Cindy Bachofer
Ami Regier
Fiction Writing
February 25
                    

     I was the one on the bus playing the music too loud through headphones.  It was Les Miserables.  I figured that didn't count.  But the driver glared anyway, "Watch the volume or I take the radio.  Same rule for all passengers, Ma'am." I got on the bus to not be disturbed and found out headphones didn't protect me from intrusion.
     A baby's funeral brought this mid-week travel.  I wanted a way to insulate myself from any other pain.  Maybe I'd get a seat to myself.  Make a pillow of the backpack, a blanket of the coat to cover myself, and sink into the wailing notes of Les Mis.  I felt for the grooved knob of volume control and followed the driver's warning.
     New passengers boarded at the Denver station.  I watched carefully and nonchalantly as each person took the three steps up and turned to face the rows of waiting seats.  Choosing a seatmate was tricky business.  In having to sit for several hours with a stranger, I preferred female to male; this seemed the safest on long rides.   The time it took to board did not allow for further clue gathering.  I kept a very serious face hoping to discourage anyone and I tried to make eye contact if the person looked stable.  In my head I practiced the conversation:
     "Can I sit here?"
     "No."
     "Is this seat taken?"
     "Yes."
What could the bus driver do.  I didn't want to find out.  I saw a young woman heading into the aisle and moved my backpack to make space.
     She was a young black woman with no bags.  She moved into the seat without crowding me and kept her jacket on.  She did not look in my direction.  We still had several minutes before leaving and it felt too impolite to sit in silence.   I had my headphones ready
if the talking went on too long.  
     "Hi, I'm Susan," I said in opening.
     "I'm Anita," she replied, barely turning her head.
     "How far are you going?" I continued.
     "St. Louis."
     She kept her head down and still didn't look at me as she removed her jacket.  An easy logical question could be "Traveling for relatives or work?" but I didn't push that.  I recognized the old Scout logo on her jacket and started to ask her about being in the program.  I closed my mouth.  She didn't want to talk.  The baggage compartment door slammed down on the metal cavern and I adjusted my headphones to block out the driver's required information.  "We're glad you chose to travel on Greyhound. . . ."
     At least Anita was not an annoying seatmate.  Anonymity was safest and I did not object to her silence.  Without looking directly, I studied her for clues to identity.  Finding a story for her focused my thoughts.  Besides plain clothes and a profile, nothing showed to offer clues.  Her face was expressionless.  Her hair was pulled into a small knot at the back and unravelings poked out on the sides.  She could have been traveling for awhile.
     From the jacket's front pocket she took a can of Coke and a snack sized bag of corn chips.   Her motions never quickened with small, measured sips from the can.  One by one she
emptied the two ounce portion of chips.  From my five inches away I knew every motion, even the crunch as teeth broke the chip in half.  I marveled at the mechanical pace that stretched this snack into forty-five minutes.   I leaned my cheek against the window and tried to wrap privacy around me.
    For the hundredth time, "Why didn't I take yesterday evening's bus?" Sleeping, or pretending to, was much easier in the dark.  Those short sentences through the phone kept playing in my head: "The baby stopped breathing.  We're at the hospital.  Come on the bus."
Music didn't keep those few seconds of words out or my sister's face.  Staying awake pushed the arrival further away.  I wondered if Anita really was asleep or just keeping her eyes closed. It was mid-afternoon, halfway there.  I listened to faceless conversations around me.      
      The group in the back made sure everyone knew their business, except the bus driver.
    "I swear we finished that bottle before the cops came up."  This line from the voice of loudest bragging.  Two other voices competing for air time wanted to prove they belonged to the party crowd.
   "I kept that car goin' at ninety til the tire blew," the smoker's cough boasted.  Only these whopper lines and two women's flattering laughter came to the front.   It only got dull because the good times didn't stop; life never sobered up.  I concentrated on finding the name of the town the bus came off the highway for.
    "Smoke break," the driver announced over the speaker.   "This is not a rest stop.  I will pull out in five minutes.  If you are not here to reboard you will be left."  
     Anita stepped into the aisle as soon as the driver swung the door crank.  I always stayed on the bus with my bags but took the chance to stretch my legs the seat's full length.  The group in the back moved up quickly ahead of other passengers.  The driver stood at the landing as they
got to the steps.
     "Mr. Driver, can't we stop at a Dunkin' Donuts next break?"   said the cougher.
     The driver interrupted their laughter.  "Don't light that cigarette til you are OFF the bus. That's federal regulation."  They walked the edge of his patience.  He exited into the gas station, shutting out any retort that forced a face-off.  Both sides took a break off the bus.  He didn't have to hear their laughter that continued in the parking lot and they could still be the cool guys.  This was the same territorial squabble heard between playground bullies.  
