revival of an ancient story written just after high school (let's just say it was a while ago).

Crosstown Metro

Ray Timmins

The bus cruised down Lollins Avenue, along the same route as it had for the last ten years he’d been driving. In all that time, the bus driver had become accustomed to driving and listening to the symphony of voices in the background. But he’d made it a policy long ago to not get involved in the passengers’ affairs. Amongst his fellow drivers, there were different schools of thought on this matter. Some were sociable: talk about current events, pick up dates sometimes. Some were comedians and liked to entertain their regular passengers with a new joke everyday. But he preferred to listen and silently observe the soap opera. His wife had her stories and he had his. Every day. Hands off, he always told himself. Still, he was fascinated by the endless array of characters who’d stepped onto his bus over the years, over the thousands and thousands of miles of wear and tear on his spirit and the three buses that got driven into the ground. He remembered the gum stains that wouldn’t clean; mysterious smears he wouldn’t touch; the abandoned newspapers scattered in sections across the tomb of his empty bus at the end of shift; the drama, the comedy, the absurdity and the occasional tragedy. Many times he preferred things to remain the same—it was a safety net—but it would get dull. Sometimes, he felt that driving the bus actually transported him through the days and weeks, the years like a slow time machine to retirement. And sometimes, the bus seemed like the only thing that kept him going.

In the seat nearly directly behind him, Fiona, a high school junior, sat every day. She dressed plainly, and never seemed to pay much mind to her long, tawny hair. She never wore makeup. Still, she was very pretty. She had a glow about her and always a pleasant smile. A classical beauty. Just as much mathematical resonance in her aesthetic appeal as a work of Michelangelo or da Vinci.

Tim went to the elementary school on Fourteenth Street. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he took the bus from his regular school to Hebrew school. He was a shy and polite child. He always said hello to the bus driver, often looking away as he mumbled it.

For a couple of months he and Fiona had been talking. Tim had opened up, flattered by her attention—the fog of his shyness having slowly lifted over the weeks of their acquaintance.

Fiona turned to Tim: “How have you been? Anything new?”

“Not much, but—oh—I got a new bike.”

“That’s cool. I bet you liked that, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, but you know what? I was riding my new bike to the laundromat yesterday to play Mario Bros. and Elvis tried to steal it from me.”

“Elvis?” she giggled.

“Yeah, he’s a mean kid.”

“His name is Elvis?” she asked, putting her hands over her mouth trying to conceal her amusement.

The bus driver laughed quietly as well.

“Yeah! And Elvis was hitting my bike lock with a stick saying that he was going to steal my bike, but my friend Joe calmed him down and made him stop.”

“Is that his real name?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Why?” he shrugged.

“Never mind.”

There was a brief silence, then Tim asked, “What did you do in school today?”

“I took a couple of tests: math and English. I think I did well, though I’m not too sure about my math test. Oh—and I had a recital in my piano class. My teacher said that my technique was improving.”

“That’s good,” Tim smiled.

Fiona smiled deeply and said, “I’m really glad I have you to talk to, Tim.”

He blushed: “Yeah, me too.”

It was that time again. The bus driver grimaced as he pulled up to the bus stop. He grabbed the cold metal handle with his pudgy hand and the doors hissed open. “There she is: Miss America,” he mused to himself.

Rita was a comical sight. She was an ancient widow and probably the most demonic old woman who had ever stepped onto his bus. She was short—very short—and hunchbacked like a troll. She looked like a wrinkled old question mark. The most comical feature she bore was a pair of pointed, metal-rimmed, green-tinted glasses. And, as usual, she had a cigarette dangling from the trembling lips of her gummy mouth. The trail of smoke swam up the bus driver’s nose.

He hated cigarette smoke; and besides, it was against the rules. In accordance with policy he acted in a polite and civil manner, as he always did: “Please, Ma’m, extinguish the cigarette before boarding the bus.”

Classical conditioning is a process by which creatures are conditioned, through repetition, to respond to a certain stimulus, or stimuli, in a desired manner. It works on rats and chimps, but not on Rita. Everyday was the same. She would argue the reasons she should be allowed to smoke on the bus: “How come you bother me with the same ol’ crap?!”

