, there was no reason to make this a bigger deal than it was. As the bus pulled away from the last stop before her building, Stacy’s heart beat directly in her ears, the blood rushing at such a high rate she had to breathe through her mouth to keep herself from fainting. Counting down from three she took a deep breath and reached out.
Her hand hovered. Sweat started beading along her brow. She closed her eyes to gather her courage when a large, dry hand grabbed her finger and slammed them into the button.
Her eyes flailed open. In front of her stood a hunched over, grey haired man scoffing and smacking his gums. Had it not been a finable offence, she was certain he would have spit right there in front of her shoes.
“Just a damn button, girly,” he said as the bus slowed, then jerked to a stop. Stacy braced herself against the brakes, while trying to ignore the snickering from the teenagers staring and pointing at her. Once at a complete stop, Stacy straightened her spine and grabbed her bag, not noticing the latch was caught between the door and the wheelchair pad. When the doors opened and the old man got out, Stacy stepped forward to follow him only to find herself pulled backwards. The doors jiggled nervously from the force, releasing the latch to her bag and sending her flying backwards against the curb. Free of those who wanted off, the bus driver kicked the giant vehicle into gear and drove off, leaving Stacy to pick herself up alone and limp towards the grey building.