963 Miles / Chapter 1 / Bert the Bus Driver
February 6, 2007
To read how this story came about, looky here.
Bert was a middle-aged man who worked as a Greyhound bus driver. Bert was a fitting name in the same way Russ might be a fitting name for an auto mechanic. It almost seems mandatory that if you work in professions such as these that your name has to be one syllable. It has to do with the size of the little name patch that gets sewn directly above your heart on the blue or gray uniform.
Bert was below the average height for his age and had a soft looking body that wasn’t helped out by his slumping demeanor. If you have ever seen a scarecrow that’s been sitting in a neighbor’s front yard for a week after Halloween, then you know what I’m talking about.
Growing up Bert was extremely unmotivated, so it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if he died having only worked as a bus driver for his entire life. I like to call these people lifers. See: Diner Waitress.
He didn’t very much enjoy the company of others, so he didn’t mind taking the longest routes to the worst of places. Most often these routes involved nighttime travel and he loved it because most of the passengers would sleep and that meant he didn’t have to talk to them.
Bert would sip coffee from the screw-on cup of his thermos and listen to oldies on the radio all through the night. The route was flat and long and you could see for miles to the left and right. It made him sympathize for those, who early on, thought the world was flat.
There was the occasional incident where a baby would wake up in the middle of the night with a gassy stomach and throw a crying fit. It was then that Bert would imagine he had the Phoenix to Salt Lake City route that stopped off at the Grand Canyon. He would wonder what if the highway had continued on and stopped at the edge of that big fucking gorge. He would press the triangular shaped steel petal down as far as it could go and race to the end of the world.
He believed that if he closed his eyes right before he dropped off the edge it would be like flying. Free as a Bald Eagle in a hunting area. See: Bliss. A gentle departure followed by the abrupt arrival of compressed metal, broken glass, and finally scorching flames to melt it all into a heap of char.
That’s right about the time he would look back at the mother of the baby in the rounded-square mirror above his head and give her a smile and the Greyhound Courtesy Training approved, “It’s Ok” nod.
Did I say that Bert was extremely unmotivated? I guess I wasn’t entirely honest with you. There was one thing that motivated Bert, and her name was Ginny.
Next…
963 Miles / Chapter 2 / Ginny the Gas Station Attendant