Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

As of Sunday, number 27 bus service will cease to exist on Satudays—the day I usually bring goodies home from my favorite thrift store. I had two days left before the change, I was hoping to run into my favorite bus driver one last time.
The first time he picked me up I was standing at the stop carrying two shelves. It was nearly dark and he initially passed me, but when I waved my shelf at him he immediately stopped and picked me up. He apologized as I wrestled my shelves aboard, and I assured him it was okay. He was a bit on the thin side, with skin as dark as chocolate. His face was covered in scars that looked distinctly like burn marks, and when he smiled the lines crinkled together.
We’ve made idle chit-chat every time he’s picked me up, and he’s seen me carry home a plethora of goodies on his bus.
A television, a painting, a lamp, several shelves, and a rolling banana box full of assorted items, are just a few of the things I’ve transported with his help. He believed me a painter the day I carried the painting home, but I assured him I was indeed a writer, but the painting made me feel like home.
One night we were stopped at a red light, and I received a text message, which sent the sound a train engine and whistle blowing basting through the air. My driver quickly slowed and anxiously looked in the mirror. “What’s that?” he asked. I believe he thought a train was truly headed our way. I silenced my phone and thanked him for the ride.
I did get to see him one last time this week, and we broke out with big smiles when I boarded the bus. He thanked me again for being so nice, and hopes the people on his new route are equally friendly. I assured him if they weren’t to let me know and i’d hop on his bus and teach them a thing or two.
As I exited his bus I thought about asking him his name, but didn’t.

January 24, 2012 - Posted by | Uncategorized

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