Push Tape to Signal for Stop, by Emely Paulino
On Tuesday, January 11, John Valdez crosses the busy intersection of Main Street and Roosevelt Avenue without looking both ways. Before making it to the other side of the street, he contemplates whether or not today is a show day. Oh god look at that line, I can only imagine what it’s going to be like inside. Without slipping on the remaining ice from the recent snowstorm, he briskly sweeps in front of the first person on the lengthy line for the Q65 bus.
They’re watching, he thinks to himself while trying to keep a straight face. Stop! His brain shrieks. John sighs heavily, takes a step back as the Q65 opens its doors and lets the passengers out. I better make this face quick, John decides. He purses his lips and scrunches up his face as if he took a 125 whiff of something unpleasant. Popeyes, McDonald’s, Burger King, Tai Pan? “All on the same block,” he announces to himself.
“Excuse m—” the woman who was originally first in line begins to say.
“Hmph!” John scowls as he steps in front of her and pays his fare. All the seats on the bus are taken. Shuffling down the tight aisle, John cringes. It bothers him to look at the obscenities keyed into the bright blue plastic where so many people sit. For some time he keeps his head bent down, Table 2, Table 6, and Table 5 need refills, quick! until he remembers where he is again. All of these people are disgusting; I don’t know how I’ve been putting up with this since high school. Holding on to the top rail, John jerks his left arm. The woman next to him scoffs and shifts away. That’ll teach you. Stay off the bus if you have more than two bags with ya, he thinks as he relaxes his left arm. Trying to contain a smile, he glares at the man to his right as the bus swerves, nearly causing him to lose balance.
“Do you have a problem, sir?” the man asks John as he checks his watch. Next to him, a senior coughs into his sleeve. John continues to glare, Kelsey, Sam, August 2006… When would I see them again? This bus always smells like piss, maybe if I twitch like this, ha! and grunts back into the present. I’m a pro, pro, produce, professor, Prozac… I don’t need that, shoots his brain. “Sir,” the man repeats; but John refuses to speak. Instead he resumes doing what he’s been doing for eighteen years. Once in a while, John takes a cab, but that’s only when the tips at his job are good. He works as a caterer for a restaurant in Manhattan, and is sick of it. He never eats French food or drinks wine. Care for another glass, red or white, anything I can help you with? I’m sorry, that won’t happen again… red, white, glass, pass, grass, and these people drive me crazy! Another thing that drives him crazy is the bus.
“Would you like a seat, mister?” offers a girl who looks about sixteen. John looks at her hands, covered in crumbs from the chips she was just eating, and clenches his fists. Would you like a napkin, Kelsey? When is my stop going to come, for god’s sake! Stiffly he sits down, analyzing the bulky sweaters and stained coats that the people around him are wearing. Looking down, he sees their wet shoes, a result of the slush that has seeped its way onto the floor of the Q65. He crosses his arms and begins to mouth words to himself. Ha, this will get them to move for sure! Why can’t everyone in the bus just leave, leave me alone!
“Mom, let’s sit there!” exclaims a boy, tugging on his mother’s jacket. She takes one step forward and hesitates.
“Not there, sweetie, that man is not normal,” she murmurs loud enough for John to hear as she ushers her boy to another seat. For a second, he pauses. His thoughts cease to bubble as he blinks at the passengers. “Did they hear that too?” he says aloud. Not normal, what is she talking about? I am normal, I am… right?
