The Bus

Rows of azure blue plastic seats and brushed stainless steel grips were secured by tamper resistant fasteners. As usual he rode the MBTA #38 bus, enjoying the predictability of each passengers routine - who got got on and off at what stops. Sometimes he pretended he could look into the future. He knew which drivers were friendly and which drivers would not respond to his tentative greetings.

On the bus people shut life out with earphones, smartphones, cell phone conversations, even books. By nature he was a watcher. Cautiously studying the other passengers or looking out the window, at places he had been and places he would never be. Riding the bus let him discover the many architectural details he would miss by driving, walking or even riding a bike. Among his favorite sightings were mansard and gambrel roofs, eyebrow and bullseye windows, corbels and Queen Anne turrets.

Inbound and outbound routes retraced AM and PM; before and after work. In the morning, there was the sense of rushing anticipation. The evening dialed down a quiet desperation. His thoughts followed a repetitive pattern, always coming back to the same question. What happens when you die ?

As the bus approached his stop, he wondered if death was like stepping off the bus and never getting on again.