It was December 29 and I was on my way to buy a Christmas present for a Jewish man named Christian

It was December 29 and I was on my way to buy a Christmas present for a Jewish man named Christian; I wasn’t sure why. I was running late for the 9:45am number 4 bus running from downtown Reno to the northwest outskirts passing, amongst other places, Wal-Mart, my destination. I was having a Christmas dinner with my sister and her brother-in-law, Christian, later that evening, and in my particular fashion, I waited until the final moment to buy the gift I already assured my sister I had bought, a computer game he had been quivering in his boots for since the moment he had reckoned the game’s existence.

I was running late, but I didn’t know I was, I thought I had an extra ten minutes when I arrived at the bus stop near the corner, across the street from my favorite spot on earth, the Starbucks on Keystone and Seventh Streets. As per usual, the small coffee shop which was wedged uncomfortably into the corner without thought to the traffic it would bring was insanely busy. Three cars were in the drive-thru lane, which would create one hell of a traffic jam should one more car join the queue. The fourth car joined the line in form, and blocked the entrance into the parking lot, the only one the small shop had, from Seventh Avenue. Ten seconds and two cars later, a line of thirsty drivers had blocked the entrance into the parking lot, spilled onto Seventh Avenue impeding traffic in all directions. Dodging cars became my primary concern, as drivers began weaving in and out of traffic from and to all directions in the intersection. I abandon the endeavor for peppermint mocha when I see the bus coming directly towards the intersection. I run back to the corner.

I arrived back at the bus stop on the corner 9:51am; thirty seconds later, the bus pulled up. The surly bus driver opened the door, angered and disturbed he would have to go out of his way to open the door for me. A deep resignation manifested itself upon his face after he and I made eye contact. Remorse swelled in me as I locked on the eyes which had no soul present anymore; Carl, his name as I later found out, was no longer living his life, but instead waiting to die a lonely, miserable life. He paid little attention to the traffic jam which had been created except to gripe about it as he derisively looked at each and every car and truck stuck on their caffeine fix.

A petite older woman who would have been beautiful to me had she been forty years younger, or I the same amount older, was sitting behind and across from the driver, yammering incessantly to the man about nonsense; I think she was whining about not precisely knowing which stop to get off at for Wal-Mart. Carl was attempting to keep his cool; he was counting the days until his retirement and pension while blocking from his mind what he would really like to do to this woman. He nodded furiously towards her, telling her without wasting any unnecessary energy that he would, in fact, stop at Wal-Mart, and she needn’t worry her pretty, though old, little head covered in a white knit cap about such affairs. Carl didn’t care she had to get to Wal-Mart to exchange a gift for her grandson because she got the wrong size and he doesn’t like Lightning McQueen, but Buzz Lightyear instead, and his mother won’t let her see him more than once a month or so which was far too little, and how her best girlfriend and she were drinking margaritas…

I sat as far away from the squirrely old woman and lost myself in the short ride to Wal-Mart, never once paying heed to how Carl wonderfully got out of the traffic congestion. The bus arrived just before 10 at the Wal-Mart situated on Seventh Street and McCarran Boulevard. I hopped out, as did the woman who had graciously stopped talking, though I scarcely had paid her any attention thanks to the vibrant rhythm section of The Allman Brothers Band playing in my headphones. I quickly forgot about the aggravating woman and the old, unforgiving man driving the bus as I darted across Seventh, jogged through the parking lot into the store, walked swiftly with a wind at my back to the electronics department where I found the game with ease, and then back up front to the register to pay for that and also a gift card for my sister. I was out of the store by 10:08am, avoiding any latent desire to stay for hours in the store buying poorly-made products I don’t actually need because it is so cheap.

I arrived at the east-bound, downtown-bound bus stop for route 4 at 10:10, a full eight minutes earlier than the return time for the very same bus I had arrived on. Patiently I waited at the stop with four people I didn’t notice until the bus arrived.

I got on first, swiped my bus pass in the reader, nodding again in recognition to the lamentable man who, if it were possible, looked even worse than he had twenty minutes previous. He muttered something I couldn’t understand, though my headphones were off. I sat down, uttered a sigh and forgot about the bus driver again, and his plight.

I watched then as a small, good-looking black woman come on next, pulling the misplaced bus pass trick that works every time. She batted her dark eyes at Carl, who could care less, as she swiped expired bus pass after bus pass, hoping one would work. After five passes, a flustered look from her insisting she had a pass here somewhere, a fake panicked search through her purse through a stack of needles disguised as bus passes, Carl finally had enough and just waved her on, not caring about the $2 the Regional Transportation Commission would be losing out on, but instead his desire to hasten the bus’ departure, thus hastening the end of his day at work, thus hastening the year’s end, then the week’s, then the month’s, then the next month’s, then his life finally. Had I walked up to him and stabbed him in the throat, he might have been thankful. I wouldn’t get the chance.

Next walked in an old man of average proportions, though smaller than most. I thought him first a police officer, for he wore the same type of winter coat, an expensive one at that. Instead of a police patch on the arms, he had similar-looking ones stating he was, in fact, a “Reno Volunteer Senior.” He probably paid top-dollar for the coat so he would feel useful and important during his golden age; I didn’t blame him. It was a pleasant surprise to find a retiree on the bus who wasn’t riding around in a Hover-round paid for by my tax dollars funded through Medicare. He sat in front of me, I gave him an acknowledging nod as he did.

Last walked in a young woman I had seen before, though I couldn’t place her at first, I was too enthralled at the sight she was creating. She carried a big Wal-Mart bag of toys in one hand and a red bean bag in the other, all the while fumbling to retrieve her bus pass. She was nervous and shaking genuinely, unlike the woman previously. Not wanting to place the bean bag on the floor of the bus, for it was muddy and wet, she had extreme trouble, I would have laughed hysterically if not for the looming threat in my guts and the imposing grey clouds rising behind me from the west, I quickly jumped up and took the bean bag out of her hands so she could remove the bus pass from her wallet which she was also carrying with the bean bag, which I simply hadn’t seen previous.

