Drive

The world is broken. I cannot fix it. Not by myself. But I can start the process.

“Charlie Brown?” The secretary looked up from his clipboard.

“That’s me.” I rose from the uncomfortable red upholstered chair, using the black plastic armrests to push myself up. It was one of seven identical chairs in the waiting room.

“Your name’s Charlie Brown?” the secretary asked, raising his fuzzy gray eyebrows. The gesture made his brow crinkle in such a way that revealed his true age.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“Is that your real name?”

I blew out breath in a half chuckle, half snort. “Of course not.”

“Then, what is your real name?”

“I’m looking for a job as a bus driver. Why the hell should you care about my name?”

The secretary looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Whatever. Follow me, Mr. Brown.” The last word was a sneer.

He led me down a long hallway, turning left and right seemingly at random. The secretary was my opposite in appearance – short and portly where I was tall and lanky. His receding hairline showed strands of gray, though the main body of his hair shone a youthful chestnut color. It was probably dyed. Such vanity. I snorted in derision. The secretary cocked his head to the left and glanced sideways at me, but said nothing.

He turned a corner and I found myself outside a solid wooden door with a handwritten sign taped to it. Maria Smith, it read. I just live in a world of generic last names, it seems.

“Here we are,” said the secretary. “Go in there. She’ll ask you a few questions, tell you to sign a few forms, and then you’re done.”

The secretary turned and walked away. When he rounded the corner, I knocked on the door three times. I always knock three times, and never when anyone is looking if it can be helped.

“Come in,” a voice called from beyond the door.

I pushed the door open and surveyed the room.

In front of me was a wooden desk. Behind the desk, a wall sized window revealed the urban landscape. In the distance I thought I saw the rare green of a tree. I fought back my anger at how humans had destroyed the world. A woman perhaps in her early to mid-30s sat behind the desk. Another chair was placed in front of it.

I crossed the room in three long strides and sat down without waiting for an invitation. I wanted to be a bus driver, after all. Sitting down was going to be my job.

The woman typed something on the computer to her right, then regarded me. “Mr. Brown, is it?”

“Yes.” The corners of my lips twitched upward in a slight smile.

“Excellent. I’m just going to ask you a few questions.”

She looked at me as if expecting a response. I looked back. She hadn’t asked a question yet, had she?

“Have you ever been charged with a felony, misdemeanor, or other crime?” she asked, glancing at a piece of paper on the desk in front of her.

“No.”

“Traffic violations?”

“No.”

“No parking tickets, nothing like that?”

“No.”

“May I see your driver’s license?”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and handed her my license. She glanced at it, then at me, back at it, wrote something down, then gave it back. I slipped it back into my wallet.

“And your CDL?”

We repeated the procedure, each of us admirably performing our part of the routine. I dropped the wallet back into my jacket pocket.

“Well, everything seems to be in order. Sign here, please.”

She slid a paper and pen across the desk to me. I picked up the pen and scanned the document. It was the typical terms and services contract kind of thing. I assumed. I signed the paper and handed it and the pen back to her.

“Alright, that’s it. Remember, no pets no weapons, and no drugs on the buses. Be at your station Monday at 6 am for training. Have a nice day, Mr. Brown.”

I pushed the chair back, unfolded my long legs from beneath the desk, and walked away. I did not return her wishes for a good day. Her day would be as it was, regardless of my, or anyone else’s, wishes.

The next Monday, I endured the endless torment of training and the ceaseless monotonous chatter of my trainer. He droned on about rules and routes and probably other things I already knew. I stopped listening. I was deemed ready to be on my own that Wednesday. I was assigned 6 am.

***

On Wednesday, I leaned my head against the headrest of my assigned bus. My eyelids tried to drift shut, but I fought them open. It was 5:55 – a good time. It was almost time to start my exhilarating new life as a bus driver. I yawned with excitement.

I glanced at my watch. 5:59. I watched the seconds march towards 6:00. Fourteen more seconds. 47, 48, 49. When 59 faded to 00 and my watch read 6:00, I pulled out of the station and began my rounds.

I drove to my first station and opened the doors. The businesspeople filed on – the women in their revealing skirts, their painted nails and faces, their ankle-breaking high heels; the men with their perfectly styled and dyed hair, their perfectly sculpted muscles or suits to hide the lack thereof, their overly expensive fancy leather briefcases. All of this, I was sure, to impress someone else. To keep a job they probably hated. Despicable. All of it.

I kept my eyes straight ahead as the sheep in suits clambered up the steps, catching only glimpses out of the corner of my eye. I did not want to look at the dreary state that humanity had come to. At least wolves eat sheep, controlling their population, but who controls the ones in suits?

A scanner read their bus passes. A machine counted their bus fare. There was no reason to watch. Besides, electronics do everything these days.

When the footsteps stopped shuffling past, I glanced to the right to ensure no one else was coming, my expression stoic. I closed the door and drove to my next stop.

When the day was done, I drove to the station, dropped off my bus, got in my own car, and drove to my house. Maintenance took care of cleanup.

***

I just described the last ten years of my life in four paragraphs.

It took that long to get to where I needed to be. Finally, I find myself standing where I had to get the job in the first place.

“So, Peter, your record has been flawless,” Maria tells me. I see the secretary smirk across the room, behind the desk. In ten years, I had managed not to reveal my true name to him. Oh well.

We walk down the hall to her office, where she reviews some records. “No traffic violations. Never missing a stop. Arriving at each stop almost to the minute.” I lower my eyes in shame here. Almost is never good enough. “Perhaps a bit impersonal,” she recites.

“I didn’t know it was part of my job to be personal. I’ll work on it,” I reply in a monotone.

Maria laughs. “Peter Brown, you always were quite the jokester. Tell me, when are you gonna drop this whole Vulcan act?”