“Ma’m, I only ask that you kindly extinguish the cigarette out of courtesy for your fellow passengers,” he said, professionally.

She turned her head and stared down the aisle of the bus and pointed a bony finger toward the other passengers and yelled, as if casting an evil hex, “Does anyone mind if I smoke?”

“Ma’m, it is policy: no smoking on the bus. It is to ensure a comfortable ride for everyone.” He held his ground.

“I have nerves!”

Several regular passengers recognized the old speech and could lip-sync.

“Nerves, ya hear? I can’t sit still without a cigarette.” Then she took on a sweet, grandmotherly tone, “Please lemme finish my one little cigarette?”

“Nope!”

“Damn you, you stubborn ox!” Then another familiar line came. “I’ve been on this godforsaken planet for seventy two years—seventy two years, ya hear? I deserve to smoke when and where I damn please!”

The cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. “See!” She took one last wheezing puff and cast the butt out the door, onto the grass. “It’s done now! Ya happy?”

In fact, he was happy. It was just like it had been every day. It seemed sad, to him, that he had to go through this nearly every day with her. Though a bit annoying, part of it still amused him at times; particularly the looks on the faces of those who hadn’t seen the little display before.

She put her change in the machine and sat in her usual seat—in the aisle so no one would sit next to her. The bus driver smiled, closed the door and looked at the change she had deposited. She was a dime short.

“Um, Ma’m . . .”

He’d seen it all before.

Blaine got on the bus every day with Fiona; they went to the same high school. At the beginning of the school year, Blaine got off two stops after Fiona, but for some time now he had gotten off at her stop. Blaine also had long brown hair. He always carried a beat up guitar case with him. He often bragged about his band, Psychasm.

“Do you love me yet?” was his usual opening line.

“Blaine, not again!”

It was ritual for Blaine to hit on Fiona for a few minutes each day. He had almost perfected his arrogant approach. Tim would eye Blaine suspiciously with perhaps a hint of jealousy.

“I really do love you, Fiona. I mean really. I’ll dedicate my first album to you. Then you’ll love me, won’t you? I mean, I’m a good-looking guy, ain’t I. I know—my hair’s longer than yours, huh? Does that bother you?”

“No, Blaine, it’s just you in general who bothers me. Please leave me alone.”

Usually, after Fiona had blown Blaine off, he would make his way to “Spaceman.” Spaceman was a peculiar regular. He was a middle-aged man with black eyes, thick black-rimmed glasses and black, greasy hair. He had on the same blue knit shirt that he wore every day.

“Dude, Spaceman,” Blaine began, “What’s new in the universe today?”

Spaceman either ignored him or simply did not hear him, one couldn’t be sure. He was talking to an unseen man next to him. “But the Magellan is only capable of hyper-spatial jumps, Commander. I fail to see any relevant data to support your theory . . . no, we mustn’t forget to fold space at that point, Commander,” he spoke authoritatively to the air. “Do as you must . . .”

“Doo-hood, Spaceman, take me with you, babe!” Blaine laughed.

Meanwhile, Fiona was conversing with Tim.

“How’s Hebrew school coming along?”

“Same as usual, I guess: kinda boring.”

“You don’t like going too much, do you?”

“No too much. Sometimes I like it, like when we go on field trips and stuff. And I like ceramics. But the other kids don’t like me.”

“Why not, you’re a nice boy.”

“Cuz they’re all rich and have nicer clothes than me. And after school, they get picked up by their parents in nice cars and I have to walk to the bus stop. I didn’t even know I was really Jewish till my parents sent me to Hebrew school. My great aunt says that I’m half Jewish—cuz my mother is Jewish and my father is Catholic, but I’m still not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”

“No, me neither,” she said with sullen eyes. “But I wouldn’t let what those kids say bother you. Just ignore them. Aren’t there other kids you’ve made friends with there?”

“Yeah, a couple only.”

“Well, I’m your friend. Are you my friend?”

“Yeah, you’re nice!”

“Yeah, you’re nice,” Blaine bellowed, “real nice!”