With my assistance, she was swiped and seated as Carl took off down Seventh Avenue across the aisle from me. We caught the green at McCarran immediately, and we began to pick up speed as I engaged her in conversation. “What is that?” pointing to the bean bag, knowing full well what it was, though unsure of what else to say.

She knew I knew it was a bean bag, she read more into the question than what was posed, as I knew she would, “A Christmas present for my brother. I’m seeing him today.”

The commonality struck a chord with me; her plain-Jane looks came back to me where I knew her from. “I’m doing Christmas with my sister tonight too, actually. I just bought my Jewish brother-in-law a Christmas present today too.”

She smiled, not sure she heard what she actually heard. I assured her it was the truth, silly or no. She laughed, and I asked, “You work at the sandwich shop at the university, right?”

She was embarrassed at being recognized, it wasn’t my intention, so I backed off a bit. “Don’t worry; I have a shitty job too.”

She laughed whole heartedly at this, “Oh yeah,” there was a violent bump as the bus hit a pothole or some other thing cresting over a small hill east of McCarran. “Where do you work?”

“Red Lobster,” I said. “I love pushing the lobsta” I said with the highest amount of sarcasm available to me at the time. She put on an almost jealous face, wishing she had my job. I offer to switch her right then and there.

She laughed again. “That’s funny. I wish it could be that way. I love seafood.”

“Well, you should come in there sometime.” She nodded. “Go in, just ask for Brett.”

“Is that you?” she looked puzzled.

“No,” I jested. “He’s just the best server there, and I want you well-taken care of.” She gets it; we share a moment.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Michelle,” she said with a sneer.

“That’s a great name!” I say with a startle at her clear disdain.

“I hate it, it is ugly.” She was equating her body image with a name, a name she didn’t pick out.

“It’s my mother’s name,” I said as deadpan as I could. Her pale skin lost all color and became completely translucent, had I tried I would have been able to see right through her. I didn’t get a chance, for the next moment, something from the right caught my eye.

I was aroused through the right window, as the bus passed a bus stop with desirous travelers waiting in vain for Carl and his fickle schedule. The black woman, desperate in her attempts at this point, was furiously pushing the ‘stop requested’ button located behind her head, as if the thirtieth time would be the charm to arouse the attention of Carl, who was no longer responding at all to her apparent yells and calls, which I hadn’t noticed until then. The woman, followed by the volunteer, with a bit of effort, walked to the driver’s seat to confront him. Not comprehending, nor really caring what was happening, I attempted to extract a phone number from the more colorful Michelle, who had recovered from the mortifying humor I had inflicted. I was thwarted by the woman who fell to her knees as she shrieked, “He’s dead! He’s dead!”

The old man exclaimed, “We need to stop the bus!” The volunteer ordered the woman to sit back down in her chair, I motioned up without provocation and jumped to his side to remove the old man from the driver’s seat, and stop the bus which was on pace to roll down the decline and through the Keystone Avenue intersection at a brisk 50 miles per hour in less than twenty seconds.

With all the strength and power I mustered from whichever god answered my prayer, I pulled the dead Carl from his seat, after the volunteer had undone his seatbelt. The bus jerked and flew out of control, Carl spilled onto the volunteer, knocking them both to the ground. I was on my knees next to the seat, and though I couldn’t see, I attempted to steer the bus away from the intersection which had now seemed to be a parking lot (at least from my last view of it, anyway.) I torqued the wheel left hard, I thought we might fall. I saw Michelle tumble onto her bean bag in my peripherals as I did it.

We were still going fast, I thought we were going to tumble sideways down the hill, probably spelling certain doom. The only hope we had was for me to get into the seat and pilot the bus correctly. Unfortunately the dead Carl and the volunteer had fallen on my right leg and as I turned the bus the previous time. The bus was teetering as we made the sharp turn, I hoped we would make it into the parking lot of the supermarket ahead before we collapsed to the side, as to prevent our descent. The bus’ lean finally gave me the freedom I needed, sending Carl’s torso off my calf. Instinctively, I did a somersault into the seat, straightened the wheel and jammed on the breaks, hopeful for the best.

What happened next was only seen by me in flashes. I saw the assembled masses in the newly-expanded Starbucks parking lot all look in unison from their SUVs, jeeps, Priuses, and compacts, their eyes emblazoned with the knowledge they were about to perish without getting their fix. I saw the bus sway back and forth on the declining hill, unsure of whether or not it actually wanted to fall; a palooka considering whether their pride was worth the payoff for throwing the fight. The volunteer was breathing heavily, having a heart attack; the woman was screaming. I couldn’t see Michelle, but somehow I could feel her presence, she didn’t seem overly concerned considering she was safe and sound lying in a bean bag.

Without training and any memory of how precisely, I wretched the bus to a standstill, after having completed a 180 degree turn on the decline, pointing back towards Wal-Mart with Starbucks behind me. The only sense I had available to me was smell, for all I could notice was the full-bodied odor of the screeching, probably shredded high-performance bus tires.

After an hour or two of dealing with police, paramedics, and the bus company, I was allowed to leave the scene. I walked across the street to finally have my Starbucks as another driver from the company pulled away with the bus. Michelle was there as I walked in, she had made a bee-line for the shop as soon as she could, bean bag and all. She made eyes towards me, drawing me in. I picked up my peppermint mocha at the counter and walked to her table. She smiled, thankful for more than just my company. The smile left her quickly. She asked, “Where’s your present?”

“Eh…” I said.