     Two new passengers emerged with the driver from the gas station after the promised five minutes.   He pulled their tickets at the bus door once everyone else had reclaimed their seats.
    "You get the last two spots this run," he said, letting them know they were lucky. Both found seats at the front, but I didn't study them closely.  The decision of a seatmate--fourth row, left side--was already made.  The woman sat one row back across the aisle, already starting in with conversation.  The bus rolled over gravel and I listened as Anita sipped on the second Coke.  I really should be tired with so little sleep from the past night; I wanted that sway of the bus over highway miles to bring sleep.  
     The rising pitch in a woman's voice pulled me out of dozing.  She rattled off quick sentences that didn't make sense.  Through the space between seats I watched her seatmate slump in his chair.    
     "Lady, I can't help you."  His irritation showed.
     "It's very scary.  It's not even safe for me to be on this bus."  She looked quickly at the neighboring seats.  I pressed my head into the cushion to avoid her glance.
     "They wanted to shut me up.  I knew too much information."  Her voice trailed off, but her fingers still drummed the arm rest.  Other passengers within my view held their heads down.
Making eye contact meant involvement,  Anita kept her eyes on the seat back's gray molded plastic.  No one showed interest in her outburst.
       "I think it's the CIA.  They want to kill me, so I have to keep running."  Her seatmate turned his body into the window.  She continued, "They had guns and trailed me across town."   A young man's voice behind her broke in.
         "How many of 'em were there?  Did you get a good look?"
      "They tried to shoot me.  I've been hiding all week from them."  She turned around in her seat in search of the interested voice.  I looked, too.  His arms were crossed over a flannel shirt and his legs stretched into the aisle.  
     "Did you get a look at them?" he repeated.  
     "Their car was moving too fast.  I just wanted to get away." Again her voice rose.
     "Maybe they had green heads," he said and jabbed his seatmate.  The smirk crept up his face and I grimaced at the cruelty in his joke.  I hoped she would turn away from them and the prank would end..  This time Anita did turn her head toward the aisle.  Conversations further back had quieted and I looked up front to the bus driver.  He showed no awareness of the tension behind him.  The woman stood up and leaned across her seat.
     "I don't have to tell you anymore. You can't be trusted."
     The older woman behind me tried to smooth over the situation in a soothing voice.
     "Please, Miss.  Sit down.  You're safe on the bus.  I'm sure this man didn't mean to upset you."  She sent a warning look to the flannel shirt and passed her magazine to the woman.  "I'm finished with this and you might like to read it for awhile."  Her kindness hung in the air.  
     The woman bit her lip and accepted the magazine as she returned to her seat.  I listened as she turned the pages and hoped the bus' regular noises would start again.  She was too far
away for me to tell facial features.  She had a slender build and shoulder length brown hair.  Her clothes were casual and neat.  Nothing that signaled a crazy person's behavior.  She simply told a strange story.  How did any of us know it wasn't true?  News' headlines told that the government didn't always treat her citizens fairly.  Government agencies had wrecked people's lives for knowing too much or for seeking personal justice.  She might be one of those.  Her seatmate kept his face to the window.  She twisted a piece of hair between two fingers and this time kept her thoughts quiet.  "What kind of kick did someone get from taunting such a person," I wondered.  One passenger had helped her and many of us hid from meeting her eye.  It was easiest to write her off as crazy and not worth the trouble of comforting.  Her fear disrupted the peace of anonymous bus travel.  
     Muttering this time, she leaned forward, "It's the CIA.  They think I talked to the Russians and so they want to kill me.  I have to keep running."
     I sucked in air.  The sides of the bus closed in and I heard the echo of her words as if our seats were in a tin can.  I gritted my teeth against more words.  
     The kind voice behind me said, "We'll be at the next station soon.  I'm sure someone there can help you.  You can find a safe place to stay." This time her words didn't help.
     The crazy woman stood up in the aisle and scanned the seats up and down quickly.  This time faces did look back at her with faces of resistance, determined to protect their space from her madness.  She almost chanted the words, "CIA--kill me--CIA--shoot me."
     The man in the flannel shirt pushed out of his seat and flung the accusation, "The woman's crazy.  She needs a shrink.   I don't want her near me."  His pulled his arm up and stepped back as if in a pitcher's stance.
     Several voices cut into the scene.  "Hey, cool it."
     "Buddy, that's gonna get you trouble.  Step back."
     The driver's voice broke in, "You need to stay seated unless you're moving to or from the restroom.  That's bus regulation." His eyes watched the drama from his mirror above the windshield.  "Take your seats," he warned, without using the loudspeaker.  The young man turned on his heel and headed to the restroom in the back.  
