Rut

A Short-ish Story

Steven wakes up at 6:55 am. Years ago an alarm would have blared through the room, his arm loosely swatting at the switch and forcing a half-hearted swing of the leg off the bed to right himself. Now, his eyes simply open, unprompted. The smooth beige of the ceiling greets him. He folds back the covers. The seasonal light grows stronger with the coming summer, but Steven refuses to succumb to the change. The sun beats at the backside of the black-out curtains hung over the windows. He pushes his legs off the side of the bed, letting the momentum raise him up. His bones creek somberly and his muscles ache from nothing in particular. At seventy-four years old, his body disagrees with most movement. Below the bed, he slides his feet into the slippers awaiting him. As he takes his first steps, gravity reminds him that it will win the war. A lifelong muscle memory grabs the robe from the hook next to the bed and his arms struggle to sling the worn flannel over his shoulders. Two locks on the bedroom door and a dozen steps later, Steven steps into the bathroom. A night light next to the vanity flickers on and off, its light sensor debating whether the glow through the window is enough to warrant its service. With a flick of the light switch the nightlight retires. He pulls his toothbrush from its holder and squeezes out a metered dose of toothpaste. After two minutes of brushing, his robe falls from his body and is placed on the single hook behind the door. He shuffles out of his slippers, slides back the curtain and steps into the shower. Four and a half minutes later, timed by a long-trained internal clock, the water is shut off and Steven dries himself—face, hair, arms, torso, legs, feet—and re-dons his slippers and robe. Back in the bedroom, he pulls white underwear, an undershirt, and a pair of long black socks from a well-ordered drawer—saving the button-down shirt and blue slacks hanging in the closet for later, to avoid milk stains from his morning cereal. On the way to the table, he picks a banana from a hook and begins his meal, staring absently at the wall. A digital clock ticks away, the second counter unrelenting. As he takes his final bite, the volunteer fire siren sounds its daily test. Dishes cleaned, placed back in the cabinet, shirt and slacks on, shoes tied, and keys in pocket, he lifts his jacket from the rack and is out the door at 7:33 am, as he was yesterday and the day before, and the day before.

Twenty-four minutes later, Steven pulls into the parking lot at the bus depot. Three minutes from car door to clock, he reaches to punch in at 8:00am. The punch clock doesn’t take. 

“Morning, Steve. Little update, we’re clocking in on an app now.”

Allen is a small man. He sits at a table in the driver’s lounge, a small room with a sink, a table, and a refrigerator. 

“What?” Steven is frozen at the clock.

“Yeah, seems there was a shift at corporate. They want it all electronic so they can track it better.”

“But…”

“I can show you on your phone if you need.”

Steven is holding his punch card in his hand trying to figure out how to move his body.

“You okay there, Steve?”

Steven doesn’t reply. 

“Here, let me see your phone.” Allen beckons him over.

Steven drops his hands but does not move his feet. “Why wasn’t there a notice about this?”

“They sent an email.”

Steven focuses on his breathing. “An email? Couldn’t put a notice on the board like a normal person? I haven’t checked my email in…” He shakes himself loose, realizing that he is losing time.

Allen shrugs. “It’s the new way.” 

Steven marches over to him and hands him his phone.

“Uhh, you have to unlock it.”

Steven awkwardly punches out his passcode and hands it back to Allen who flips through some screens.

“Okay, you’re all set up. I made your password Steve1. You can change it if you want but should be easy to remember.” Allen nudges him with his elbow. Steven is dazed.

“You just have to log in and hit this button right here. Do the same when you leave.”

Steven looks at his phone. The time clock glares back at him. Punch in time: 8:03am. 

“Ho, ho! Eight-O-three. Now I’ve seen everything.”

Steven’s heart sinks. He floats over to the maintenance log and checks for any updates or route changes since his last shift.

“I got back early last night. Second time this month. No one at Cedar and Third and I was empty, so I just skipped the airport and headed back.” 

Steven’s head is still rolling around. He flips through the blank pages expecting the same when a block of text takes him by surprise. The log notes some planned construction on County Road 257 to start in a week to fix a sinkhole and that an alternate route would have to be planned. Steven sighs. It’s going to be a long day. A different day.

“I was going to leave early, but I figured might as well enjoy a cup of java on the clock.” Allen raises his mug. “By the way, there was a sinkhole that formed last night on 257 after I got back. County went out and sectioned it off but they said it’s safe to drive around.”