The doors of the bus hissed open again and Bernie stepped in. Bernie was an older gentleman with a great sense of humor. He always wore plaid pants. He looked like an old-time comic. The only thing he needed to complete the look was a fat stogie sticking out of his mouth (but that, of course, would be against the rules). He sat down next to Tim and Fiona, put his groceries down and breathed in deeply.

The bus was quiet for a couple blocks save for Spaceman’s rambling: “Can you begin to imagine traveling at light speed, Captain Krig? Sailing through nebulous dust, enveloped in star stuff . . . we can’t possibly reach Alpha Centauri by then!”

Every now and then Blaine would flick Spaceman’s ear and look away. He had done this often and seemed to enjoy it as much as hitting on Fiona.

The bus reached Blaine and Fiona’s stop. Fiona smiled and waved good-bye to Tim and the bus driver and walked off the bus. Blaine followed closely behind her and blew kisses at Rita. The bus driver could see Blaine running to keep up with Fiona, who was briskly walking ahead of him.

“What a fool,’’ the bus driver muttered, shaking his head.

Bernie said to Tim, “That burnt out, drug-dealing hippie-freak is finally off the bus! Fiona though, she’s a nice girl, real sweet.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, staring aimlessly out the window.

“When Mildred (rest her soul) was that age she was just as beautiful, except a little shorter . . . and a bit heavier . . . and of course she had red hair. But just as beautiful!”

“Yeah?”

“Really! I remember the time . . .”

Tim’s eyes slowly panned with the moving picture of Fiona drifting away.

The bus driver noticed this. He’d noticed it every time. Tim had become quite attached to her over the last few weeks.

He’d seen it all before.

“OK buddy, this is where you get off,” the bus driver said to Tim.

Tim grabbed his backpack with one hand and his jacket with the other. He cast a wan smile to the bus driver, to Bernie, and walked off the bus. The door hissed shut and puttered off.

Two days later, Tim was on the bus in his usual seat. He overheard Spaceman’s ramblings:

“Once again, Admiral Shindar—we meet once again! How long has it been? Eons, it seems.”

Tim noticed Blaine and Fiona about a block before the bus pulled into their stop. Fiona had a disgusted look on her face and Blaine was laughing wildly as the door opened. Fiona quickly deposited her change and took the seat next to Tim. Blaine, struggling with his book bag and guitar case, found it difficult to come up with the change, but eventually did.

“I really wrote a song for you, Fiona! Wanna hear it?”

“No, that’s OK. Really. It’s alright—just go bug Spaceman or something,” Fiona said, nostrils flaring.

“I was kidding about the song being about you giving me h—“

“Please stop.”

“Alright then.” A small pause, then, “Do you love me yet?”

“Damn you, Blaine!” She waved a huge math book at him: “Leave me alone! I’m not in the mood for your crap today!”

Blaine began making his way back to Spaceman. “She wants me,” he said with a smirk.

Spaceman was talking about impending death as his ship was being pulled into a black hole when Blaine sat down behind him and flicked his ear. Spaceman rubbed his ear as if it were a bug that had flown into it, his head tossed and ticked in a small fit. Then he was back aboard his ship and dealing with the black hole again. Blaine pulled his guitar out of its case and began strumming some chords.

Fiona turned to Tim. Her look of disgust immediately into one of delight: “Hi, Tim,” she chirped.

“Hello,” he smiled.

“How was school today?”

“It was kinda fun, except for lunch.”

“Lunch, not fun? How is that?”

“We got this new lunchroom monitor, Miss Jackson . . .”

“Yeah.”

“. . . and she won’t let us talk. We just gotta sit and eat and be quiet. I don’t get it. And if she catches you talking, she makes you stand against the wall and finish your lunch.”

“Lunchtime is when you’re supposed to be able to talk,” she said.

“Not in my school. Not anymore. Not with Miss Jackson.”

“What a bitch!” Blaine yelled from behind.

Fiona rolled her eyes, but produced a tiny smile as well.

“My father says that if I get a job, he’ll get me a car. Isn’t that cool?” Fiona said to Tim.

“Really?” Tim said, beginning to frown.

“Oh honey,” she said, stroking his hair, “don’t worry. Maybe I’ll surprise you one day and pick you up from Hebrew school. Then all the kids will see a teenage girl picking you up. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’ve been looking for a job for a little while now anyway. Ya know, for extra money and all. But between homework, school and piano practice I have a real limited schedule.”

