I looked down at my watch and glanced up the busy street. Pulling my jacket a little closer, I wondered for the third time why summer ever had to give way to winter. I had worked for the J. Morris Insurance Company for eight years, and I always found waiting for the 5:15 express a little easier when it was warm and sunny outside. The weather had always helped distract me from the less pleasant things about my life-including the miserable old man who drove the bus that took me home. I grimaced as I thought about seeing Mr. Sawyers again. On more than one occasion, the old bat had driven away while I was running toward the door of the bus. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it was nearly impossible to do.
I sighed, and hid my hands in my pockets to warm them a little. Right then, I knew all I needed was to go home to my wife and two kids in the Greene Village complex. Hopefully, Joanne would be in a better mood than she was yesterday. My boss kept me working late on one of his million new financial projects, and when I walked into the house tired, broken, and beaten, all she wanted to know was why we couldn't buy a new car until next year. The argument lasted nearly three hours, and by midnight, I was so exhausted that I collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep. I shook my head as I remembered how I overslept, and nearly missed that morning's fiscal meeting. If I hadn't moved as quickly as I did, I would have had to face another tongue lashing from my overly critical boss.
The familiar screech of hydraulic brakes broke me out of my reverie, and I looked up to see the 5:15 approaching the stop. The four or five other people began milling around the corner, and the city vehicle pulled to a stop. I picked up my briefcase and began to walk toward the door, but when the door opened, an unfamiliar voice greeted us: "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is the 5:15 for Greene Village, Smith Gardens, and all points in between." The deep, soothing contralto was a welcome change from the brash, high-pitched bark I was so used to.
I was surprised to find myself feeling better. I filed forward, fumbling for my token. Stepping up onto the bus, I kept looking for my token, and then realized that in my rush to leave the house that morning, I forgot my bus token. As I got to the top step and looked up to face the driver, I know my mouth must have fallen open. Growing up in the south left a sweet spot in my soul for heavyset women, and the bus driver made me catch my breath. She looked up at me, and I forgot I was looking for a token. Her eyes were deep brown, and her skin was a shade or two darker than caramel. She had dimples, and those dimples framed her smile like mountains frame a sunset.
She smiled at me, brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, and asked, "Are you lost, sir?" I felt the warmth of embarrassment flooding up my neck and into my face. I stammered, "No- no, I just forgot my token." She turned toward me, and I couldn't help noticing the heavy curves shifting beneath her blue city uniform. I stole a glance at the "V" where her button down shirt met her skin. There was a neat dark line bisecting that letter "V" and deepening further into the protection of her shirt. I kept looking in spite of the little voice in my head that told me I was married, and discovered a knee length black pleated skirt. As I studied her, I felt a different kind of warmth moving through my body and settling in a very familiar place. Looking back, I think it was probably then that I decided I had to get to know her a little bit better.
Smiling up at me, she asked, "Where are you headed?"
I replied, "Greene Village. I promise I can pay tomorrow. But, I also know you have to do your job, so if--"
"Honey, don't even complete that sentence. You just stay here and ride as long as you want."
Relieved beyond words, I replied, "Thank you. Where is Mr. Sawyers?"
"Oh, haven't you heard? He decided on early retirement, and I'm the new driver for this route. "
And not a moment too soon, I thought to myself. I told the new driver, "Thank you," and turned to find a seat. While I was turning, I heard the quiet rustle of silk against silk as she moved her legs beneath the steering wheel. Thankfully, there were a few vacant seats near the front of the bus, and I sat in one where I hoped the driver and I could have a little more conversation. As she made the short trip between downtown and Greene Village, I learned her name was Sharon Yvonne Cole, and that she was 28 years old. As we talked, I learned that she was finishing her last year in college because she took a few years off to begin raising her child.
Before I knew it, we had pulled up to the bus stop at Greene Village. It was then that something unusual happened. I looked over at the Greene Village homes, and could make out my house, the windows, and even see that my wife's car was at home. It was evening, and judging from the lights on inside the house, the kids were home as well. I moved to stand up from my seat, but discovered that my legs wouldn't respond. Instead, I opened my briefcase, and picked up my cellular phone. Activating it, I tapped MEMORY 1 to call my house. My wife picked up the phone:
"Hello?"
"Hi hon, it's me."
"Where are you? I thought I asked you to come home early this evening! Don't tell me you're working late! I'm about sick and tired of trying to do all this by myself. It's not like you're making a million dollars an hour or anything. Go ahead and stay at that damn job as long as you want! Just don't wake the kids or me when you get home. "
