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Bluebird

David H Weinberger

As the most senior driver, Ms. Taylor could be driving something less fossilized than a 1995 Bluebird Transport; almost any of the modern models the district has purchased over the past 25 years would be an improvement. But she has repeatedly rejected her supervisor’s offers because Bus 16 is where she is comfortable in her skin and she becomes more than the detritus she has carried since her own early school years. After so much time driving this particular bus, she shares a kinship with every angle and curve, every tired squeak and groan. Still, she and her bus are dinosaurs in the fleet and she is painfully aware that they are both slowly slipping into extinction.

A long career as a school bus driver was never her plan. It was nothing more than a temporary job while she searched for something more permanent dealing with wildlife, preferably in an aviary. Positions were scarce though, and her first interviews, highlighted by her inability to make eye contact or to say anything positive about herself, were failures, leading her to abandon her plans and slide into her current long-term entanglement transporting children between home and school. There may have been a touch of latent aggression behind her longevity, believing she was delivering deserving children to a place of torment and sorrow. Perhaps also a retributive pleasure in knowing that in the pecking order of child on child harassment, even the fiercest bullies stood a good chance of torment from those in loftier positions. Perhaps it was simply inertia.

Ms. Taylor could not fathom how the years slipped by without her knowing it, simply folding into a cycle between sanctuaries: Bus 16 and her back porch where she sits reading, avoiding any exertion other than page turning and mixing a new pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea. A lounge chair fashioned from an old bus seat, table, and lanterns form the reading nook outside her kitchen in a small backyard. In an attempt to enliven the place, she hung a few feeders and slapped together a couple of nest boxes from scrap wood and attached them to nearby trees, hoping to attract gray catbirds, downy woodpeckers, or perhaps house wrens. But avian creatures too seem repelled by her and not even the common song sparrow grace her reading and drinking time. Given the years she has spent alone, this absence means little to her, especially considering Bus 16.

As she cycles into a new driving period, the drought Ms. Taylor lives through over each break concludes, and like a bipolar swing, she ecstatically enters the district parking lot and sees her baby waiting for her. The golden yellow glistens more loudly than the others corralled alongside. Thick, black stripes run from head to tail. A massive body atop sparkling rubber begging to rip across asphalt.

Her eyes on the open door, the “Morning, Ms. Taylor” and “Welcome back” from her colleagues are nothing but unnecessary delays keeping her from her perch. Her avoidance, the singular focus to climb on Bus 16, has done nothing to ingratiate her to her peers. No loss: she has systematically ignored her peers since the earliest version of them disavowed her of any belief that she had something to offer. Her solitude is a welcome self-imposed escape from the withering criticism she has found to be the only thing available from peers.

She does the morning safety check, caresses the ridges running down the side of the bus. The dings, scratches, and bruises from last year have been repaired and painted over: not professionally, she thinks, but competently enough by workers barely capable of dealing with something greater than a pile of metal. She traces the bluebird silhouette emblazoned above the door: the tip of the wing, the wrist joint, the elegantly curved head, the leading beak, and finally the proud arched body. She pays the price for a sedentary summer, and sure enough, the stretch for the bluebird decal tweaks her shoulder and is enough for labored breath, which only worsens as she climbs the steps.

She walks the length of the interior: vinyl seats glisten with Armor All, ribbed floor mopped, windows sparkling in the morning sun. From the back of the bus, she looks towards her cockpit, her eyes roaming over the rows of bench seats. She thinks of when Ellie, her own young self, tried to hide at the back of the bus so the other kids could not see her, but certain that all eyes were on her, still laughing. She marches back up the isle to the driver’s seat, remembering the shame and embarrassment Ellie felt with each pass through the bus. She saddles up behind the wheel and the rubber gaskets squeak as she closes the door, creating an airtight seal, like slipping into a great novel and breathing the isolated air of its words, extinguishing the debilitating memories of Ellie.

She turns the key to bring the engine to attention and her hands, now resting on the steering wheel, vibrate as the aged diesel comes to life. Though the Cat 3116 is a massive beast, she knows she is in complete control, more so than in any other aspect of her life. She transfers power to the axle and leaves the parking lot. The entire system calms like a meditative practice: rubber on blacktop, fuel to power, dominating over diminutive cars below, and simply demanding a respected space in the world. Ms. Taylor is content and maybe even happy, though she is aware this will change as she opens the doors at her first stop in a few moments. Her passengers will disrupt the flow and fail to see her as she sees herself at exactly this moment.

