begins and ends in the bus stop. Fear and time rule here. The Bus Driver has not yet taken human form. He exists only as a wish, a clouded prayer spoken on a frosty morning for relief from the bitter cold. I will carry you, He breathes.
The shores of the bus stop extend along the sidewalk a few feet beyond the wooden structure that shields us from the elements. There are two benches, but we don’t sit there. No one sits except the girl whose head is bundled up so tightly it looks as if she’s wearing a psychedelic, astronaut’s helmet: the too-tall, purple hat her grandmother probably crocheted for her, the orange scarf she crocheted for herself while visiting her grandmother, the red, over-stuffed parka whose puffy collar almost hides the scarf, and the large, black, square-rimmed glasses, glasses that must magnify her vision two-hundred times, because that’s how much bigger they make her blue eyes look from the other side.
We sometimes wonder if it’s because of those eyes that unrest rules the bus stop. Winter blows angrily across the frozen sidewalk. We huddle within our jackets, chins tucked tight into collars, hands stuffed in pockets. But when astronaut head looks out at the rest of us with those blue eyes, some spread their coats like wings, hoping for the coming gust to blow them away. Others leap into the chasm at the edge of the sidewalk. It goes without saying that fights break out. Our only hope is for fresh snow, a gentle end. But it’s not to be. Ice-chunks with sharp edges bloody noses, gash cheeks.
She’s not evil. Honestly, we don’t know anything about her. If we understood more, we would talk to her, tell her to stop. Some days, she seems to sense this and keeps her eyes focused on her shoes. But other days, she stares at us. All we can do is wait. Wait for the Bus Driver.
He emerges from the mist, roaring around the corner, stopping with a long squeak ten feet past our attempt at an orderly line. Sitting atop His lofty throne, He summons us to enter. None dawdle. Some push, others cut. Keeping one hand on His anointed wheel, He lays the other on each head as we pass. We enter the royal hall, dividing from right to left. Where to sit is always a painful decision unless signaled by a look or tugged by an unseen hand gripping your backpack.
Once we are seated, He takes off his baseball cap and thrice shakes his dreaded locks: “I am troubled by what I have seen here today,” He begins. “There was a time when stone-fisted giants would smash you where you sit, erase the race of men. But that time is no more.” We don’t really know what He’s talking about. Safe in the warmth of His hallowed halls, not all of us believe Him. Some throw crumpled wads of paper in His direction, others shout out to start the bus or we’ll be late. In answer, He stands, takes off His jacket, bares His tattooed arms. “The disease that rots you must be cut out.” The shouts stop. He hammers the steel pole rising up from the front seat to the roof, making the bus shake with His word. “Single-family dwellers, divorcees, the lower middle-class who live in townhomes and condos, on cul-de-sacs and lanes—all should have a decent place in which to dwell, not one in which the daughters and sons of blood run about.” He has our attention. “Of such rank infamy are you guilty!” He shouts, though He breaks into a hacking cough after, then reaches for His pack of Marlboros. He pulls a Zippo with a Harley stencil from His pants, lights a firestick and brings it to His lips as if He doesn’t care. He breathes in deep, filling his lungs with the potent poison, then blows that great smoke out over us all. We sit quietly, calmly, at least until He starts the bus. Then He speaks once more: “This age is desperately wicked,” He says. “I have crossed through Aurora and Lakewood, Littleton, and Highlands Ranch and everywhere I see the same face, the same red eyes, the same bestial savagery.” And then because of His unbounded anger or some other force we know not, His beard grows heavy with frost, His dreaded locks turn hoary. He squeezes his hands together, and snow falls, whiting out the world. Thus ends the second age and begins the third: