Hail to The Bus Driver
written by: Aaron Grierson
The diesel engine roars to life, coughing a sulfur cloud into the morning air. The 57 bus pulls out of the City Centre terminal at 8:04am with esteemed precision. Slick white and green and freshly washed, the bus looks brand new, despite being almost five years old. Approaching the intersection of Majesty Boulevard and the bus depot, lights green, the driver gives no thought to looking in either direction. Instead, he’s admiring the blooming magnolias which line the far side of the street.
A sudden thud brings his world back into focus. He feels the passengers flinch uneasily at the satisfying crunch under the front tire. Sean the Driver, known to many fellow Drivers as the only Irishman in the Union, tweaks the wheel slightly before stepping on the gas. The second crunch is even more satisfying than the first. He lazily pushes two buttons under his dashboard as he steers the bus through a yellow light and onto the bus route proper. The first keeps tally of his hits – a best practice, since the dashcams have middling success rates of being useful. The second will summon a crew of Cleaners to ensure the mess doesn’t cause any delays. It’s a mandate from the City Council that Sean figures is just another box on the daily checklist.
Some passengers shake their heads at the scene; a young girl looks as though she’ll be sick. The pregnant woman who takes this bus every day at the same time seems tranquil as always, as though the death of others was part of Nirvana. That was a faith Sean could get behind – one that accepts the inevitability of the end of life and encourages the distribution of Darwin Awards.
“Oh no,” Sean mutters. His head was so far up those trees that he felt like a squirrel that was afraid of heights.
He completely forgot to get a profile of the latest accident for the monthly draw. Squinting into his side mirror, he catches flecks of bleached blonde hair, a broken pump, and naturally tanned skin around a poorly fitting floral dress. He could check the rake at the front of the bus afterwards for any accessories that got stuck. These rakes are large, metal contraptions that mount in front of the bike racks. Designed to ramp downward, they help ensure that any object contacting the bus gets pushed under the tires.
Sean quickly scribbles all that onto a sticky note before turning right onto Divers Parkway. It pays to be able to verify which collisions you were a part of. Especially since the novelty of this Law wore off.
Before, everyone and their children were snapping pictures, capturing video, and talking vlogs about literally every collision. Now, almost no one pays attention. Sure, the Union accepts video clips to go on the Great Hits of social media platforms, but they stopped getting big views a long time ago. News stations are more likely to borrow them than influencers are to share or repost them. Even the annual City photo competition rarely features collisions.
A soft ding alerts him to someone requesting a stop.
Moments later, he pulls the bus over into the next stop. Sean cringes as he makes eye contact with a cross-dresser in their early to mid-40’s, or so he’s willing to bet. Spontaneous eye contact always makes Sean uncomfortable. He smiles automatically as three other people board. The last passenger embarking grabs Sean’s attention – long legs in tightly fitting black pants, a slender waist, and a smile that resembles a drunk shark.
He’s a beanpole of a man, probably trades stocks on the black market or something. He struts towards the back of the bus like a lost cock through a henhouse. A kind word to the pregnant lady who doesn’t even turn down the volume of her music before planting himself across from the young girl. Sean can’t tell if Toothy is inspecting his shoe for dirt or trying to look up her skirt. Finished silently judging passengers, he flicks on his personal radio, and merges with traffic.
Now, in addition to being one of the most polite, punctual bus drivers, Sean is a trivia expert. He always laughs thinking about Divers Parkway because of how subtly sensical it is for a city that’s completely landlocked without so much as a river running through it. Sean is privy to the forgotten knowledge that it was once a desperate cry for attention, depressed citizens often leaping to the concrete below. The old skyscrapers with easy roof access were too tempting, it turned out. Yet they still stand. He remembers too how there was a brief period in the winter that ‘judges’ would often gather and rate the performance of the hapless divers as they plunged to their death. He always felt it was odd that citizens needed to express their opinions so strongly.
The sport lasted about two weeks before arrests were made, and by-laws drafted. Then came the counselling and the classes and the pledges at the suggestion of the Union, even though most judges were just random people. The City couldn’t bear the thought that its citizens took joy in and made sport of the tragedy of others. Sean thought it was a drag but knew it was practical – not only for the employees, but it made the Union look good too, and good publicity always helps. Another three stops went by, a few people on, a few people off. It was always like this: most people were in for the long haul, the final destination, and the Southern Mall.
For commuters or those working in Transit, the Southern Mall is well known. It has connections to the local Colleges, the Waterpark, and the Airport. It also straddles the municipal border with Hapsburg, a city primarily known for housing the richest of the rich in this part of the country, denizens getting snobbier and more careless with every passing day.