“Mmm,” Steven offers blankly.

––––

The bus is an old tank. It has been through the wringer time and time again, more patches than factory welds. Steven whips through his personal daily check sheet. Mechanics did a full assessment once a week, barring significant incidents, and cleared the bus for service, but Steven has been doing this too long to trust them. Tire pressure and tread, dirt, and a series of fluid levels, he decided, needed to be confirmed at the beginning of his shift. With the bus in the best shape it could be, he tucks the log back into the glove box and climbs into the driver’s chair. 

The seat is worn in the best way. The fabric has a handful of small tears exposing foam though the springs have succumbed to a perfect bounce, serenading an understated squeaking. Steven sits. He checks his watch. He’s late. The punch clock fiasco has put him three minutes behind which sends a bolt through his body. Quickly, he flips into gear and takes off, determined to make up the time.

––––

The route drives itself. Steven slips into his mind, letting his hands and right foot take charge. The sun begins heating up, forcing an expected glare through the windshield. He absently flips the visor into position and carries on. At 8:32 he pulls up to the airport and knocks a button on the dashboard, lifting the under bus storage. A line of people shuffles on, scanning their tickets on a terminal at the top of the stairs. A man and woman limp down the aisle to the back of the bus. Their bodies are weathered with travel, hair stiff with grease, bags, once tightly strapped, now slung haphazardly over various limbs. They slide into a seat and promptly collapse into each other. Another man, sporting a designer suit and earbuds, sits in the front row, directly behind him. Steven has a momentary fear that the man is going to try to talk to him the whole ride, but the man immediately sinks into his phone. Aside from the occasional social nod and a well-trained glance at the payment screen, Steven keeps his focus on the road ahead of him. Twelve passengers total. He checks through the mirror at the luggage doors, taps the button again, watches the doors close. Behind him, riders settle into their seats preoccupied by their phones. Steven pulls away. 

The road from the airport circles the campus before peeling off onto the perimeter of razed land set aside for future development. After a mile of barren grassland laden with the occasional parking lot and hangers, the edge of airport estate is lined with commercialism desperately beckoning incoming visitors. Service stations, hotels, and restaurant franchises press up against each other in a manufactured city. Beyond, trees spring up, reclaiming the distance between the airport commodities and the closest organic town. The hills start to roll in stride and a canopy of leaves and branches close in tighter, sprinkling the road with a painting of speckled light. As the miles pass beneath, the forest peters out to reveal industry. Buildings and fences whip by in a gray blur that Steven could draw a map of in his dreams. A semi truck pulls out from a lot to his left forcing him to veer slightly out of the way of its swinging bumper. The words “Back to Basics” flashes into his vision as the ad for an undergarment company along the side of the trailer picks up speed next to him. Soon, he slows to a crawl, bringing the bus off the road and around a tight bend into the first park-and-ride station. The private street for mass transportation was recently paved though Steven instinctually hugs the curb to avoid the now filled pothole to the left side of the entrance. It’s 9:07. The small shelter is empty today. With a long hiss of the air brakes, three passengers stand and shuffle off the bus off, grabbing their luggage from the undercarriage on the way out. One minute later, too late for running takers, Steven starts up again and makes his way back out to the road. 

The drill continues. 9:29, five off, six on. 9:34, two off, zero on. Then the long run. At 10:10 Steven approaches the furthest point on his route. Thirteen people climb aboard, residents from the distant towns, combining at the largest park-and-ride in the county. A pilot offers a greeting. Steven gives a subdued salute. With seven off, Steven double checks his number. Fourteen total. Luggage is secured and payments are collected. The route back to the airport circles wide along County Road 257 to hit four more stops before gassing up and starting round two of five.

Steven shifts into drive and maneuvers through the parking lot. Making the right turn onto the road, he slowly climbs up to speed. Three miles of poorly paved road stretches out ahead of him. The hashed yellow line to the left ticks along, bites of color taken from the sides, dribbles of crack sealer wind back and forth across the road. Steven follows the curling black strip with his eyes. At one-and-two-tenths of a mile down, the sealant circles back on itself in a pattern that Steven always thought looked like a flower. He passes it in stride. Dodging left to avoid a drainage grate, right to put a pot hole between the wheels, his mind wanders off to the distant hills. His hands know every minor adjustment, every bump to avoid, every turn and its optimal degree to enter and exit. It was the smoothest ride in the system. He has made sure of it. 