“Why do you want a job?”

“Like I said, for extra money. For clothes or movies, to save for college—and now so my dad will buy me a car. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Oh,” he pursed his lips and looked down.

It was Rita’s stop again.

“Only the good die young,” the bus driver said under his breath.

The door hissed open and Rita climbed the stairs, putting both feet on each step to provide a maximum of waiting time. The ubiquitous cigarette smeared with lipstick was in her shaking hand. Today was no different than any other.

Spaceman could be overheard: “The gravity is too fierce, Captain!”

Blaine began strumming and singing: “The gravity is toooo fierce, Cap’n.”

“We’ll ultimately succumb to the spaghettification process and our bodies will stretch—”

“We’ll ultimately suck on the spaghetti!” Blaine continued to sing.

“I’ve been on this godforsaken planet . . .” Rita screeched.

“I wish Blaine would shut up!” Fiona said.

Blaine stopped to blow a kiss at Rita as she walked to her seat.

“Ah, go to hell ya little punk!” she snapped.

“Ah! The beautiful purple planet! Breathtaking, is it not, Commander?” Spaceman said, eyes wide and glaring aimlessly.

Blaine stopped singing eventually, Rita settled down, Spaceman ran out of things to say and Tim and Fiona sat silently. There was a capricious silence until Bernie came on.

“Tim,” he said, “how’s it going?” He put out his hand and Tim shook it.

“OK, I suppose.”

Fiona smiled, “Hi, Bernie.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” he smiled back.

In the background Blaine could be heard singing again: “Fi-ooo-ionaaaa-huh!”

“Shut up, already!” Rita screamed.

“Drugs!” Bernie grunted.

“Geek!” Fiona sneered.

It was Fiona and Blaine’s stop. They got off the bus and Tim sighed. The bus slowly pulled away.

It wasn’t until the following Tuesday that Tim rode the bus again. The driver pulled into his stop and gave Tim a smile as he boarded. Tim seemed to be in a good mood. It seemed a typical day. Spaceman was rambling, as usual, and Tim appeared eager, awaiting Fiona’s stop.

He’d seen it all before.

“And I was awaiting the enemy ship with great anticipation,” Spaceman began speaking.

Three more blocks: Tim’s wide smile and eager eyes—a pitiful cast of magical innocence across his face.

“Then we entered the Aurora star system . . .”

Two more blocks: Tim continued to smile.

“We looked out over the horizon of an enormous ringed planet.”

One more block: Tim’s smile quavered slightly.

“And . . .”

Tim adjusted his glasses.

“. . . there was nothing, Captain!”

Fiona was not there.

Blaine was there, although he wasn’t quite as cheerful as usual. The door of the Crosstown Metro, route C, hissed open and allowed Blaine to enter. Blaine sat by himself in the back of the bus, far from Spaceman, and was silent, cold as stone.

“You gotta wait till she comes! Moe! You gotta wait, don’t you?” Tim pleaded.

The bus driver knew that Fiona would not show up. He knew that she had gotten a car. Hearing him say his name shook him in his seat a bit—he couldn’t remember ever having told the boy his name. He regained his strength, recalling his policy, donning his armor once again. It wasn’t his job to interfere, so he said nothing to Tim except, “I’m sure she’s alright. Now have a seat, son.”

Tim sat back down, lowered his head and pouted for the rest of the ride. Moe stopped Tim as he was getting off the bus.

“Hey kid, I’m sure she’ll surprise you one day and pick you up at school, like she said.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’m sure she will,” he said with a warm smile.

Tim smiled back.

“Hey your name is Moe. Like in the Three Stooges! Did you know they’re Jewish?”

“Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!”

“Hey, that’s not Moe, that’s Curley!”

“Whatever. Take care, son.”

“G’night, Moe.”

He shook his head and grasped the cold metal handle with his pudgy hand. The door hissed closed. He shook his head again and put his hands on the wheel. Dusk was noticeably settling in earlier today. There was a sliver of a crescent moon with Venus shining brilliantly in the sky. He saw Tim skipping his way home.

He’d seen it all before. Well, maybe not all of it.