Bus of Dreams

         A long time ago, I felt like my life was frozen in time, on a continuous loop. I worked at a restaurant making minimum wage, washing dishes and cleaning tables. The hours were long, the kitchen was hot, and all to serve rude and demanding customers. But you know, the customers are always right. I just wanted to be an artist, but I had gone through four years of art school to find out galleries don’t give a shit that I studied art and art theory at Stanford. 

            It was around four o’clock. I had about another hour before my shift was done. My boss was yapping to some stupid tourist about the “unique” history of the restaurant (which was just some bullshit we fed to tourists so they would buy stuff at the shop). I was sweating and tired, nothing more did I want this day to be over.

            I cleaned a few tables, and was about to go. But then my boss comes and sits down at the table I just cleaned. I see him pull out some greasy food. He starts to chow down with a napkin tied around his neck. He smashes the food down his throat. Food goes everywhere, on his face, the floor, and the table. I bring up some bottled up anger, I start thinking about what I’m doing here, why do I keep staying? Out of my rush, I do a very foolish thing… but almost a good foolish.

I walked up to my boss.

“I’m done, I hate my job, and I’m not standing it anymore. I can’t take the customers, I can’t take the kitchen, and I sometimes wish I was dead!”

 I threw down my apron and my hat, and walked off with a large sense of pride. . The look on his face was what I always hoped to see. He was thoroughly confused, the surrounding by employees and customers were just as such.

            As soon as I made it out of the restaurant, I scolded myself.

Fuck…  I don’t have a job now.

  

            I figured I would just go straight home. I felt a small pit in my stomach; I have rent due in a few days, the cable bill next week, and my internet bill. I laid back in the seat, and took a sigh I thought,

Maybe I could go back and beg for my job back?

I immediately shook that idea. My eyes got heavy and my head dipped down. My eyes gave in and shut. They opened to the bus pulling up in front of the stop. The bus driver, an older black man, opened the doors. I sighed as I got up, I was sick to the stomach, feeling like something was off.

            With the few people at the stop, we crowded on to the bus. I found an empty seat up front. That has always been my favorite spot on the bus ever since I was a child. I liked looking through the front windshield, I never really knew why. Everything was calm; I almost wished it wasn’t, it gave me too much time to think. Some people liked that, but for me it always just made me overly anxious.

            We went down a few miles, things were looking normal. The bus was quiet, like it should. The bus driver had his eyes on the road, never peeled away for anything. I noticed a guy in a suit. He was standing at a large intersection. Something was off about the dude. He had a piece of paper in his suit pocket, folded up neatly. I watched as he stepped out into the road, and was hit by the bus before the driver could even think to brake. Time felt like it slowed down, like nothing the only thing was happening was that man’s suicide. We heard his bones crack and saw the blood splash. I saw a child who had had his icecream cone soaked in blood, a look that I will never forget. The boy, who looked only older than five, saw such a gruesome death. I got out of the bus, and noticed the letter. I took it out of his suit pocket, and read it.