Most of the kids she picks up know her from previous years, but they make no effort at friendliness or outreach, and she concludes they see her as an inanimate object existing for no other reason than to provide for their selfish needs. They walk up the bus steps and slide past her in their own little worlds, protected by their egocentric misunderstanding that all is well. Their new clothes and vibrant giddiness either protect them with a certain conformity or mask their thin facade which will in time be pierced by inevitable arrows. Most of them do not understand they are walking into a cauldron which will boil them alive. But she doesn’t care really. They are much like cargo to her: packages she must safely deliver from one place to another with no idea what differentiates them, no different from the millions of generic cardboard boxes DHL and FedEx deliver. In physiognomy, they are clones of her past tormentors and she is not concerned about what they think of her or her bus. She accepts them as an unpleasant part of the job but goes out of her way to avoid mingling with the little creatures.

Ms. Taylor opened the doors at the corner of Locust Drive and Eos Lane, and the waiting kids piled on the bus, none of whom greeted her, nor she them. The final student, still standing under the street sign, a short, chubby girl barely recognizable as such beneath her costume of contrasting colors. She wore a frayed, overly large tie-dyed t-shirt, probably from her father’s forlorn days, an orange paisley, ankle length skirt, and filthy white Chuck Taylor low tops. Dressed herself for the first time, Ms. Taylor thinks, like a defiant toddler drowning in a mishmash of hand-me-downs, totally inappropriate for the first-grader she must be. Rats nest hairdo and a smile to reveal her ignorance. And waving something that looks like a chopstick. Prime target entering the fray.

 “Are you getting in?” Ms. Taylor asked.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” the girl replied and climbed the steps.

 “You’re new.” Ms. Taylor said.

“I’m not new, I’m six years old,” the girl replied in a mouse’s squeak.

“Funny. Who are you?”

“Samantha, but my friends call me Ragdoll.”

“Friends call you that?”

“Not friends really, the other kids.”

“Definitely not friends,” Ms. Taylor said, and immediately regretted this comment reeking of empathy and connection, things she has always eschewed.

 “It’s ok,” Samantha said. “I wave this and everything is fine.”

“And what exactly is that?” Ms. Taylor asked, pointing at the chopstick.

 “It’s my magic wand.”

“It looks like a chopstick.”

“It’s a wand. Want me to show you how it works?”

“I want you to show me how you put it in your pack. Things like that are not allowed out in the bus. And don’t make me wait for you next time.”

Samantha buried the wand in her pack and Ms. Taylor shook her thumb towards the seats. Samantha walked past the other students, none of them willing to make room for her. Ms. Taylor thought the poor thing would never find a seat but Samantha walked to the back of the bus and perched herself on the edge of a bench, seemingly unaware that her parade past the other kids and her shimmying up to the child sharing her bench was enough to gestate plenty of biting commentary. It reminded her of the time Ellie walked on a school bus as a rider, thinking she was a queen among queens, and was greeted with sneers and giggles and turned faces.

Ellie had waited ages for her parents to buy the outfit most other girls in school were already wearing: Funky Baby bellbottom jeans and peasant blouse with bell sleeves and floral embroidery. When they surprised her with these very things on her eleventh birthday, she threw the packaging aside, quickly changed into the new outfit, stood in front of the mirror, and saw a stylish, fairly hip preteen, not pretty really, but pleasant enough, destined to mingle with the beautiful and popular at school. She did not see how the tight, high-rise waist squeezed her big belly over the belt and plastered the pockets between folds of flesh. She did not see how the wide bell bottoms exaggerated her calves and feet and made them seem more like two circus tents. Nor did she see how the loose white blouse fell like a bed sheet over her torso, leaving her head floating above an open parachute. Instead, she saw a girl who looked like the other cool kids, sporting very fashionable clothes, the key to entry in the as yet unattainable clubs. It took the hoped-for friends at school to enlighten her to the realities of the girl in the mirror.

