The Bus: Another Draft

Living in Miami without air conditioning should be banned by the Geneva Convention . The humidity defies any wind that attempts to stir it from its low squat over the peninsula. Rorschach thunderclouds swagger in from the Atlantic, dropping the temperature a good fifteen or twenty degrees. Compact low pressure systems arrive all bolster and noise. Overheated bodies anticipating the cool of a summer shower are thwarted by the tepid rain that dumps in a torrent. Sweat commingles with dirt and grime to form a sort of paste on the skin that turns the average resident into a compulsive; showering three, four times a day or night.
Philip had showered at midnight – a cold shower that shivered in his ribs until he adjusted to the cool. He thought about sleeping in the tub but the dripping faucet would keep him awake. Instead, he opened the windows and placed fans strategically around the living room of the cramped apartment to coax a faux cross breeze over his body.
Viscous South Florida humidity drew around Philip, clinging to him and the sheets on the sofa where he rested on coarse cushions trying to sleep. It is 3 a.m., his mother was still at work, polishing the marble floors of some offices in Coral Gables. Philip swapped sides of the couch looking for some respite from the dank air in his apartment. He thought about showering again. Instead, he picked up his book and turned on his flashlight, whacking it a few times until the light focuses on the pages of the Fritz Leiber book he found while clearing one of his neighbor’s apartments.
Philip knew it was too hot to sleep. Eventually, he would read himself into exhaustion, more a drifting or falling into unconsciousness than a restful night of slumber. In a few hours his mother would come through the door, eat breakfast for dinner, and slog off into her room to sleep for a few hours, then she would rise and head off to work driving an unlicensed shuttle bus from the airport to one of the hotels on the beach. In the evening, she would hop into another van sipping strong coffee to stay awake while riding with her cousin to polish the floors of the towers in the Gables, or on Brickell.
Philip, too young to work legally, spent his summers clearing out the apartments of the evicted for his landlord; the same landlord who refused to fix the A/C units in the buildings, and who drove up to the complex in a faded red Maserati. He was a real son of a bitch, cheap and angry, the worst kind of boss. Philip would be roused by a knock on the door. The landlord would bitch about the lack of good help that spoke English or god forbid, even showed up on time while he led Philip to the recently vacated apartments. Philip would spend the morning moving all the furniture into a rented truck, sometimes on his own, sometimes with help who usually smelled of beer. He would empty the apartments, was given cash at the end of the day, and could keep anything he found.
Usually the apartments were trashed. Holes punched in the drywall, wax and food stains in the carpet, but sometimes the places were eerie, like the apartment had yet to accept the fact that it was abandoned. Philip found books, lamps, clothes, pots and pans, canned goods, CDs, videos, weird tchatckis and even a transit uniform. Philip tossed most of the stuff into the truck, usually keeping only the books. The transit uniform, was so random, so incongruous, that it had to be kept if only for novelty; a perfectly pressed Miami-Dade transit uniform, complete with patent leather belt and dark green trousers hanging cock-eyed in the closet of a filthy Miami Gardens apartment. Philip took the uniform and stowed it in the army footlocker that served as dresser and armoire for him.
On the days that Philip wasn’t working, he would walk to the local branch of the library and sit in the air-conditioning reading at one of the wooden chairs until his narrow ass started to get numb. He browsed the aisles, looking for books on knights, Roman gladiators, books on internal combustion engines and reptiles. Philip wasn’t a discerning reader, but the free time of summer, coupled with his lack of friends, provided the best opportunity to absorb undifferentiated knowledge.
An early July bee sting led him to focus his academic pursuits on bees for a while. After reading the two books at the Miami Gardens branch, Philip checked the computer catalog to find that there were several other books at the main library downtown. Philip boarded the bus early one morning, when a particularly nasty high pressure area was basting South Florida with near record temperatures. Upon entering the bus, and paying his fare, Philip discovered a possible cure to his insomnia: the bus. It was air-conditioned, and it ran all night.
Soon, Philip was riding the bus every other day. First, to the library, then a little further. Eventually he worked his way toward taking routes to their impetus, linking himself back home in the late afternoon. Stepping off the bus at six or six thirty, his glasses would fog and dew would settle on his skin as he walked the two blocks to his apartment. Philip would sit toward the front of the bus, near the driver, and watch as the driver handed out transfers, tucking them under a giant clip for the use of those who needed them. Philip quickly learned what color transfers were for what days of the week, and how to operate the back door and wheelchair lift. Philip observed drivers as they took breaks – hopping off the bus into a store to get snacks and drinks. Philip would wait in the bus and read, once he chatted with a driver about the book he was reading, but mostly he sat quietly and observed. Twice, people tried to witness to Philip, vying for his soul like a commodity. The first time, Phil was polite, nodding and smiling as the man went on and on about how much Jesus could do for Philip; how Philip’s name was biblical, and how that was a sign from God. Philip told the proselytizer that he was named for his uncle who died in Vietnam. He then out-waited the man, nodding the blowhard past his stop on the bus, and forcing the proselytizer to walk a few extra blocks for his efforts. Philip was blunt to the next proselytizer though, telling the rotund woman he wanted none of her superstition.
