Tip Rats

Part 18 - Bus

At Chris and Andy's insistence Ned found himself on the Bulwarra Blue Bus making a dash to the passport office. The bus ran from Bundleton, thirty minutes up the highway, to the Swansborough Plaza Shopping Centre on the southern outskirts of the city. From there, he would have to take the 108, an overcrowded chariot from hell that weaved its way through the featureless, flat-pack outer suburbs of the city for another 30 minutes before arriving at the central bus station.

Ned shared his journey with two types of public commuter, the elderly and the unemployed. There were always lots of pensioners on their way to and from shopping centres, RSL clubs and doctors' appointments, all going about their daily business calmly, quietly and flatulently. Ned liked to listen to the conversations between the elderly passengers, discussing the way they saw the world, their bafflement at the modern young, their distrust of all things new and confusing and the various ailments they and their friends were battling. The way they spoke of things done better back in the day always made Ned pay attention. Ned saw himself as old fashioned in many ways. The disdain he sometimes felt for his own generation often mirrored that of the old timers on the bus. He had never been a dedicated follower of fashion, he liked what he liked, everything else was for other people to worry about. He admired the way most of the old guys on the bus were little concerned by the opinions of others. They wore what was comfortable, they did what they enjoyed and they said what they thought. A lifetime of putting up with other people's bullshit reaches a limit eventually and worrying about what other people think wastes a lot of energy, especially if you're old. Fretting whether someone might notice the hole in your shoe or the out of place hairs on your head is pointless, everyone else is too caught up worrying about their own holes and hairs to take any real notice of your minor flaws. Not giving a fuck was the key to success.

The other type of passenger Ned encountered on the bus, also didn't give a fuck. But they went about it all wrong. Instead of not concerning themselves with what others thought, they didn't care about how they affected other people. Along its meanderings, the bus would collect tracksuit clad ratbags on their way to job centre appointments or the betting shop, carrying home their supplies of cigarettes, cheap soft drink, chips and cut price booze. These commuters usually rolled in packs, strutting down the aisle like puffed up roosters, their loud, profanity laced boasts drowning out the conversations of the old folks or bringing them to a halt altogether as they screamed their private conversations into their battle scarred mobile phones . It was not uncommon to see young couple's proudly grin, grey-teeth on full display after their four-year-old calls another passenger a cunt.

Previously, when Ned had doubted his commitment to his studies, seeing people of this ilk would keep him turning up to class for another week. He was determined to avoid such a future, not wanting any part of this lifestyle that so many of his peers and family members had resigned themselves to. But after three years at university, amongst the motivated and educated, he was beginning to feel that he had no real desire to join their ranks either. Growing up, Ned's greatest fear was that he would end up like his father and brother. Lately though, he had become more concerned that he would end up as someone who was financially secure, living in the nice part of town but then all too late coming to the realisation that he had traded his best days for a fancy house he was rarely in, a swimming pool that he never used and no longer getting any satisfaction from the fact that at least people thought he'd done well.

On this particular bus journey Ned sat behind an elderly couple who, by way of subtle eavesdropping, he knew to be going to the bank, then the barber and then to the bowling club raffle.

Behind him sat a young girl whose life story required no eavesdropping.

'You're a fucking dog, Jamie! If I see that slut out in town, I'll smash her fucking head in. You've got a kid and you spend all day smoking bongs with your mates and fucking around with that slut... Whatever, Jamie, you're a dog and you've got a thin dick and I hope she gives you AIDS....'

Ned turned around to see a greasy haired girl of about 17 slouched on the back seat of the bus shouting into a bedazzled mobile phone. She had the gaunt appearance of someone whose diet consists mainly of bong smoke and semen and beside her was an unfortunate little boy who'd heard it all before. Ned could imagine Jamie on the other end of the phone, resplendent in his tracksuit, sporting a wispy neck-beard, video-game controller in hand and a faint trail of smoke pluming from the juice bottle bong sitting at his feet.

The elderly couple were doing their best to ignore the goings on at the back of the bus remained focused on what was going on outside her window. Ned decided he should probably do the same.