And Sean loves it.
Whoever runs the 57 or the 32, especially in the morning, typically produces the best numbers, but also the blandest accidents. Shifts were supposed to be random and equitably scheduled, but Sean has a feeling he always keeps to himself – that some people influenced the route selections.
The Union always preaches quality over quantity, while expecting Drivers to clip seconds off their routing average, as though they controlled traffic and the weather. The Union is nothing if not optimistic on this front. All the buses made in the last few years are durable metal, with reinforced frames to ensure minimal lasting damage. And they’re not always lighter – that’s the expensive stuff.
Besides, the Union constantly reminded Sean and his colleagues that they weren’t there as population control. It was always more of a workplace efficiency that the City bought into. Years ago, everyone, even elderly, senile citizens were cutting buses off, crossing while “DON’T WALK” signs glared the jaywalkers down. So, it was proposed and unanimously accepted that Bus Drivers were not to be penalized in the event of a ‘collision’ with a pedestrian who was not in the right of way. Only Bus Drivers, too. The Union saw that no taxi or rideshare companies were allowed in on this deal. They are the opposition!
The Union’s idea to hold competitions was an incentive to wash away the pangs of guilt Drivers felt in the early days. They were simply doing their jobs and could only obey and uphold the law as far as their bodies were able. The arrogant people from Hapsburg made not feeling guilty easy. They often found themselves underneath the tires of buses. Not their city, not their laws, or their sense of entitlement.
Traffic slows as they approach the Mall. The streets are packed with cars, sidewalks filled with those without day jobs.
‘It’s a wonder the ladies of the evening look as young as they do, with so little sleep,’ Sean muses. Not that the local High School being minutes down the road helped. Anyone skipping first period was out right about now.
Waiting for the traffic to clear through a green light, Sean enjoys the rays of sunlight peeking through his side window. The early days of spring were getting hotter. Foot on the gas, he begins to bounce slightly to the beat of some funky tune on the Radio’s 80’s Revival station. One of the perks of being a Driver was the subscription Radio, paid for wholly by their Union dues.
Sean is still bouncing when the next stop’s passengers board, several giving him strange or concerned looks as they asked for transfer passes. Moving back into traffic, he makes eye contact with the Driver of the 57 across the road, heading back towards the City Centre. In greeting, Sean offers a slight nod and less than enthusiastic wave. Greg, his bushy blonde hair puffed up like a knock-off movie star, smiles thinly, barely acknowledging Sean before pulling his bus through the intersection.
Sean growls in his throat, clenching a fist around the steering wheel. Greg is such an irritating little weenie, never treating the other drivers with any respect, as though his day job was an act and not a full-time lifestyle commitment. It made things worse that Greg got the 57 more often than anyone else, which artificially boosted his numbers.
Once, Sean thought about raising unfairness to the Union about it, before he heard about Bertha, who had gone to her superiors to complain about favoritism. No one has seen her since.
Adolescent grunting brings Sean out of his thoughts. Two boys near the back of the bus are having a scuffle over one of the girls near them. Sean turns towards the back of the bus, shoulders craning around the ergonomic driver seat.
“Hey, you two! Step up or step off!” He shouts, feeling satisfactorily bad ass with his one-liner.
The two boys don’t even pause, and continue to wrestle one another in their seats, grunting with the use of their undeveloped muscles. Several people now watch, amused to see what the winner does. Sean sighs, ready to turn around again, but is more concerned about traffic as they enter the Mall’s laneways.
Before he can do anything, the object of their affection gets up and smacks each boy’s nose with a closed fist, before storming back to her seat. Several people applaud the young girl for showing those pesky boys that she’s not a trophy, but an Alpha. The only one who disapproves is the baby who starts to cry, their father glued to his phone.
Sean pulls his bus into the dedicated stopover area, clearly marked by a sign in cursive marked “57” with a list of departure times that’s about a month out of date. The schedules change regularly due to efficiencies, seasons, and any other reason the Union sees fit, even when they don’t make sense. Sean figures it’s mostly to keep the Paper Mill’s Union busy. The two boys flip him the bird before stomping off the bus. Sean can’t tell if it was a pigeon or a parakeet.
An instant after the bus is empty, people begin piling on, many arms full of shopping bags, even though it’s only just after ten in the morning. The crowd smells of a cacophony of sample stinks from the various stores. Sean’s fake smile is in place, transfers at the ready. He wonders how long it will be before transfers are a thing of the past, since many passengers use those tap cards now. 10:08 silently strikes, and Sean rolls the bus out of the busy Mall, eyes on the stoplights.
