Sketch: The Bus Driver

The bus driver pulled up right on target – the door level with the curb, despite the snow.

“That was amazing,” I said. “I thought I’d have to walk through that puddle in the street for sure.”

“I been driving things for forty years,” he said. “Not much I can’t handle.”

“You’ve been driving around the city for forty years?”

“Naw. I just been doin’ this for ten. Before that, I drove trucks cross-country.”

“That sounds exciting,” I said. “Where all’d you go?”

“I was based out of Chicago,” he said turning the big, thin wheel. “I’d head over to Billings sometimes, or Kansas City, or down to Texas. All over. I been out to California. I even been up to Maine one time.”

I looked out the window at the drizzle, the jacket-bloated people, the sky as unyielding as steel. “That sounds nice,” I said. “I’d like to get out of here to a place with space. So I can take a wide breath.”

“I don’t know,” he said stopping at a light. “It wasn’t much a nothin’. Every once in a while I’d meet a pretty girl and then I’d have to drive on. Naw. To tell the truth, young man. If I could do it all over again, I’d a’done somethin’ else.”