“Pachyderm!” rose from a boy in the crowd as soon as the students had entered the school yard, followed by laughs and subsequent “Pachyderm” echoes. It doesn’t take much for the name-calling virus to spread: a mere suggestion, an agreement through laughs, and a couple of copycats. Ellie felt the eyes of her peers focused on her, saw pointing fingers accompanied by jeers and laughs, and the spreading Pachyderm sobriquet, which sometime later was shortened to Pachy, as if the nickname softened the blow of the meaning. Such was the process in which Ellie stopped being one of the crowd and became another object of derision. She knew she was not the only target of creative labeling: there was Davidia for David because he had long hair, My Little Donkey for Stephanie who loved My Little Pony toys even at her age, Pignose for Michael whose nose was flat and turned up, and a girl with an inordinate amount of arm and leg hair was called Sasquatch. Though cast into this group, she felt no comradery. Instead, she felt completely isolated, a large billboard advertising her hideousness, destined to spend the rest of her life alone, and she wanted to fade away and become so tiny as to be invisible.

What she truly did not understand was how these kids saw something completely different than she did. Like her mirror was magic and reflected how she wanted to look and they saw reality. She was confused by how far apart they were, even to the point that they did not realize how devastating the Pachyderm label really was. It was enough to change her life, especially because the name stuck through junior high and well into high school. Even the newest kids in school somehow adopted the name and she was very seldom called Ellie. So, Ellie became a hidden, shriveled creature retreating from those around her, and Pachyderm her outer representation of a useless and unneeded extra.

This is what she sees as she watches Samantha negotiate the animosity of her peers. But, what Ms. Taylor was unware of as she compared herself with Samantha, was that Samantha was not the same as Ellie. Ellie never found a path to happiness or to a group of friends, but instead traveled inward and became Ms. Taylor the bus driver, harboring all the harm that had ever been done to her, dreading time away from her bus, and otherwise tranquilizing herself with spiked tea and waiting for birds. Samantha though, did not seem phased, held her head high, and smiled through it all. As Ms. Taylor was to learn later, Samantha never accepted Ragdoll, she never became synonymous with it, never let it dictate who she was and what she wanted to do.

She closed the bus doors, continued on with the remaining stops. The kids left the bus with Samantha following at the back of the line. They left as quietly as they had entered. Only Samantha turned to look at her before leaving.

“Thanks for the ride. Have a good day,” Samantha said.

Ms. Taylor gave a one-sided smile and barely a nod in response, and she felt even that was too much. She had no intention of entering into dialogue with this girl. She watched as Samantha removed her chopstick from her pack and waved it in front of her as she made her way to the building and Ms. Taylor could not help but secretly wish her good luck.

That afternoon, Ms. Taylor waited as the children slowly climbed on the bus with Samantha last to board. She stopped in front of Ms. Taylor and handed her a folded sheet of drawing paper and then moved on, looking for a seat. The paper, once opened, revealed a primitive drawing of a very yellow school bus with a blue winged something on its side. Ms. Taylor folded the paper and put it aside. This was one of the many drawings she was to receive over the coming weeks: mostly of buses, inside and out, and sometimes of things that looked like they could be birds, or maybe flying dinosaurs, maybe even planes.

The school year progressed and Ms. Taylor remained the recipient of Samantha’s gifts: drawings, painted rocks, and of course her friendly chatter encouraging conversation. She took the gifts, shoving them in her pockets, discarding them when she left the bus, but wished she had the strength to reject them. She felt doing so would devastate the girl but didn’t understand why she cared. She did spurn Samantha’s attempts at conversation, though, knowing that all she could say to the child had already been said. Still, Samantha remained a bubbling brook, oblivious to ridicule, always in her slovenly and mismatched outfits. Ellie hid her parents’ gift the day of the first ridicule and eventually discarded it without her parents knowing. Samantha was always baggy, always oversized, always waving that chopstick, and usually smiling.

One Friday, dropping kids off at the corner of Locust Drive and Eos Lane, Samantha stopped by Ms. Taylor and offered typical thanks and wishes for the weekend, but did not turn to go. She expectantly stood there.

Ms. Taylor tried to bide the silence without addressing Samantha but the girl did not budge and seemed cemented to her spot.

“What’s up Samantha?” Ms. Taylor finally murmured.

“Can I show you my wand before I go?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Not really close though.”