Green means go, and Sean’s coasting the bus out of the Mall lot. The sun has fallen behind some clouds, and Sean feels his stomach rumble, demanding something fresher than his 6am breakfast. Rounding onto Main Street, he feels rather empty, not having had a single opportunity to clip someone. And then it hits him.
Or rather, the bus hits them, crushing the pedestrians and jostling everyone on the bus like a giant pothole. Sean flinches, worried he zoned out while thinking about food. He quickly confirms the crosswalk states “DON’T WALK,’ which it does. He sees an upended baby carriage bouncing a few feet in front of the bus and frantically checks his mirrors for his statistics. He sighs in relief, seeing the distinguishable figures of a man and a woman splattered on the ground, blood blending with the tarmac. Continuing out of the Mall, he taps his dashboard buttons with a sigh.
Gay couples are such bad publicity. Especially when they have children.
Of course, the City fully promotes equal rights amongst all citizens, gay marriage having been legalized over a decade ago. The City even ensures equal wages amongst all municipal offices and any franchises within its borders. Corporations, unfortunately, care little for the City’s legislature, relying instead on their archaic internal policies.
Sean coughs at the first whiff of shit. Must have been a few dirty diapers in the buggy. These passengers are far less moved than the last batch, which helps calm Sean’s nerves a little. Babies are always iffy in the monthly contests, but they’re usually worth bonus points. Some people think it’s in bad taste, others feel devolving into arguments about birth rates and global population is in worse taste. He yawns at the thought – a sign of his allergic reactions to political debates. It always made voting for the Union’s Employee Board difficult since he can barely keep awake. So, he does what any wise person does, votes for their friends, or at random if none are running.
Sean floors it through a yellow light, swinging over a lane to hit the next bus stop. Some jerk in a big, empty pick-up lays on the horn, cutting in front of the bus before slamming on the brakes. Sean’s bus is already stopped, unloading an antique married couple. Part of Sean thinks handholding at eighty is just so darned cute, the other part of him snickers as the pick-up driver looks like an idiot to everyone else within earshot.
Pulling up to the red light at the corner of Parkway Drive and Avenue Road, Sean feels a headache coming on. Looking to his right, he sees Samantha driving the 22. He smiles and waves enthusiastically, she does the same, her dyed teal hair in a topknot. He catches a glimpse of the same headache in Samantha, knowing there’s something wrong with this intersection. It’s like aliens named it to troll the good citizens of this fine City. That, or at some point a century ago, someone got really drunk and picked street names out of a hat.
“Avenue Road, really?” he mutters.
Sean waves again as the lights finally change, accelerating the bus towards its next destination. Samantha is an awkward, skinny lady who sometimes sits with Sean on their lunch breaks. He knows she paints in her free time, and has an Etsy, whatever that is. She regularly dyes her hair bright colors to disguise her Scottish roots, which Sean thinks is a shame, but she always manages to look nice in whatever color she picks.
He also knows Sam can drink a lot of guys under the table on Billiards Night, too, while maintaining a respectable win/loss ratio. He stares down at the wheel for a few seconds, embarrassed; she hates being called Sam, because it reminds her of Gamgee, someone she once described as ‘a short pain in the arse.’
At the next stop, a few people board the bus, including a rather angry-looking mother, but no one else really stands out.
“Good morning, Mister Bus Driver,” a faint voice greets Sean. He looks around, finally looking down in front of the coin terminal. A pixie of an Indian girl stands there with a fairy grin on her face.
“Oh, hello there, little girl,” he says, scanning for the corresponding parent.
“My name is Ravindra, but my friends call me Ravi,” she explains.
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Ravi. I’m Sean,” he replies, tapping his name tag. Continuing to scan the passengers, he locks eyes with Angry Mom, and understanding stings him like a bee. Overbearingly protective, she’s watching, like a bear ready to crush him.
“I’m just wondering, Mister Bus Driver, why do you hit people?” Ravi asks.
“I haven’t hit anyone since my college days,” Sean replies honestly as he pulls the bus away, gently.
Ravi crosses her arms, “With your bus, silly!”
Sean chuckles, “It’s Union policy. Although I’d say people hit the bus because they’re doing something illegal. We bus Drivers are sort of like police that way. The City has given us permission to deal with the… criminals that way. They walk into the street when they’re not supposed to. The Union and the City both agree,” Sean explains.
“Does that mean you steal people’s drugs and get high too?” Ravi asks, a little more excitedly.
Sean laughs with several passengers, “Haven’t done that since college either. Just think of bus Drivers as protecting other drivers out there. We are trained to deal with collisions. Imagine if your mom hit someone. You could be traumatized. Or hurt!” Sean exclaims, waving his right hand.