In the distance, the road rises for a brief stretch as it streams up a large hill. The bus trucks up the incline. Steven eases off the gas as he approaches the crest in expectation for the coming decline. Over the bluff, spread out ahead of him, the open farmland takes his breath. Rolling grass hills dotted with the occasional house or barn or silo—specks in the distance. At this time of year, the land is a deep warm green. A stray cloud drifts silently, indifferent. The horizon could be painted in color-block acrylic. This is his moment of respite. Though his routine is prided in perfection, this brief postcard of Earth gives him momentum. Despite the image being tattooed to his brain, real life seems to add vibrancy to the perpetually fading model. Days where the clouds have descended into the valley, leaving the top of the hill in a white fog, were as damning as the promise of death.

Steven takes in the moment and scans the road ahead unexpectedly, though the sight injects a venom of dismay. At the bottom of the slope, on the right side of the asphalt, a sinkhole dips about a foot and a half into the earth. Three cones stand in front of it with a sign directing traffic around it. To the left a significant crack expands off across the road. Steven guides the bus down the steep grade, switching in form between brake and engine. At the bottom of the hill, when he can normally ease off the brake and coast out onto the open road, Steven maintains his gradual deceleration, slowing to a crawl. 

The man in the suit peers over Steven’s shoulder as the bus continues to slow, decides that he had no bearing on the situation, and returns to his phone.

Steven eyes the hole on the right side of the road and redirects. On closer inspection, it seems that the amount of drivable road left of the sinkhole, including the shoulder, is barely wider than the wheelbase of the bus. He drifts the bus to the left and spins the wheel, leaning out his window to watch his tire. Creeping ever closer to the edge of the asphalt mindful of the steep dropping ravine that runs just off the shoulder. Loose gravel crackles loudly under the tires as the bus eases through. Something gives way and Steven’s stomach lurches.

Steven is driving down the road. Trees encroach around him in a tunnel of vibrant foliage. His head adjusts to a slight haze as his hands and feet conform autonomously to the bends through the hills. Ahead stretches miles of shaded asphalt with a speckling of sunlight fighting through the canopy. Steven’s body shudders lightly, and his foot jumps off the accelerator letting the bus coast for a moment. He blinks his eyes a few times trying to regain a semblance of reality. Seconds ago, the expanse of farmland stretched out ahead of him as he crept at a few miles an hour over broken terrain. Now he is hurling down a darkened road shrouded in the binds of a forest. The confusion twists his stomach into knots. He feels the light passing over him slow and realizes his foot is still off of the gas. Pressing back down, the bus picks up speed. In his passenger mirror, the riders carry on undisturbed, but something is wrong. The man in the suit is sitting directly behind him, still engulfed in his phone. In the back of the bus, the exhausted couple is slumped, haphazardly tangled in each other and the backpacks in their laps. A cowl of disorientation bares over him. His hands operate on sheer muscle memory as his head reels and his stomach turns. If his brain were driving, the bus would have crashed by now. Steven fades into a dizzying fugue state trying to figure out what happened. Ahead, Steven can see the beginnings of the industrial sprawl. As the bus brakes out into the passing buildings and fences, a semi-truck pulled out from a lot on the left side. Steven is jostled from his mind and jerks the steering wheel to the right to avoid the swinging bumper. The words “Back to the Basics” flash passed on the side of the trailer. 

It’s the same. It’s all the same. Steven spins through solutions, answers, rationales, anything. Maybe he is remembering yesterday’s route. He let his body take over completely as his mind races. As he pulls into the park-and-ride, he concludes that he must have drifted off to sleep for a brief moment and dreamt the rest of his route in the second or two he was unconscious. The theory is impossible but there is no other logical reasoning. The bus shelter is empty. As the air brakes hiss, three riders stand and shuffle off the bus. Steven takes a deep breath and tries to identify any of the leaving passengers as the same that left in his supposed dream. After so many years, they all bleed together. The passengers retrieve their bags and Steven carries on. 

He reaches the next stop and checks the time. The clock on the radio display reads 9:29. He checks his watch. 9:29. He pulls his phone from a slot on the dashboard. 9:29. Impossible. Five people get off, six get on. Steven tries to focus, tries to remember the numbers but his brain is still dancing around reality. His first stop after the airport is 9:29. But he already did that. His hands and feet reject the delay his mind is creating. At 9:34 he pulls into the next stop. Two riders off, zero on. It feels familiar. It feels like it could be the same but there is an internal refusal to commit. It was a dream, he reestablishes, the count could have been anything. I could have been wrong. The only number he was sure of was the final at the turn around. Fourteen. He was sure of that. 