That night, Philip rose from the sticky couch, folded his sheets and placed them on top of his footlocker. He pulled on his trousers and a t-shirt, heading for the bus stop. He boarded the bus taking his seat near the driver cracked open his book and began to read. There were a few others on the bus and someone had shit their pants; Philip decided it was the woman in the leather mini skirt over red satin pajama bottoms. She was seated rather uncomfortably in her chair and was making an effort not to be noticed in spite of her outrageous get up; she had to be the one that shit.
He took a tally of everyone on the bus: the bakery employee all bleary eyed and dressed in white, tired from years of abusing his circadian rhythms. There was an older couple who looked to be lost, and a group of European tourists who were definitely lost. Philip opened his book and fell inside, relishing in the chill of the air-conditioning. The bus tooled along its route with the driver glancing occasionally into the security mirror that allowed him to observe the bus passengers and their antics. Everyone appeared to be behaving themselves. The bus picked up another night shift employee near the hospital who appeared to be ill. A few stops later, and the older couple exited, chattering in Spanish. Philip continued to read. All that mattered was the successive collapse of sentences.
Suddenly, the driver stopped. The hospital employee rocked forward, nearly splitting his head on the seat in front of him. The passengers, all nine of them, looked up toward the driver expecting an errant vehicle, or perhaps a loose animal. They met with the glare of the driver staring into the security mirror. He waited a few seconds for effect then ordered one of the passengers off the bus calling him a degenerate. A plump Latino Santa Claus looking fucker in a tight shirt and glue stained cargo shorts, Philip hadn’t noticed, rose from the back and stumbled narcotically out of the bus’s rear door. The driver closed the door and put the bus back in gear, continuing his route. The hospital employee muttered a bit under his breath while rubbing his left temple, but soon fell back asleep.
Philip observed this driver; how he confidently and mechanically maneuvered the bus along its route. This driver was not chatting on a cell phone, or listening to music, or working a crossword at stop lights; he was conducting his bus through the steamy Miami streets. One would say he was lost in his work, but Philip would say the opposite. He would say the driver was found inside his work. The driver did not invite conversation, he simply drove the bus.
The bus made its way back to the stop near Philip’s apartment, all of the other original passengers were gone, the Euro kids, the baker, the hospital employee, all long gone. New passengers were on board, listening to headphones or staring out the bus window at the kaleidoscope of streetlights over wet streets. Philip stood up and walked to the back entrance of the bus, glancing back toward the security mirror to catch the gaze of the driver, who then realized that Philip had taken a lap on the bus. Philip smiled at him and left, heading back to the couch apartment.
School started the following week. Philip reprised his role as awkward mute. The student who would sit in classrooms, never being called upon, barely noticed by most of the teachers struggling to silence the cacophony of teenagers. Philip had the same history teacher for three classes over four semesters, and the man never acknowledged Philip’s gaze if they encountered each other in the hallways. Philip maneuvered the hallways, returning to quiet study and reading in school and in the evening while eating either leftovers or heating up macaroni and cheese. Before bed, Philip would straighten up the kitchen and bedroom.
Despite the opportunity for social interaction, he was more isolated during the school year, because he and his mother only saw each other on Sundays. At least in the summer there was the potential for conversation when she came home from work, or before she left in the early afternoon. Now, Philip saw her on Sundays when they would walk together to the grocery store, and to pick up essentials from the local department store. His mother would read the paper in the early afternoon, clip the coupons, and they would walk together, in a comfortable silence occasionally punctuated with conversation about the week’s necessities. Philip enjoyed Sundays.
The school year ticked away, measured in Sundays at the grocery store. Sometimes, the bus would pass and Philip would peer into the windshield looking for a familiar driver. In March, he saw the skinny one who ate the Little Debbie snack cakes and chatted on his phone. Philip smiled at him, but the driver was too busy chatting.
Summer dropped down onto the South Florida peninsula in Early May. The humidity and still air hunkered down early permeating everything and everyone. Breathing became labored as moisture would settle into South Floridian lungs slowing the pace of work and bringing tempers to a low simmer. Philip camped out on the couch, occasionally sleeping on the linoleum floor clutching a sheet that flapped in the artificial breeze of the hundred or so fans positioned around the apartment.
Philip’s mother encouraged him to find a real job that summer. Maybe at the local grocery store, or movie theater; someplace that would keep the boy from having to work for that damn landlord. Philip opened his footlocker to retrieve his slacks and dress shirt; the ones he wore to his cousin’s christening last year. As he pulled out the shirt, neatly folded near the bottom of the footlocker, he saw the transit uniform, still wrapped in plastic. He thought about his time on the bus last summer, the cool of the air-conditioning, and the steady pace of the bus along its route. It was hot out tonight, it would be difficult to sleep, and the stiff linoleum wouldn’t make it easier.