Ravi rolls her eyes, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Sean looks towards the mother for a reaction, simultaneously trying to avoid eye contact as a way of steeling his nerves.
It doesn’t work, and he deflates.
“Well, always remember to look both ways before you cross the street, and look for the little light man, he lets you know it’s your turn,” Sean says.
Bored, Ravi joins her mother. Shaking his head, Sean returns attention to the road.
As the bus approaches the next intersection, Sean spots someone dressed in a purple chicken costume, sporting a generic-looking jersey, casually walking through a red light. The cars in the left lane all slow down. Sean revs the bus’s engine but plays it cool. These birdbrains are the only folks Drivers ever hesitate around; they just might be a legitimate mascot for one of the local sports team.
The person turns toward the bus, and Sean feels as though the chicken is staring into his soul with those giant, beady eyes. A single drop of sweat drips from his brow as he stares ahead, knowing that while he’s a hero, he’s not heroic. Several seconds drag on as he attempts to discern whether this jaywalking fowl is goading him into the most dangerous game, or a legit, foolish mascot.
To cut costs, the City made each of the municipal teams use the same mascot. ‘One City, One Brand,’ the Mayor had said. Sean is confident, judging by the crooked beak, that this is a knock-off costume. Thankfully, the noise from the engine was enough to get the purple avian waddling across the road before he had to hit the brakes. He sighs inwardly, relieved he didn’t have to take that chance.
Traffic thins out with commuters off the road, and the ride is uneventful. They enter the City Centre to a chorus of honks, as is the tradition of Drivers. Sean waves enthusiastically at almost every Driver as he pulls the bus into the roundabout, which precedes the terminal. Sean loves this part of the ride. Passengers hate it, though, even those seated are holding on for their lives around the perpetual bend. After two laps, only half waiting for his turn, Sean pulls in and parks the bus.
Standing and stretching, Sean thanks the passengers as they disembark. Ravi and her mother exit at the front of the bus, despite sitting near the back. Ravi runs out of the bus, sounding like a plane. Her mother turns to Sean.
“Thank you for putting up with my daughter earlier, and for your wise words. I know she can be a handful.”
“All in a day’s work, ma’am,” Sean nods as she leaves the bus.
Sean stands outside the closed bus doors, waiting for Adrienne to take over his shift. Sean checks his phone, noting several updates on Social Media, but is more interested in the time. Nearly lunch time, and Adrienne has five minutes. Bored and feeling peckish, Sean polishes the mirrors, though they’re only a little smudged since there’s no real wind today.
Adrienne is part French, but also very Asian. Sean always figured she looked like a Korean mom, but most of his experience with any Asian cultures is either sushi or the anime from his youth, so he’s never sure. Either way, she’s sharp and a little mysterious. Never says much but always manages to do well in the monthly contests.
Adrienne saunters up from the central building, looking like she was fresh out of the package, glinting in the sun. Sean never understood how someone can be so precise in their cleaning, clothing, or otherwise.
“Don’t have too much fun,” Sean says as he passes her the keys. Adrienne laughs.
Her laugh is very stiff, like her collar.
“I’d never, Sean,” she says before stepping into the bus.
Walking into the Union building, Sean immediately misses the sunshine. Their dispatch building is always so dim, cool, and smelling faintly of different fake trees, but at least there’s lunch.
Today’s meal is salivation-worthy, too. He’s got a smoked salmon on potato bread, which he made himself, a pile of berries, and a head of broccoli. Nodding at several other Drivers, he continues through the halls. At one point, he nearly bumps into some senior Member of the Board, who seemed very busy, consumed by serious cat videos on the Internet.
Sean enters the cafeteria. It’s warmer already, maybe due to the number of people present. He scans the tables, unable to locate his lunchmates, so he steps over to his locker first, bringing his lunch out carefully.
“Hey, Mohammed!” Sean shouts. Four men turn in his direction.
One of them waves back, “Ey, Potato Man!”
Sean starts walking over in his direction with a grin. He knows it’s a little disrespectful, but it’s just so entertaining.
“I thought you were fasting this week! What brings you to the watering hole?” Sean asks as he scrapes a chair across the aging linoleum, plopping down.
Mohammed smiles, “Oh, I am fasting, my friend. I simply felt like being around my peers while I relax. So you’ll see me here every day despite fast, I imagine.”
“Just don’t overdo it, eh? Don’t want to hear about you fainting on the job!” Sean says before unwrapping his lunch.
“Of course, my friend. I’m no stranger to fasting. Besides, I have water, and it’s not nearly so hot as home,” Mohammed replies. Sean gingerly unpacks his lunch and digs in.