The road is the same, but the road is always the same. Every house, every shop, the turns, the potholes, the cracks in the paint. Monday was Tuesday was Wednesday. Even the passing vehicles blur into the memory of a car. To discern a definitive difference demands deliberate focus. And now Seven is focusing. 

He makes note of everything. There are eight passengers on the bus. The sleeping couple and the man in the suit are easy to remember. Besides them is a family of four, two parents, and two young girls. One of the girls has pigtails. Pigtails. Steven shoves that into his memory. The last rider is an elderly woman. White hair, floral cardigan, could be anyone’s grandmother. She wears a necklace with a large gold cross that dangles over her blouse. At its center is a red gem. Sleeping couple, suit, pigtails, cross. Recorded. He redirects to the road and waits. Two minutes later, a car passes, and then another. A red sedan followed by a white panel van. He checks the bus’s clock. 9:50. Recorded. 

Twenty minutes later, Steven shifts into park at the furthest stop. The couple, the family, and the old lady disembark and a flurry of riders shuffle on and in a mass of limbs and bags. A pilot boards and gives a nod. Steven shudders. Pilots and flight staff rode frequently, he tries to convince himself this one is different, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his body he knows it’s the same. Steven tallies up the last people walking down the aisle. Final count, fourteen. His hands tremble as he shifts the gear and pulls off to the road.

Back on CR 257, Steven’s throat has dried out completely. He takes a sip of water but the problem runs deeper. This stretch of road, the lead up to the top of the hill, is normally mild elation, his anticipation for the view into the valley. Now, Steven is pitted with dread. A tightness swallows his chest and claws its way into his stomach. As the bus approaches the crest of the hill, he takes in the horizon, the dotted landscape of farm houses and rolling fields. A mix of agendas flood Steven. His right shoulder tells him to avert his eyes as long as possible, his left shoulder tells him to look straight down the hill. The left shoulder wins. At the bottom of the valley, a large sinkhole sits engulfing a chunk of the road sectioned off by three traffic cones. Steven’s chest squeezes tighter to the point that he feels light headed. Everything around him dims out of focus for a moment. He forces a deep breath and navigates down the hill slowly, cautiously. With the crevasse approaching, the bus comes to a crawl and navigates to the left of the sinkhole. He pushes through his doubts and checks the clock. 10:22. His mind wrestles with logic. The bus will drive across this crack. He’ll carry on with his route and with his life. At a steady creep, he aligns the wheels to squeeze through the narrow passage. The crackle of tires on loose gravel echoes in his head. And then something gives way and Steven’s stomach lurches.

He fights through the fog. A scattering of light passes over the windshield as the canopy of trees attempts to block out the sun. The road ahead weaves back and forth for the next three miles, and Steven’s hands negotiate each bend without command. His head dizzies with the sight in front of him. What should be open, beautifully manicured farms, is now a dense woodland. His heart palpitates with a mix of confusion, anger, and dismay. A glance at the clock confirms. 9:01. He clears his head, takes everything that is racing through him and shoves it somewhere else. His disorientation resolves to determination.

He pulls up to the station at 9:07. He counts, three off, none on. The next stop at 9:29, five off, six on. Each confirmation sitting heavier on his shoulders. And on he goes. As he pulls away from the next stop he checks his riders. The sleeping couple twists up in the back, the man in the suit indifferent to anything around him. The family of four talk amongst themselves, the little girl with pigtails laughing at a joke. And on the left side, the glimmer of gold from the hanging cross. Steven waits, eyeing the clock. At 9:50 he looks up, a red sedan passes him followed by a white van. 

At the furthest stop, the horde of passengers waits patiently to board. Steven takes his count as they climb the steps. The pilot nods his head and mutters a hello. Steven’s hand lifts in a wave of its own accord. His mind is elsewhere.

Once everyone is in position, fourteen riders by his count, Steven pulls out to the main road. He approaches the turn onto CR 257 and passes it by. This is the long way around. In a week, once the road crew comes around to fix the damage, this would be the detour. It’s nineteen minutes longer through local backroads, but eventually will dump him out just a few miles from his next stop. This route is less traveled and the last time Steven ran it was four years ago when a pileup on the highway led to an impromptu deviation. The bus hobbles down the road, turning off onto pavement that is almost as broken as the sinkhole on the main road. Bump after bump, Steven tries to avoid what he can but between the size of the bus and the unfamiliarity, his focus is battling annoyance. 