“Fine, let’s see.”

Samantha reached in her bag and pulled out her wand. She held it gently at each end in front of Ms. Taylor as if she was presenting a priceless piece of jewelry.

Ms. Taylor scrutinized the chopstick to satisfy the girl and get her to leave the bus. As she thought from the beginning, it was a plastic, mass produced chopstick: one rounded end, one squared, lacking any carving or writing to make it a keepsake, nothing more than a common eating utensil. “That’s great, Samantha. See you Monday.”

“I wave it like this and presto, mean things disappear. There’s pretty colors everywhere. Pink clouds, purple puppies. And birds. Lots! They fly around me so fast mean things spin away. And then I feel good. Happy I’m me.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to have it. I think it will work for you too.”

As if I need magic for that, Ms. Taylor thought. Between Bus 16 and her home sanctuary, she thought feeling good and happy were under control. And she could already imagine the jokes if anyone saw her waving, even carrying, a chopstick.

“That’s kind of you, but I can’t take it. Don’t you need it?”

“I do. But I know where my mom keeps them. She has so many I don’t think she will miss one more.”

Samantha held it out to Ms. Taylor, who alternates between looking at Samantha and the wand, but ultimately takes it. This gift, more than all the others Samantha had given, caused a lump in her throat, lightheadedness, and supreme surprise, knowing that it was Samantha’s talisman, her shield from the ugliness she knew so well. She lacked the skill and practice to put words to her feelings and struggled for something to say to this girl and her gesture.

“It’s heavier than I imagined,” was the best she could come up with.

“That’s the magic,” Samantha says. “Go ahead. Try it.”

Ms. Taylor hesitates, looks around, and then waves the wand a few times in front of Samantha.

“Anything?” Samantha excitedly asks.

“No, sorry. I’ll try harder next time. But thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, and thanks for all the rides,” Samantha said and turned to walk down the steps.

Impulsively, Ms. Taylor blurted out “Pachyderm!”

Samantha stopped and turned in surprise. “What?”

“Pachyderm. That’s what kids used to call me. When I was young like you.”

“What’s a pachyderm?”

“It’s a very creative name for something that looks like an elephant.”

“But you don’t look anything like an elephant,” Samantha whispered.

“Thanks, but everyone else thought I did.”

“Probably not.”

“Who knows? Anyway, you don’t look anything like a ragdoll.”

“Nope.” Samantha said. She descends the steps and is gone. Ms. Taylor places the wand in her shirt pocket and closes the doors. She returns to the district lot, parks the bus, and leaves for home. The “Until tomorrow Ms. Taylor” and “Have a good evening” from her colleagues seem to ring with a sincerity they lacked before but she walks on without acknowledging, certain she must be imagining intentions that do not exist.

She makes a pitcher of tea and falls into her lounge chair. But the relaxation does not arrive. She does not open her book nor take a first sip. She studies her lingering confusion over the budding friendship with Samantha. Wonders where Samantha gets the strength to reject and rise above that which destroyed Ellie. And what it is Samantha sees in her that causes so much kindness. She is also racked with fear: fear that the isolated weekend will feel more like a month, fear that the drinks and current novel will fail to deliver their usual comfort, fear that the pain she nurtured for so long will prove a feeble elixir, and fear of all that could go wrong should she reach out to this girl.

She takes the gifted chopstick in her hand, grasps the square end, and makes small circles in the air. Nothing. She closes her eyes, imagines Ellie wildly dancing in her hippie clothes, and tries again. No colors, no pink clouds, no purple puppies. She laughs at her belief that a chopstick could materialize these things and at her envy of a little girl who can orchestrate such a device and at how silly she now feels waving a chopstick in the air. She sits in silence. And then, a blooming of gentle birdsong. A volley of calls. A bluebird flits past. She eyes its path to the closest nest box. It perches outside, then squeezes in the small opening.

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David H Weinberger is an American author writing in Berlin, Germany. His stories have appeared in The Write Launch, The Normal School, The Ravens Perch, Gravel, and elsewhere. He holds a Master’s Degree in Early Childhood Education and taught kindergarten for eight years in Salt Lake City, Utah. Visit davidhweinberger.com to read more of his stories. Read the author’s commentary on his story.

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