When the bus finally clanked to a stop in front of us Yanuva was the only person who entered the door with absolutely no hesitation. Even Onani paused for a split second on the threshold, and normally he was fearless through indifference.
The interior of the bus was as shabby as I had imagined. The original seats were still in the bus, tattered and graffiti covered as they were. A radio had been installed by the driver’s seat and it was playing the old country music. The driver himself, Yanuva’s father, was wearing a cowboy hat and boots, blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He smiled at us as we stepped aboard and stuck out his hand to each of us.
“Hi, I’m Bill, folks call me Tex. Yanuva has told me about all of you,” he said, motioning us to the seats right behind him. He was the least formal parent I had ever encountered. I realized as I sat down that I didn’t even know his name and calling him by his first name went totally against the way I was raised. I didn’t get the chance to ask him about this though, because right away he set into talking. I soon realized where Yanuva had gotten her talkative nature from.
“You know, this is the first time Yanuva has brought any friends with her like this, you guys must be special. I’ll let you ride anytime for free,” he added.
“The company you keep Dad, most of my friends would be scared to ride this bus,” Yanuva said teasingly. She was sitting right behind him, with her elbows resting on his neck while he drove. They made a sweet picture but her comment brought to my attention the other passengers on the bus. Most of them were men, dirty men in work clothing. The few women looked just as rough, these weren’t people that you saw in the neighborhood I lived in, but the sort of people who work hard, manual labor for a living. I tried to imagine one of the women, a lady in coveralls, her face streaked with soot, sitting in on my mother’s garden club meeting and almost burst into laughter.
My parents are always telling me not to judge people without getting to know them. It’s something I have been told my whole life. But it just goes to show that my parent’s don’t always practice what they preach I’m afraid. They were all to quick to judge people by status and job position, not once in my life had seen them associate with anyone who would have ridden on the bus I was on. I will say this; it was an eye opening experience. All of us, except maybe Yanuva, were from upper middle class families, that was just the sort of high school that we went to. And while I am sure that there are eccentric people everywhere. I suddenly realized that I was surrounded by them. Normal people don’t get on Tex Bill’s bus. Not twice anyway, and not sober.
I noticed that Bill, as I was forced to think of him as, knew every passenger he picked up, greeted them by name, and sometimes asked after their family by name as well. Of course the bus didn’t have official stops like the city bus did, but word of mouth had worked just as well. Anyone who was likely the ever want to ride the bus knew where he stopped. And everyone was always sure to give him money on their way off the bus. It was a system of trust, so no one ever broke it.
“Dad used to be a cowboy and ride in a rodeo,” Yanuva commented.
“And I was a good one,” said Bill, grinning back at us for a second before going back to watching the road. “I rode anything anyone could put a saddle on for my whole life. That’s why I can handle this bus, not one other person in the whole state could.”
“Why not?” I asked. It didn’t seem that different on the inside from some of the school buses that I had ridden in before, apart from how beat up it was.
To be continued...
No comments:
Post a Comment