“What’s with the detour?” The man in the suit leans forward and gestures at the near dirt road ahead of them. 

“There is some road work on 257. It’s shut down.”

The man squinted his eyes in doubt. 

“I didn’t get any notice on that. What’s this detour going to cost us?”

“Oh maybe fifteen minutes or so. Not to worry.”

“Hmm.” The man sits back in his seat, skeptical.

Despite the attempts at monitoring the road, Steven’s mind drifts off. He wonders how long that crack had been there. How many other people have driven over it. Did the same thing happen to them? Such a large hole, why wasn’t the road shut down already? Maybe it has gotten worse since they first noticed it. Would the construction crew pass through? He spirals off but snaps himself back to reality checking the clock, 10:20. He rustles through his thoughts trying to convince himself that it was definitely the crack in the road that sent him back and not a larger clock reset. At 10:22, he found his eyes fixed more on the clock than the road. A few larger bumps broke him from his trance. When he looked back down to the time, it was 10:23. The road ahead continued on, undisturbed. Steven’s chest bounds from him. He slaps the steering wheel and breathes a heavy sigh of relief. 

––––

By the time he makes it to the next stop, he is twenty-four minutes late. What was touted as a nineteen minute delay did not account for the decreased speed an old weathered bus needed to travel at so as to not break an axle. Five people are at the station, some standing, some on the bench, one laid out on his luggage. Any elation Steven had is quickly overrun by an aggressive embarrassment. He opened the door to the very angry face of a woman and her timid daughter.

“You were supposed to be here at 10:45. It’s eleven…” She checks her watch. “11:09. We have a flight to catch.”

“I apologize, ma’am.” A crowd gathers behind the woman to hear the driver’s excuse. “There is some significant damage on the county road so we had to detour.” 

“Well, we didn’t get any notification about that. We planned our whole trip on you being here on time.”

“I will do the best I can to make up the time.”

The woman gives a harumph and climbed aboard with a violent roll of her eyes. The other passengers follow, clearly irritated though less abrasive.

“I thought you said it was a fifteen minute detour?” The man in the suit leans forward again.

Steven tightens his lips. “Yes, well, the road conditions forced me to slow a bit, but I will make up as much of it as I can.”

The man shakes his head and returns to his phone, undoubtedly spreading the word of his tardiness. Steven’s heart is breaking in stress.

The last three stops are more of the same. Passengers range from indifferent to livid. Steven offers the best apologies he can muster though every criticism digs at his core. He tries to speed between stops to cut down on his tardiness though he only regains about four minutes.

––––

Finally back at the airport, the passengers hustle off, some running for the door with the bags bouncing behind them. Steven makes his way to the bus depot and lines up in the usual spot. He runs through events in his head though the more he does, the more he wants to push it all out as a bad dream. With the bus parked and cleared, he hustles inside for a short bathroom break, but when he enters the break-room, he quickly finds out his boss has other plans.

“Where the hell were you?” Antonio is a generally angry, overweight, middle-aged man of touted Italian descent who chronically leans his weight on one of his consistently cylindrical arms. Now, he props himself up on the table in the center of the room. 

Steven tosses away the attack. “I had to detour around 257.”

“Why?”

Steven back-pedals immediately realizing that he was defenseless. There’s no way he would have known to avoid 257 unless he went there first and turned around, which would have been close to forty-five minutes. At twenty minutes, it would be hard to explain. 

“Well, I saw in the log that there was a sinkhole so I thought it would be safer to go around.”

“The area was cleared by the county. It’s fine. You can’t just decide to take a different route. I have complaints after complaints from people saying that you were twenty plus minutes late to their stops. One threatened to sue if they missed their flight.” Antonio spits as he speaks. 

“It’s my bus. I made a judgment on the safety of the passengers.” Steven escalates. “I apologized to the people on the damn bus. Now do your job and put out the notice that we’re taking the detour now.”

Antonio rolls his eyes. “Listen, Steve, I know you think you got some kind of tenure here but things can change real fast. Take the regular route or you’re getting moved to shuttle service.” He hefts himself to standing and waddles out of the room.