Philip ironed his dress clothes, pressing a tight crease into his black trousers and the sleeves of his too white shirt. He had a list in his head of places he could apply for jobs – the local grocer, where the manager in the flat top ogled the young men, the movie theater, that smelled like moisture and perfume, and the pharmacy, where a job stocking shelves at night didn’t sound too bad. The next morning, he walked the seven or eight blocks to the pharmacy, his handsand forehead chilly with nervous sweat. Philip kept checking his pockets for his wallet and pen as he approached the plaza the pharmacy anchored.
He entered the store, greeted by a blast of cool air from a fan at the door. The place was freezing and the windows were covered with condensation. Philip worked his way to the front of the line of customers, tightening his nerve to ask the manager for an application. Philip started shivering, only partly from the chill, when the manager, who was manning the register, called Philip to the front. Philip shuffled his feet and looked down at the array of candy bars lined up like old time soldiers under the counter. By the time Philip noticed that the man was speaking to him, he could tell the manager was annoyed at having to repeat himself. Philip covered his awkwardness by shakily placing a pack of gum on the counter then dashing out the door forgetting the change.
Back at the house Philip showered, trying to wash the shame off his body. He then took his dress clothes folding them neatly and returning them to their home in his footlocker. Picking up the small tray, Philip saw the transit uniform again. He pulled it out of the footlocker and unwrapped it from the dry cleaners plastic. His shame was passing as smelled the chemical clean of the polyester and cotton fabric.
Philip tried on the uniform admiring the fit, a little long in the inseam, in the mirror behind the bathroom door. He rolled the pants legs up and pinned them then removed the sewing kit from his footlocker and hemmed up the trousers. The shirt was a bit blousy, but that was easily remedied with some creative tucking into his briefs. Philip sat on the floor and began to shine his dress shoes – dipping cotton balls in water and waxing the tips until they looked better than patent leather. He then slipped on his shoes and rode his bike the fifteen or so blocks to the bus depot.
His undershirt was soaked with sweat when he arrived. Philip wandered through the buses lined up like soldiers until he arrived at a dirt coated beauty with an ad for a local lawyer shrink-wrapped to its frame. Philip boarded the bus and sat in the driver’s seat for the first time. The driver’s seat was like a cockpit, dials and switches, some of which were unlabeled, all in an array in front of Philip’s fifteen year old gaze. He adjusted the captain’s seat forward and up bit, to better see what was ahead of him. His heart began to beat with adrenaline as he fumbled with sweaty fingers for the starter. The bus burst to life and Philip waited inside looking over the clipboard of papers that had been stashed next to the driver’s seat. He stood up and walked toward the rear of the bus noting the fast food soda cup that lay crushed under one of the seats. Philip bent down and fished out the cup, tossing it in the waste basket behind the driver’s seat. He sat back down and scrolled through the route information. He decided to take a route down to Miami Beach, the one that passed Haulover point and the shops at Bal Harbour. He scrolled the sign through the routes until he found the correct one, put the bus in gear and headed out for the street; nodding at the gate attendant on his way out.
When he reached his first stop a short woman with a basket full of laundry boarded, flashing a senior pass. Philip watched her pass to the middle rear of the bus, near the second door, he pushed the diesel down the illuminated Miami streets. At his second stop was a younger couple, he couldn’t discern whether or not they knew each other from work or if maybe they were lovers. They both dropped their fares into the till and made their way to the very rear of the bus. Soon, his nerves were settled and he barely noticed as people entered and exited. Two hours passed and Philip kept the bus on schedule. A bearded man tried to board with a lit cigar, Philip stared the man directly in his cloudy eyes and shook his head indicating toward the cigar. The man apologized, flicking the half-smoked cigar out of the bus door and boarded quietly. A few Publix employees boarded in Surfside, one of the beach communities where they have to bus the employees in. They were gossiping in Kreyol about how the produce manger has asked all of them to see his new van.
Philip smiled as patrons entered and exited the bus. He watched the fares as they were sucked into the till, took and handed out bus transfers, speaking only to give directions to wayward tourists or the generally lost. There was quiet in the waxing and waning of the diesel pusher’s engine. Within the mechanical noise was a mantra of calm, but most of all, there was air-conditioning.
Philip pulled the bus into the depot at about four in the morning. He again nodded at the gate guard as he maneuvered the bus into one of the giant spaces reserved for returning vehicles. He grabbed the small broom from behind his seat and swept out his bus, tossing the candy wrappers and transfers that collected in crannies throughout the night. He then emptied the garbage cans and wiped down the cockpit area and giant steering wheel with a red rag before shutting the door and walking to his bike.
When Philip returned home to the couch he slept.

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