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Bus Pass. 1978.
As it did and always will do for many kids, Junior High School held a particular torment for me, as evidenced by the
creases on this old bus pass. These little wrinkles came from a habit that I developed in dealing with bullies; when I saw one coming, I would nervously fold the pass into quadrants in my pocket, hoping that the fidgeting would deliver me from my oppressors. It never worked, but it sure looked a lot better than running away from them.
Our bus driver in those days was a man by the name of Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson was a heavy-set, forty-something-year-old with brown curly hair whose only reality seemed to be whatever he saw reflected in that big, elongated mirror that hung above his head when he was behind the wheel. For him, that mirror was like a portal to another world. He always wore the same blue button-down shirt to work everyday whereon his right breast pocket was embroidered his name in red lettering on a white oval patch. In lieu of a verbal gesture from the painfully shy driver—or whatever it was that afflicted him—it was this emblem that greeted the students each morning as they climbed aboard his bus. Mr. Wilson’s most distinctive characteristic, outside of his invariably taking the same exact route to and from school everyday (not unlike a hamster on its wheel), was that he never uttered a single word during the three years we were in his charge. Not a syllable. But it would be for our final day of Junior High that the strange Mr. Wilson will forever be remembered.
On that morning, we traveled to school in the usual way, following the same route as was our routine. When school let out, since this was a festive day, the students boarded the bus and gave Mr. Wilson a special greeting, many slapping him on his back in gratitude for his services over the years. As usual, Mr. Wilson responded only by gazing into his rearview mirror, like a man who was, somewhat at least, out of his mind. When the bus was full we followed the school’s half-moon driveway to exit onto the main road. We were dumbstruck when Mr. Wilson took a right turn out of the driveway instead of the usual left, and, when at the next juncture, he went left instead of right, a collective hush set in among the students on the bus. "Where’s he going?” they all muttered to one another.
Moments later we found ourselves on a strange and abandoned road where Mr. Wilson proceeded to steer the bus in a rock-a-bye-baby motion, swaying it from side to side, causing some of the kids to fall out of their seats. His eyes grew
wild as he gunned the engine toward the next intersection, jumping the curb and onto a hilly road while the jostling of
the bus produced G-forces that sent our stomachs into our throats. It appeared that Mr. Wilson had finally lost his last marble and whatever it was that made him a little weird to begin with was now manifesting itself outwardly in an especially peculiar and terrifying way.
The tin shell of the bus’ frame rattled as we peeled out onto yet another, uneven, partially paved road. Mr. Wilson drove like a man possessed, directing the vehicle over every bump and pothole he could find while the springs from the seats sent the students flying into the air like kernels popping inside a bag of Jiffy Popcorn. In the middle of the mayhem, one of the older students from the back of the bus shouted, “Hey, Mr. Wilson, where are we going?” SCREEECH! Mr. Wilson slammed on the brakes, forcing the bus off the road and into a shallow ditch. A haze of earthen soot
enveloped the yellow behemoth, then slowly dissipated, revealing the driver behind the
wheel. Calmly readjusting the rearview mirror above his head, we saw the reflection of
Mr. Wilson’s eyes as he spoke the only words we ever did—or ever would—hear from him:
“It’s a short cut.”
We all sat in stunned silence with our mouths hanging open like a busload of barbershop quartet singers
in mid-song, wondering if we’d ever see our parents again. Now we knew Mr. Wilson was crazy! He then
jiggled the handle on the stick shift, grinding the gears to rock the bus from out of the ditch. Soon we were back on
familiar roads.
The trip home felt like an eternity. I instinctively found my hand dancing in my pocket, clutching at my bus pass and folding it into quadrants. We didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until we were safely back at our stop and the doors to the bus opened. “Good-bye, Mr. Wilson,” we all said in muted tones as we exited his bus for the last time. As usual, Mr. Wilson responded only by gazing into his rearview mirror. But this time, there was something different about his stare. It almost looked as if he’d been…crying! He could've had allergies, I suppose, but there was a look on his face that we had never seen before. Like he was heart-broken. Could it be that Mr. Wilson held a silent affection for us and was sad to see us go? Was that crazy bus ride a rampage, or was it just Mr. Wilson’s way of saying goodbye in the only way he knew how: by giving us a little joyride on our last day of school? Hmm, maybe that’s what it was. It was a send-off! MR. WILSON HAD GIVEN US A JOYRIDE AS A WAY OF SAYING GOODBYE! Now I understand! Maybe Mr. Wilson wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Sure, he was a little strange and made us uncomfortable—but he couldn’t help that. So what if he took us on a silly bus ride and frightened the kids—no harm was done. Who cares if he didn’t say anything for three whole years and when he did it was creepy—that’s not a crime. Or maybe, on the other hand, that mirror was a portal to another world. A very strange world. You know, now that I think about it, maybe Mr. Wilson shouldn’t have been driving a bus at all. Yep, I think that last bus ride told the whole story: Mr. Wilson was crazy.