Shuttle service was the local airport route driving circles around the terminals, hotel, and parking lots. It was the same three mile loop, again and again. No open road, no fresh air, no grand view at the top of the hill. For Steven, it would be hell.

Antonio was a loose spring in the seat that dug into Steven’s ass on a daily agenda. As far as he was concerned, the sooner the man died of a coronary, the better. He uses the bathroom and trudges back out to his bus. The clock glares at him. One minute remains of his interoute break. He climbs into the cab and stares at the road in front of him with no idea what to. With no real plan, he takes off down the road making his way to the airport pick up.

Fifteen new faces climb aboard. No sleeping couple, no man in the suit, no pigtails, no golden cross.

––––

Three stops later, Steven, hesitantly confident in a new theory, is driving down CR 257. The hill rises ahead as a full bus of thirty-eight passengers rocks gently behind him. He pulls over the crest and the land spills out before him. Despite the stress, Steven’s mind clears briefly at the view. Sprawling beauty. The momentary reprieve comes crashing away as his eyes fall to the bottom of the hill. Down, a few hundred feet ahead, the crater of earth sits unchanged. A pit of gravel as violent as the pit in Steven’s chest. The three cones circled around the area offer a caution that he desperately feels he should heed. He lets off the gas and rides the brakes down the hill slower than normal, giving himself an extra few moments to survey the scene. To the left of the road is the ravine that dipped down three or four feet off the shoulder. It is a narrow squeeze to stay on the asphalt and if a wheel slipped, he could flip the bus in the matter of seconds. His eyes drift back and forth across the scene and suddenly catch. While the left shoulder drops into the deep ravine, the right side’s depression is not nearly as steep. There is, of course, a massive hole in the way, but out further, is at least twenty feet of what appears to be relatively flat ground between the asphalt and a fence marking private land. Steven rocks his head back and forth. To crawl off the road at the right angle so as not to hit the sinkhole would mean he needs to make a decision quickly. He decides to go for it.

The one miscalculation was the terrain off the road. From a distance it looked like generally flat grassland, but as Steven pulls the bus off the side of the highway, the transition from road to dirt is a further drop than expected. The entire vehicle is plagued with a violent shaking. He had slowed to only a few miles an hour in preparation but clearly that wasn’t enough. The tall grass hid the reality of mounded gravel and wide ravines that the bus now skitters over. All twenty-three people let out a chorus of confused murmurs and gasps, sprinkling a few sneers on top of it all. Steven white knuckles the steering wheel as he approaches the sinkhole, for the first time passing him on the left. The calls of concern bounce off his shoulder and ricochet around the bus, though never make it to his ears. With each foot closer, Steven leans further over the wheel,  unsure if he is bracing for the jump in time or someone to rip him from the seat and take over. Every pothole, manhole cover, and sewer grate he has ever missed is tallying up right now. As the front tire creeps past the sinkhole, he lines up his eyes with the crack off to his left and accelerates through. 

Steven opens his eyes, unaware that he had closed them. The rattling continues as the bus awkwardly skids over loose dirt, its wheels dropping intermittently into invisible divots. Ahead, the dotted farmland welcomes warmly, its stalks of corn waving him in, its rows of cabbages a runway. Steven could feel his breath stutter and though the man in the suit behind him is yelling obscenities in his ear, there is nothing on his mind other than bliss. A tire caught a bad angle. The bus lurched to the right throwing patrons and baggage into the windows and tipping the bus momentarily onto two wheels. Steven snaps back and spins the steering wheel, accelerating into the lean, and dropping the bus back down into stability. He quickly cuts back to the road, crawling through the grass until all four tires are safely planted on manicured asphalt. The riders are nearing a riot.

“So sorry about that ladies and gentlemen. It appears there is some significant damage to the road and the only way around is a little bumpy.” Steven calls out over the commotion though only the people in the front of the bus can hear him. 

“What about the whole left-hand side of the road?!” A woman shouts from the middle of the bus though Steven can not identify who is speaking. 

He yells louder in hopes to silence the crowd. “Sinkholes are dangerous. The road to the left could have been hollow underneath which would have put us in a real pickle.” He smiles broadly as he speaks. The elation returns and his mouth cycles though apologies and excuses absently. 

Gradually, people sit into their seats, jaded, angry, and bruised, though content to be on with it. Steven pulls up to his next stop exactly on time and passengers shuffle on and off. He nods in greetings, even tosses out the occasional hello to the oncomers while shaking off the poisonous glances of the people disembarking. The following three stops are as routine as yesterday, whenever that was, and Steven gives a wave to the last person as they climb down the steps and wander off to their terminal. 

