The Bus Ride Home

The Bus Ride Home

I stood in the glass bus shelter as it drizzles all around me. The water dripped steadily off the corners of my plastic confinement into the shallow bowl that was made by the grooves of the sidewalk. I was patiently waiting for my ride; for a vehicle to come and haul me off to the safeties off my room, where the smells of the exotic spices from my mother’s kitchen, mixed with the chemical scents of the various hair products lining the top of my dresser.

But, until then, I would continue to stand in this plastic confinement of mine, watching the seconds pass by like dreary strangers ambling their way home after a long day at work. The water started to flood into my weak bus shelter. The water soaked into my shoes, and then was sucked up by my cotton white socks. It was not a pleasant feeling.

I looked into the distance and saw the twinkling of the bus’ headlights, reflected off the wet asphalt. I scurried up the steps, and after depositing my bus ticket, slouched into a seat at the back of the bus.

Various personalities made their way on and off of the bus. An over expressive young man from a history class I was once in made his way onto the bus. He sat in the aisle in front of me, and after barely a minute, he turned around, elbow resting on the back of his seat. A question is asked, and I unenthusiastically answer. He failed to notice that I was uninterested in pointless chatter at the moment; a long day at school, followed by a wet wait at the bus stop can do that to a person.

Continuously chattering, this young man tried to squeeze a great deal out of me. What had my mark been? His fell somewhere in the eighties range. Had I enjoyed the teacher? He had loved the teacher, partially because she was young and pretty. Finally this young flamboyant man made decided to make his departure, and I was, once again, left slouching in my seat the back of the bus, staring out of the rain-stained window.

The cars sped past the bus, cutting through the rain puddles, like a knife cuts through an overly ripe tomato. My pseudo-limo finally braked at the place which I had planned to make my exit. I spat out a simple word of gratitude before scrambling off the bus.

My feet landed on freshly made mud, which sucked at my shoes. Walking on this everlasting suction cup was a disaster, resulting in soiled footwear and pant bottoms. I continued to drag myself home, clumsily stepping into puddles, almost slipping on slimy fall leaves gathered on the ground. My neighbours’ gardens were littered with summer flowers, wilting along with summer.

I arrived at the place which I call home, the palace in which all my luxuries lie. The cold key was slid into the key hole, the jerked open. Shoes were carelessly thrown off, and I raced up the stairs, wet hair leaving tiny puddles in the worn out carpet. I removed the damp and mucky clothes, and replaced them with dry, warm garments.

Shoving a granola bar into my mouth, I fell onto the bed, and drifted into a well-appointed sleep, the perfect cure for a strenuous bus ride home.