     The older woman stood up and again spoke in a reassuring voice, "I'm Ruth.  Please tell me your name."  The woman, now trembling, she called Mary and guided her to the front.   The single passenger on the front row quickly agreed to trade seats.  He brought a message to the surrounding rows; "Driver said we can't put her off the bus unless she's threatening somebody.   He can only leave her  at the next station."   This news moved from seat to seat.  The windows didn't open and I wanted air.  The size of the bus changed with this information.  Every seat was too close.  I couldn't think beyond the bus' windows and walls.
     This had all taken place in a few moments.  One passenger's world filled the bus.  She took away the dragging routine of job, bills, and worry that generally showed in conversation.
The bus now held individuals--the man with a Hefty trash bag for a suitcase.  The mother with the little girl whose hair was uncombed and whose face needed cleaning.  The old man who never got his shirt tucked back in after using the restroom.  Each person had a distinctive voice or different clothes now from the passenger across the aisle.   The conversations returned carefully and still quieter than before.  The guy in the flannel shirt stayed in the back; someone made room for him on the long seat's cushioned edge.
     The supper stop and dusk approached.  Highway signs marking the miles held more attention this trip.  I knew these markers without looking ; it was my stop.  I had to consider the phone call I would make, into another sort of madness.   That loss still seemed far away and I
kept my mind on the bus.   "What degree of tragedy caused the mind to search for another reality?  What string of circumstances had pushed Mary across the line to crazy?    Her ramblings gave no clue of real background and no real cause to put her away.
     The driver maneuvered the bus into parking and flipped the intercom on.  "This is Bluff City.  We have a thirty minute supper stop.  The diner across the street will serve you if you get your order in quickly.  In thirty minutes this bus will pull out."  For a few seconds of silence no one moved into the aisle.  Mary adjusted the belt on her coat and continued her familiar lines. "They're after me.  The CIA wants me dead.  I have to keep moving."  Ruth stepped to the front.
     "Let's go inside and see if someone there can help."  Mary shook her head and moved off the bus into the parking lot.  She pulled out a cigarette and concentrated on lighting it.  The driver shrugged his shoulders.
     "I'll make a report to the station manager, but you can't do much else for these crazies. The bus gets 'em all the time.  They usually keep to themselves and don't make so much noise." He shook his head and moved into the station and  Ruth followed.  I collected my bags and waited for the aisle to clear.  Anita was one of the first off and instead the station rather than the diner.  My steps felt slow and hampered by unseen weights.  The bank of phones waited and my fingers tapped the cushioned numbers by memory.  Three rings.  I tried to form a message in my head if the machine picked up.  "The bus is on time.  I'm at the station.  I'll call a taxi at seven if no one is here."  I left the message.  I hoped somebody was on the way to get me.  I was tired of buses, bus stations, and bus passengers.
     The long row of windows against the parking lot gave a view of the outside waiting area and the street.  When I came in Mary was on the west side and now I couldn't see her.  I moved to the middle and searched the lot more closely.  Only a few people waited in the chairs lined up
in the middle of the floor and no one that I recognized from the bus.   Ruth finished her conversation at the desk and turned to walk outside.  
     "She's not in the parking lot now."  I know anxiousness showed in my voice.  "Is someone here going to help her?"  I looked at Ruth for explanation.
     "They are going to call the police to look around this area.  They can question her, but only take her in if she's a threat to herself or the public."   She recited the information from the desk in the same flat tone that I expected she heard.
     I didn't want to meet her eyes and turned back to the window.  "I hope she'll be OK.  It was so hard to know what to do on the bus."  I said this more to myself.
     "A lot of passengers seemed to think that," Ruth said.  I didn't hear accusation in her voice, but the line stuck in my head and made me uncomfortable.  She smiled and returned to the bus. I watched the smokers in the parking.  The tall one with the rock concert t-shirt and
boots flicked the ashes and ground them into the asphalt.  Their conversation was quieter than the earlier stop.  Staying inside kept me free of their remarks or their evaluation of the crazy woman.  
     When I saw the familiar Toyota,  I carried my bags to the bench outside.   My brother was driving and I knew words would be few.  I settled into the car and looked at his profile for clues.  He squeezed my shoulder with his free hand.
     "How was the ride?"
     I searched for a way to explain.  The crazy woman, my silent seatmate, the trouble of playing Les Mis.  In this car it seemed trivial.   I only nodded with a half smile.  He had turned onto the first side street out of the station and I watched the houses slip by.  I stiffened inside to make myself ask about the funeral, about our sister, about his anger at a baby dying.
     "Hey, Lady, use the sidewalk" he blurted out.
     "She was on the bus," I said.  "I think she's kind of crazy."  He slowed down till she got back on the sidewalk.  I looked for the street signs to call in when I got to a phone.  She was still hiding I guessed from the CIA.  
     "When is the funeral?"  I asked.