Bus Stop

I see her every morning, Monday through Friday, 7:05 A.M.—sun, rain, or snow. I'm a bus driver. The bus doors glide open with a swoosh, and she hops aboard with a bright smile, regardless of the weather. "How are you today, Mr. McCarthy?" she always asks.

"Fine, thank you, Ms. Davis."

She knows my name because I wear a nametag that says: FRANK McCARTHY.

I know hers because one day maybe six weeks ago she flat-out told me: "I'm Ann Davis. I don't think it's fair I should know my driver's name but you don't know mine. I mean, after all this time."

I wonder if she's hitting on me. Naw. Me? Frank McCarthy? Driving a bus for twenty years, since I was twenty myself. I don't think so. But with my hands on the steering wheel she sees I don't wear a wedding ring—if she's interested. And when she pays her fare I see no ring on her finger, either. She looks to be my age.

Us meeting like this every morning has been going on three months now; it's when I first took over this route. I pick her up on the corner of Grand and Locust streets. She never misses the bus, but sometimes she's late. I wait because I know she'll show. She's always apologetic and says, "Thank you, Mr. McCarthy. Thank you very much!"

"You're welcome, ma'am."

She dresses in nice skirts, blouses, and low-heeled shoes. I watch her from the big rearview mirror above the bus's windshield as she finds a seat. I don't watch everybody, but I watch her.

She jumps off ten miles later across the street from Richland Industries, a place where they design and manufacture high tech instruments for the military. I figure she's a secretary or receptionist or an engineer, maybe.

I also figure she takes the bus to work every morning because she's a persons who believes in saving the environment. Using public transportation is her way of helping. I like that.

Driving a bus, you get lots of time to think. I'm thinking all the time now how can I get to know Ms. Ann Davis better? But there is no good answer. I can't talk to her personally when she boards my bus, people behind her. I can't pass her a note with my telephone number on it. That might insult her; she might report me, and I'll lose my job. I have an idea where she lives. I could find her telephone number in the directory, but a call might get me fired, too. Besides, I'm a widower, five years now. Dating again scares me crazy.

I take a week off in the spring. I plan to do a lot of work around house. On Friday morning, my last day off, I'm out in my pickup headed for the hardware store, passing Locust and Grand streets, when I spot Ann standing on the corner, her head swiveling frantically, left to her right. I glance at my dashboard clock: 7:10 A.M.

Oh man!

She's missed her bus.

Rick, my sub, didn’t wait for her.

I swing my truck around—a U-turn in the middle of Locust—and pull up at the bus stop. I hop out and dart to the sidewalk. Ann's blue eyes nearly pop out of her head when she realizes it's me—Frank McCarthy, the bus driver. "Need a ride to work?" I ask, smiling.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. McCarthy! Yes, I do. I really do!"

She hops into my truck with me, and my heart starts pounding.

We chatter like kids about the nice weather, her job—she's a receptionist—and my job. I'm right about why she rides my bus. She's helping save the environment. She's a widow. In no time, I'm dropping her off at Richland Industries with her saying, "See you Monday, Frank!", and I realize to my sad disappointment I haven't even asked for her telephone number. I've blown my chance. Stupid!

But wait!

She called me Frank.

That means something, doesn't it?

I make a decision.

Monday morning, when she scampers aboard my bus, I'm holding my breath. I'm clutching a note in my right hand that reads, "May I call you? Please don't be offended."

To my surprise, we both extend our hands at the same time and end up—get this!—exchanging notes. My hand trembles a little. After the last person boards the bus, I quick peek at her note. "Call me," it says and includes her telephone number.

Now I'm a little breathless.

After I pull away from the bus stop, I glance at Ann in my rearview mirror. She's seated to my right, only five seats back. She's looking up into the mirror, too, smiling at me.

The End
Enjoy reality! Contemporary YA fiction with an impact: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Jon+Ripslinger