Ferris Bueller Shorts

How Rooney Got Home

Rooney sighed as the bus drove on, completing all its routine stops, letting off a few snot-nosed kids as it did.

The girl beside him with the biggest glasses and dumbest haircut Rooney had ever seen continued to snack on her warm gummy bears with the most obnoxious chewing. Rooney just wanted her to get off the bus already. He'd throw her out himself. She was getting on his nerves.

"Are you sure you don't want one? I've only got one left," the girl said, extending a hand of more squishy gummy bears towards Ed's face.

"No, kid, for the last time - I don't. So stop asking," Rooney said, staring straight ahead, his teeth gritted. She got the hint and ate it herself, pushing up her glasses with her less-sticky hand.

Eventually, the bus stopped and she got up, squeezing past him with a few other kids. "Bye, Mr. Rooney! Thanks for being my bus buddy."

Rooney merely grumbled in response. He looked around at the bus. He was the only one that remained, so he got up and attempted to make his way towards the front to sit near the driver. Being back so far was making him queasy. As he stood up and began to make his way down the aisle, the bus lurched forward, throwing him onto the floor with a crunch. The bus slammed on its brakes.

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Rooney! I didn't know you were standing!" The bus driver apologized. Rooney groaned for what felt like the eightieth time that day. He crawled up to the front and pulled himself into a seat. Maybe he wanted to go to the hospital instead of his house. He felt like a broken man - physically and spiritually. The bus started moving again, and Rooney held on the seat as best as he could.

"So.. where do you need a ride to?" The bus driver asked.

"I live on 67th. Just drop me off somewhere there, that'd be fine," Rooney said, putting a hand to his bleeding nose.

"What were you doing all the way back there? That's down by where that Bueller kid lives. God, did you hear about him today? I heard he was sick, poor thin-"

"Don't. Don't mention him. Please," Rooney interrupted.

"Sorry. It's just all anyone can talk about these days," she said, keeping her eyes on the road.

"That kid ruined my career. He's the reason I'm sitting here right now," Rooney snarled.

"Him? But he's such a sweetheart. I heard that if he never recovered, he was going to donate one of his arms to that drummer in Def Leppard," the bus driver smiled. "What a saint."

Rooney couldn't tolerate it anymore. "He isn't! He's a liar and a crook! I chased him all around town today for skipping school! I showed up at his house and his dog ate my shoe! When I got inside, his sister knocked me out! Everyone's in cahoots and they're all against me!" He flopped back into the seat in resignation.

"...well geez... I didn't realize you felt so strongly about him..."

"I'm just trying to be a good role model!" Rooney retorted.

"Well, frankly, it sounds like you broke into his house," the bus driver laughed. Rooney knew he had to be careful because that was exactly what he had done.

"What happened to your car?" The bus driver asked in an attempt to divert the conversation.

"Towed. On Ferris' street. I bet the little bastard called the tow company himself."

The bus driver decided then that she just wouldn't talk to Dean Edward Rooney anymore. It seemed he was obsessed with that kid, and everything made him angry. She just continued driving.

Rooney was grateful for the silence. He had time to think about his day. All he wanted was to get home, drink a little scotch, and ring in the weekend with a little bit of that new Golden Girls show. Betty White sure was a hoot.

"Here's your street, Mr. Rooney," the bus driver said after some time. "Anywhere in particular?"

"White house right there," Rooney pointed. The bus driver slowed down along the sidewalk in front of Rooney's house and turned to him.

"Have a nice day sir. See you Monday," she smiled, opening the bus doors.

"No you won't," Rooney deadpanned, getting up. He walked down the little steps and out into the grass. He didn't even turn around as the bus doors shut and drove off.

He was home. Finally. He stumbled up the grass, into the sidewalk, and up the front steps of his house. He dug around in his pockets for his keys.

His keys.

They were in his car door. And his car was being towed to some garage where he'd have to pay some astronomical amount of money for it. Rooney was officially a broken man. He leaned against his door and slid all the way down, resting on the top step. He shut his eyes.

And that was the day Edward Rooney cried.