761

They were all guilty.

Their heads were slightly lowered in their attempt to avoid eye contact with me. When their gazes found mine, they looked down at the floor of the bus or out their window, their reflections overlapping the smudged scenery.

They marinated in years of guilt. A feeling of forgiveness emanated from them. It was a stagnant odor of damp leaves mixed with the salty smell of sweat. It was a powerful stench that overcame my nostrils.

I drove bus 761 in route to pick up my first round of passengers for the day. Tardiness was unacceptable in my line of work. Never have I been late in the unaccountable trips I've made. I always made sure that my passengers arrived on time.

Bus 761 sped down the Acheron highway, asphalt baked under the relentless rays of the sun peaking out from the clouds in the hazy sky. The bus was an eye sore. The bottom was painted black and the roof was painted a bright red. There were no advertisements on the outside or the inside. The chipped paint broke off as I stepped down on the gas pedal to increase speed. The white fluorescent lights illuminated the inside of the bus, flickering with each pot hole the tires ran over. I looked at my speedometer. The faster we went, the more bus 761 rocked from side to side.

Mr. Wortley sat behind me, rigid in his seat. I glanced back and forth at this cretin from the road to my rear view mirror, watching his dry cracked lips move erratically while he talked to himself. Little droplets of sweat collected on his brow and ran down the side of his plumped face to his noticeably inflamed neck. He adjusted his sweat soaked collar of his blue overalls, continually scratching the inflamed area. Pieces of flaky, dead skin collected on his shoulders and he picked at the hardened crust in his eyes, wiping the greenish matter on his forearm.

He was once a respectable business man, but like many of my passengers he succumbed to the voices in his head. His wife left him years ago and he drowned her loss in heroin. He unsuccessfully attempted suicide and graduated to the murder of a local cop. That was when I began to notice the old man's sins. Due to his insanity he was taken to the local asylum for the mentally insane.

He gripped the top section of the seat with such force that I thought he was going to rip the fabric loose. Our eyes met again in the mirror and he slowly released his grip, tapping his fidgety fingers on the upholstery.

"Are we there yet?" Each word escaped his mouth in a slow, hoarse voice.

"Shut up Mr. Wortley," I kept my attention on the road in front of me. He cursed at himself under his breath. I enjoyed watching him in his sad attempt at repentance; like anyone was listening. No one listened to the damned down here. He was seated next to an older lady, Mrs. Beckert, who nudged him slightly with her elbow. He looked at her and smiled nervously.

"Did I tell you that you remind me of my grandson?" she smiled back. She slowly rocked front to back in her seat, her arms wrapped tightly around her wicker picnic basket. She hummed a tune she learned in church as a little girl and her eyes jumped from passenger to passenger. 

She greeted everyone that boarded after her, revealing a simple, quick smile that sometimes stretched from cheek to cheek. She was especially friendly to every male who looked like or reminded her of her deceased grandson. The dark wrinkles lining her face told her age and her eyes revealed the guilt she carried after her husband's murder. 

She greeted me when she'd boarded, placing her polished coin into the coin box. She attempted to start a conversation with me about her deceased husband, asking me if all could be forgiven. I commanded her to sit down and shut up. I had a job to do. I was here to make sure that my bus arrived on time.