***
For Sean, lunch hour passed by in a blink. A delicious, nutritious, homemade blink.
The rest of his shift is spent on Route 26, regretting missed opportunities, and wondering how a PhD like Mohammed winds up driving a bus in this City. Or how that man can fast for a week at a time for 12 hours a day. Rebelling at the very thought, Sean’s stomach gurgles.
The highlight of Sean’s afternoon was a twenty-minute lecture by some zealot passenger who rambles between two stops about how bus Drivers should leave the culling of the unworthy to the Grace of God, because it would illuminate the True Path for the Believers and ultimately lead to a better world. All without specifying which God, or even if it is a capital-G god.
They failed to explain, or give Sean a chance to ask, how exactly that works when God allows children to starve and entire cities across the globe to be swallowed by land and sea. Or, more importantly, how the Union would fit into the True Path, because the Leaders would need to know before tabling a vote.
Instead, they ran off the bus at some small stop on the outskirts of Little Italy, leaving Sean alone with his thoughts. After that, none of the passengers even said hello to him.
Mentally done with today, he thinks back on two missed opportunities. Sometimes, jaywalkers pay attention. Collisions are important; they’re educational, considering that the Union tracks the figures and releases the statistics periodically for the wider public.
Feeling disheartened by checkout time, Sean hopes to slink in and out of debrief, unnoticed by his superiors. Sean hates feeling like this; the good times are always amazing, the brightest of days. The bad times rock him like a hurricane.
Sean enters the Spartan Union Town Hall, and finds it already packed with the other day-shift Drivers. It’s only 4:53pm, per the blaring black clock on the wall. It sticks out from the beige walls like anything comfortable in the building. Everyone mills about in muted tones, generally agreeing that while apple tastes best and has the highest versatility, peach has the broadest appeal. At 4:59, one of the Shift Leaders steps out from an office, up toward the podium with a Union Board member right behind.
“Good afternoon everyone, I trust you’re all doing well. Our Daily Report contained no complaints, and no serious service delays. These are both good, since we’re nearing the end of our Quarter.” The Shift Leader pauses as someone tries to sneak in through the creaky door at the back of the room.
The Shift Leader gives them the slinkiest glare Sean has ever witnessed in his five years as a bus Driver.
“Ahem.”
“As I was saying-” The Shift Leader starts again, only to be interrupted by another employee ‘sneaking’ into the room. The Shift Leader is starting to look like a bull, all red eyes, and flared nostrils. Sean recognizes the latest entrant as Tam, from the call center. Sean shakes his head, but only for a second, so he doesn’t get caught and yelled at. Punctuality was never one of xir strengths.
The Shift Leader pauses, blinking and breathing unhealthily deep, holding it. Sean watches the clock, aching as the seconds pass in the awkward silence. Exactly one minute passes by as the Leader exhales.
“Now then, as I was trying to say, it has been decided that, in addition to our usual monthly competitions, we will begin doing random quarterly draws for extra prizes. A ballot will be earned for any noteworthy reductions in your route timers based on monthly averages, or a suggestion put to the Board to help us reduce waste, or particularly Noteworthy Collisions.”
Everyone waits with bated breath as the Shift Leader drinks deeply from a fresh bottle of Clear-View water.
‘The only brand where what you see is what you get!’ The jingle rings through Sean’s mind, and he waggles a finger to the tune. It’s amazing they can cram all those nutritional facts on a transparent label.
“That is why,” the Shift Leader says after several gulps, “Nate from Head Office is here to help us kick off this new initiative!” he motions to the still body behind him.
Everyone applauds quietly, knowing the drill for whenever someone from Head Office is introduced. To the crowd of Drivers, Nate looks like he’s not good for anything more complex than a pocket protector.
Nodding curtly, Nate shakes a canvas bag full of paper.
“The first-ever Quarterly Draw Winner is a big one! For sixty-nine Noteworthy Collisions, the most across the City for the last quarter, and third highest count in the last two years, let’s hear it for… Sean O’Finneagh!” For all the Drivers knew, Nate didn’t get the memo that it was spring. He sounded more stuffed up than a five-year-old at a germ convention.
“Nice!” several young men shout from the back, quickly shushed by their Shift Leader.
Nate’s near enthusiasm is drowned as Sean flushes, and crumples to the floor, retching amid a wave of nausea.
Cheers from his colleagues were lost to Sean as he rolled in a sea of indigestion.
Had he really undercooked the potato bread?
- Hail to The Bus Driver - March 18, 2026
- Blood Moon - October 28, 2023
