Flash Fiction - The Bus Stop

The strap of Jane’s duffel bag dug into her shoulder as the bus crunched to a stop alongside the curb, releasing pressurized air and diesel fumes into the Connecticut morning. 

Jane and the others gathered up close: college kids in flannels and hoodies, a pair of men in suits, a woman folding a wiry stroller with one hand while the other pressed a toddler to her hip.

The door opened, and the driver managed the stairs, gripping the handhold as his uniform buttons strained against his middle. He moved along the length of the bus, opening the lower cargo doors. Sharp fluorescent lights flickered on inside each compartment.

He shuffled back to the bus’s open door, a pearl of sweat along his jaw. “Hartford,” he barked at the small crowd.

The travelers assembled themselves into a loose line, with the mother at the front. She had handed the ticket to the toddler, who was sheepishly thrusting it toward the driver. 

“That has to go underneath,” the driver said, pointing at the stroller. 

“Oh, it’s OK,” she said. “I’ll put it in the overhead.” 

“Won’t fit,” he said. “Too long.”

She glanced at the open cargo bins, then past Jane to the line stretching beyond the taillights.

“Look,” she said, hiking the kid further up on her hip, “I know you oversell these things. There are more than 49 people here. If I step out of line, I’ll lose my place. I cannot miss this bus.”

Jane rose onto her tiptoes and craned her neck toward the windows. Sunlight flashed against the tinted glass. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the shapes inside. 

Twelve people, maybe? Thirteen? She began a silent head count of the line. Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine.

“Lady, I have eleven minutes to board this bus,” the driver said, then focused on an elderly woman with a tight grey perm and oversized glasses. “Next,” he said. 

The older woman presented her phone. He scanned it, and she climbed aboard. 

“For Christ’s sake,” the mother said, stuffing the ticket into her jeans. She walked to the nearest cargo bin and tossed the stroller inside, where it clattered across the steel surface. 

“You can get in front of me,” Jane called out. The mother turned, scanning the throng for the source of the invitation. Jane waved and gestured to the open air between herself and a pair of teenagers. She caught the woman’s eye. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re a lifesaver.” She and the toddler squeezed themselves between Jane and the teens, who glanced at the trio and then back at their phones. 

“Say ‘thank you’ to the nice lady,” the mother said. The toddler pressed his face into her sweater, tapping his Pixar Crocs against her jeans.

“I like Lightning McQueen, too,” Jane said. He turned his head slightly, one blue eye peeking out from behind a fringe of straw-colored curls. 

“Lightning is our favorite,” the mother said, drawing out the first syllable “Kachow!” she said, jostling him in her arms. “Kachow!” She smiled at Jane, her cheeks a little red. “It’s what Lightning says when he’s won something.” 

“Next,” the driver said. 

The mother turned with a start. “Oh, sorry.” She handed the now-crumpled ticket to the boy. He passed it to the driver, who scanned it and waved them aboard. 

The driver glanced at his scanner. “Seats are full. Standing room only for five. Or you can wait 30 minutes for the next bus.” 

Jane stepped out of line. The driver called out to her, “Miss, there’s room to stand—” 

“I’ll wait, it’s fine.”

She moved down the sidewalk and opened the text thread with Emily.

Jane: “Bus pulling out. On my way to Hartford.”

Emily: “ok.”

Three dots.

Emily: “See you when I see you.”

Jane opened the Uber app and tapped the saved address. She put the phone in her pocket.

“Kachow,” Jane said.