Mrs. Jackson

 Bob drove the bus. He woke up every morning, stuffed himself into his uniform, and drove his Chevy to the transit center, where he would buckle up into a giant deathtrap for the next eight hours or so. He'd been at it for three years, but he couldn't tell you that exactly. The days dragged together, blurring at the edges into a routine of driving, stopping, rinsing, and repeating. Bob would think about quitting every day from nine til' ten before letting the thought simmer in the back of his mind.

Sundays were different, if not for one person -- Mrs. Jackson. The elderly woman rode his bus every Sunday afternoon after praying at church, dressed in her finery. She smelled of drugstore perfume, a strong berry flavor mixed with the natural aroma of cleaning chemicals. Mrs. Jackson meant a lot to Bob, being the most interesting, if not the kindest, woman he'd ever come into contact with.

Sunday rolled around in the midst of July, the peak month of Alabama heat. Bob sensed no one would bother to ride in such muggy conditions, but he had a task to carry out. It just happened to be the same task he's been doing for the past three years. He woke up, stuffed himself inside his uniform, and drove his Chevy to the transit center. His bus sat in the lot, among a few others, collecting metaphorical dust and taking up space.

The bus held a sort of manufactured beauty to it. The metal exterior spat out the sun's reflection, making it an overgrown magnifying glass waiting to fry an ant. The wheels were the prettiest Bob had ever seen, and the windows were cleaner than a Disney movie. He got in, buckling himself into the leather seat. Damn, he thought to himself, I'm already sweatin'. His uniform bunched up behind him, and he knew he'd have a heck of a time ripping himself out of it at the end of the day.

Bob started the bus. It let out a deep rumble, and he could already spot the brown shoots of exhaust from his rearview mirror. He let out a sigh, pushing his foot down on the pedal and guiding the bus out of the lot. He peeked up at his time schedule, and rolled his eyes.

"I'm early," he said under his breath, and slowed down the tiniest bit. The bus began to crawl along the road until he spotted the Jamison twins sitting at a stop up ahead. The young girls both wore striped tank tops and gaudy flip flops. The taller one, Marissa, had a mouth full of neon pink braces, while Alexis, the smarter one, had a pair of boxy glasses falling off her nose.

Bob stopped the bus to let them on. Alexis stepped in first, fishing out a couple of crumpled bills from her tight pockets. Marissa stood behind her, glancing from side to side as if on high alert. His son went to school with Alexis, and as she pushed her second bill into the slot he wondered if the two of them got along, but he didn't want to be a pest to some little girl.

"You're early today," Marissa perked up from behind her. Bob looked at her and shrugged.

"Well," he explained, "I have nothing else to do." He sounded gruff, as if the world had cast all its problems onto him and him alone. She looked taken aback, and Bob cursed himself for sounding like a grumpy old man. Alexis sat in one of the seats in the back. Marissa stepped up, and avoided eye contact with him. Bob looked ahead at the road.

The street was lined with rows of identical trees, the plastic green leaves hard on the eyes. Little sidewalks sat behind them, and behind them sat little shops packed close together, their brick faces peering out onto the empty street. Bob's bus seemed to be the only vehicle running that Sunday, apart from an occasional car filled to the brim with obnoxious teenagers looking to stir up shit.

Marissa joined her sister in the back, and the twins began to talk to each other with what Bob referred to as their "outside outside voices"-- the ones where you shout everything you say because the other person is either deaf or disinterested. Bob started the bus back up and rolled it down the lane. He clenched the wheel and prayed these girls would shut their little girl mouths and stare out the windows like good mindless children.