Assignment Book: Survival of the Fittest

Round 1: Mr Dev's Dozy Day

(the_suaw_awards JABrownOfficial ShutUpAndWriteClub)

I collapsed into the very back seat of the bus with a sigh. Finally. After months (or maybe years) of this quarantine, I was finally getting out of the city and into the fresh country air. I could not wait another day to jump in the cool lake or take in the sweet smells of pine trees or feel the sun on my face without also feeling smog and grime as well.

I leaned back in the thick cushion—grey with swirls of blue and purple, as what seems to be the legal requirement for coach buses—and put my earbuds in. From below me came a sharp hissing sound as the bus began to pull away from the stop. Another sigh of relief. The seat next to me was empty. Heck, most of the seats in the bus were empty. Maybe two dozen people total, spread out across twenty rows of two seats on each side, with an aisle down the middle. Again, standard coach bus layout.

After choosing a hockey podcast on my phone, I rested my head against the seat and looked out the window. The bus moved from the downtown core into the suburbs, the skyscrapers and condos shifting into brick homes with manicured lawns and the occasional McMansion. I smirked to myself. One day, I'd be living in the typical suburban life—mowing the lawn, taking the boys (and they would be boys) to hockey, hosting the occasional BBQ for the neighbourhood—but that was a long ways away, and it'd require a salary much higher than what I could expect when I would graduate in a year. Until then, I'd be stuck in the run-down house with my roommate.

And it was that house, with its cramped rooms, leaky pipes and persistent odours, that made this weekend trip all the more necessary. For the next two days, there'd be no walls and low-hanging roofs, no creaky mattress to sleep on, no fighting with Nick for the one bathroom. No, I was going to sleep under the stars and use the bathroom wherever I damn well pleased.

The bus pulled onto the highway and picked up speed. There was, thankfully, little traffic, and soon the neighbourhoods had turned into farmers fields and orchards. Large sprinkler systems shot white streams of water over the crops and even larger tractors drove up and down, collecting food for the harvest. After half an hour, the farms became forests and hills, towering over either side of the highway. I checked my watch. Another two hours to go. Then I'd be in bliss.

I closed my eyes as the banter in my ear faded away. When I opened them again, there was no sound coming through the buds and the sun was much higher in the sky. I groggily looked around and saw that the bus had stopped and was now almost entirely empty. I was at the campground. That was fast.

The hydraulics under me let out another hiss. Shit, was the bus about to leave? I quickly stood up, grabbed my bag and started down the aisle. I'd made it two steps when the driver, standing at the other end of the bus, held his hand up. I stopped.

He pointed at the one other passenger still on the bus: a large man, sitting in the front row on the right side. The guy was built—the seat's headrest came up only to the top of his back, and his left shoulder jutted out a good foot into the aisle. His big, bald head was slumped slightly to the side, and the sunlight coming in from the window illuminated it like a mini moon.

I opened my mouth to ask what the driver was doing, but he put a finger to his lips. Then he pointed at the passenger in the front row, and brought his hands together, as though in prayer, and put them against the side of his head. It took me a second to figure out that he was saying the man was sleeping. I gave him a thumbs up and took another step. The driver once again stopped me.

Now he pointed at the man again, shook his head furiously, and then raised his arms above his head with a silent yawn. I felt my face scrunch up as I tried to decipher this sudden game of charades. Don't... wake him up?

The bus driver wasn't done. He once again pointed at the man, then put his hands on his hips and made an angry face. I nodded along. Don't wake him up or he'll be angry. Right. Got it. I shrugged my shoulders. I just wanted to get off the bus and get into the woods. I could hear the lake calling me.

The driver, seeing to understand that I got it, pointed at his watch, and then held up all ten fingers and flashed them three times. Then he sat down in the driver's seat. I felt the bus's gears shift under me. Shit. He was giving me thirty seconds. I had to move.

I looked down at the floor. It was covered in junk—the other passengers had left me a full-on obstacle course to get through. I took a deep breath and started forward, keeping a timer in my head. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

My first obstacle was a life-size blow-up doll of the President, laying on the floor across one of the rows, perpendicular to the aisle. Why anyone would have such a doll was beyond me—maybe it was an anti-erotic doll, for people who never want to be aroused again. I nimbly lifted my leg over the large, protruding torso and stepped onto the other side. Then I lifted my other leg and brought it over. As it landed, I heard a tiny, mouse-like squeak. I looked down. I'd stepped on the President's hand.

The timer in my head was still going down. Twenty-one. Twenty. In front of me now was a dog's chew toy, in the shape of Simon Cowell's face. It was slowly rolling back and forth, and each time it moved I heard a faint, high-pitched "Rubbish... rubbish..."

There was no time to waste. I followed its path once more before dashing forward. My left foot landed just millimeters away from Simon's nose, and I had jumped off my right a split-second before the toy hit my ankle. I stumbled to a stop, grabbing the headrests to brace myself. I was halfway down the bus, but time was not on my side. Thirteen. Twelve.

Now I was staring at a skipping rope, decked out with bells and tied tightly across the aisle. It was too high for me to step over and too low for me to crawl. Eleven. Ten. I had to risk it. It was like being on the ice with a minute left and down by a goal. Just go all out.

I slid my bag under the rope, and then jumped up, planted my arm on the left headrest and pushed my body as high as it could go. I swung my legs up and over the seats on the right, barely missing the worn-out fabric. I had just enough momentum to stick my crazy vault's landing. I raised my hands triumphantly, even though there was no applause.

I picked up my bag and took another few steps down the aisle. Sleeping Brutey was two rows up, and just beyond him was the door. I had only seven seconds—now six—to get past my final test: a great big box of Christmas decorations. Ornaments, bells, tong-tinglers, foo-flounders, jang-jinglers and boing-bounders. It stood right in front of me, the last thing between me and sweet fresh air. I couldn't jump over it, and there was no way I could do another vault without kicking Cueball in the back of the head.

Five. Four. The bus driver reached for the lever to close the door. I looked up and saw handles hanging from the roof. They were meant to keep people in place when the bus was full. For me, they were going to be my way out.

Three. I sprung forward and then jumped and grabbed onto the handle. Two. I raised my legs as high as I could as my body swung forward, over the decorations and to the other side. One. I landed deftly, save for a piece of tinsel now wrapped around my foot, and bolted out of the bus, barely avoiding the Sleeping Giant's linebacker shoulder. As my shoes hit the dirt, the door closed behind me and the vehicle took off.

I wiped sweat from my forehead as I caught my breath, the sweet, clean air filling my lungs. I already knew that it had been worth it.

Now to find the lake.