Sitting at the pump, he details out the plan. If he can hug the sink hole tightly, it may be less bumpy and after a few trips he would know what spots to avoid. He only had to keep it up until someone came in and fixed the road. Maybe a preliminary message to the passengers about what was going on wouldn’t hurt either. He tightens his lips and pats the bus on the siding.

“There you are! Why the hell are you getting gas? You’ve only done one circle. What the hell has gotten into you?”

Steven jumps from the shock. As he turns, Antonio comes barreling around the back of the bus. Steven has been working for the airport bus service for forty-six years, he has never seen Antonio move this fast. Steven is dumbstruck. He always gets gas after the third run but now he is realizing it’s only been two. 

“I have reports of you driving off the road!? Someone said you almost tipped over the bus?”

Antonio rests a hand on the bus, clearly out of breath from the aggravated walk over.

“The report in the log. There’s a sinkhole on CR257. I had to avoid it.”

“I know about the damned sinkhole. It’s fine. The county checked it this morning.”

Steven disconnects the pump from the bus and throws up a dismissive hand, walking back to the door. “County doesn’t know a damned thing.” 

“Going out off route, off road. It’s too much Steven.” Antonio follows nipping at his heels. “I don’t know if you’re going senile or what but I think it’s time we either move you on over to the shuttle or you start looking at your retirement.”

Steven whips around suddenly with the agility of a man forty years younger. Anger floods his eyes. The tip of his tongue burns with the words parading from his mind and then, with the flip of a switch, he hesitates and peacefully resigns.

“I’m sorry, Antonio. I promise it won’t happen again.” He drops his head in submission.

Antonio slings open his mouth in anticipation of the dual but chokes on the response. This was new. He dials back. “I have threats of lawsuits. I have to do something.”

“Oh, come on.” Steven snaps but again pulls it in and tries to reason. “You know those never come to fruition.”

Antonio dances lightly on this new version of Steven. “You never know. I need to appease the crowd here.”

Steven takes a step closer, coming eye to eye with Antonio. Years ago Steven was almost a head taller than Antonio, now after years of slowly shrinking, he was just above eye level. He racks through the possibility of telling him the truth, though quickly realizes that after an accusation of growing senile that it might not be the best course. He pivots.

“Antonio.” He clasps his hands together. “How long have I been working here?”

Antonio rocks his head back and forth, letting Steven know that he knows where this is going.

“How long, Antonio?”

“I don’t know. Longer than I have.”

Steven’s lips curl into a small smile. “I’ve never had any problems. This was a unique event. A miscalculation on my part. I understand the mistake that I made. Please.” He places his hand on his chest, a calculated display of sincerity. “It won’t happen again.”

Antonio lets out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know.” He looks at the ground, weighing emotion and logic. 

Steven keeps his eyes focused, waiting for the return of eye contact to deliver the final punch. Antonio falls into it.

“Alright, alright.”

Steven clenches his fists and lunges forward throwing his arms around Antonio in a tight hug. 

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Antonio shrugs him off.

“I promise. Back to the routine.”

Antonio nods his head and waddles off in confusion. “Last chance there, Steve.”

Steven’s beaming smile slowly fades into a melancholy determination. He climbs aboard the bus and eases into the driver’s seat. He takes inventory. The subtle squeak of the chair sings its prelude. The warm wood of the wheel is smooth under his worn hands. A faint smell of gasoline, oil, and lemon scented cleaner wafts through the air. He tightens his lips and feels the weight of the transmission as he shifts into gear. 

At the airport stop a new batch of riders shuffle aboard, sleepy faces, distracted eyes. Steven greets them each in turn. He pulls away, off to the route he could drive looking only at his feet. A turn here, a shift there, the smoothest ride in the country. 

A few stops later, the bus trucks up the approach to the hill, a promise of beauty on the other side. As he crests the top, his valley spills out in front of him, the rolling fields dotted with perfect farms under the crystal sky. It was truly a perfect day. Steven eases off the gas and coasts down the decline, delicately taunting the break as he approaches the bottom. The sinkhole, once menacing, lies with quiet promise. It’s guardian cones standing sentry to welcome him past. At a crawl, he shifts to the left and creeps over the solid ground. Something gives way and Steven smiles, adding the maneuver to his routine.