“What act?”

She laughs again. “Well, let’s not stall any further. I know how important it is to you to be prompt.” She hands me a piece of paper. “You have a longer route and bigger bus now. Your pay will be almost doubled from when you started.”

I examine the map she shows me. My new route takes me along the highway. Perfect. The bigger bus and the highway route are all I need to accomplish my goal that I started all those years ago. “I start this route on Monday?”

Maria nods. “6 am.”

Maria and I stand at the same time. She holds the door open for me. I walk out and down the hall.

“Peter Brown. Your name’s Peter Brown,” the secretary sneers as I walk by. I continue past without a glance.

I sit in my new bus. This is the part where I’m supposed to say that it has some magical aura around it. That everything about it just seems better in every way. But the truth is that it is just a bus. A bus that is marginally bigger than the one I used to drive. A bus that can more effectively accomplish my goal.

At 6:00 – exactly 6:00 – I pull out of the station to begin my rounds. I stop. I let people on. I let people off. They are all just as vain and delusional as ever. I drive on. Surely, this promotion has been the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.

At 12:00 my new route brings me along the highway. It is under construction. Everything is always under construction. The world is broken.

My bus is full. Several people stand in the aisle. Some talk about the weather or sports or some other meaningless thing. Most are silent. Their chatter is useless. Their silence is useless. These people are useless.

12:12. The time is right.

I check to make sure my seat belt is buckled. Then I jerk the steering wheel to the right. For a moment, the wheels catch on the concrete blocks and the sun reflects blindingly off the side view mirror. Then, the bus rolls over the barrier and tumbles to the busy street below.

Cars honk. People scream. I’m sure some of those screams are people swearing at me. I do not care. I am doing this broken world a service. I consciously relax my body as the bus falls. If I want to see the results of my work and continue my mission, I need to give myself every chance I can to survive. I take my hands off the steering wheel; there is nothing more for me to do. Now it is all up to nature. Nature, and the monstrosities that humankind has created.

The bus completes its descent with a crunch of metal and a symphony of shattered glass. Some of it is the bus’s own structure. Most of it is the cars underneath. The bodies on the bus fly against the windows, the windshield, the chairs. One flies straight through the windshield and sails into the sun. I wonder if he feels like Superman before he falls in a jumbled heap of broken bones and torn flesh.

Cars crash into the bus. The flames they create paint a beautiful backdrop. The screeches that sound mingle with screams in a succulent serenade. The sirens that now blare add just the right harmony. I close my eyes in satisfaction.

When I open them again, I lie in a hospital bed. When I try to sit up, the soft clinking of chains make my head feel like it’s going to implode. It feels like my brain’s fighting to escape its bony confines. I let my body fall back to the bed. The handcuff that chains one hand to the bedpost embraces my arm in chilly iciness. A knock at the door makes my head pound in rhythm with each tap. A nurse – at least, I assume she’s a nurse – enters.

“Oh! You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Fine.” My vision blurs with the effort of speaking.

She may have continued to try to speak with me. I don’t know. My eyes feel like lead weights. I let them fall as I reflect on how I got here.

At first, the memories won’t come. My mind is like an old television, covered in static. I mentally adjust the antenna. Flames replace the static. Screams. Sirens.

Oh, god. What have I done?

Over the next few days, I drift in and out of consciousness. I don’t remember much from that time. Once, I wake up to a nurse shaking me gently.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You were thrashing around a lot in your sleep. I was afraid you might hit something.”

I can feel sweat running down my face. I want to respond, but, before I can, my eyes close, and I am swimming in the black again.

I dream of fire. I dream of bodies lying broken, bleeding. I dream of cars honking and crashing and sirens blaring and people screaming. I wake with clammy hands and drenched in sweat. When I dream, I want nothing more than to wake up. But the numbness of the deep, dreamless black is the best analgesic.

I don’t know how long it is before I fully awaken. It must have been a long time, because I can barely feel any injuries. Or maybe that’s just how much they’ve drugged me. I am still plagued by nightmarish visions of what I’ve done. A demon in the back of my brain whispers that it was all for a good cause. That I performed my service to the world. The demon scares me. I try not to listen to it. Instead, I listen to the voices I hear outside my door.

“How’s he doing?” The female voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Physically, he’s recovering remarkably well. Mentally . . .” A male voice. It sounds authoritative. A doctor, maybe?

“Not so well?”

“Well, it’s still hard to tell. The few times he’s been awake, he hasn’t been lucid.”

“Can I see him?”

There’s a silence, as if they’re waiting for a third person to answer. A female voice, deeper than the first one, says, “I can’t let you do that. He’s dangerous.”

The first female voice says, “What do you mean, ‘he’s dangerous?’ He’s chained to the bed. He probably doesn’t even remember anything. The MRIs showed some pretty serious brain damage.”

There’s another silence, then I hear footsteps leading away. The guard at my door must have stood resolute. Memories begin to trickle in. The demon voice fights to be heard. I try to silence the voice, but the trickle turns into a waterfall; the voice gets louder with each memory.

The female voice I heard was Maria Smith, my former boss.

I betrayed her. She trusted me.

You did your service. You have begun a great journey.

The voices, my own and – well, I guess they’re both my own, knocked loose from each other in the crash – feel like they’ll rip my head in half, leaving a jagged, bloody seam down the middle. I settle deeper into the bed and close my eyes, praying for the analgesia that dreamless sleep brings me. As soon as my eyes are closed, though, flames play across the backs of my eyelids. I snap my eyes open.

Embrace it, the demon tells me. You did the right thing.

I turn as far over onto my side as the handcuff and medical equipment sticking out of my arms will let me, as if I can turn my back on the demon and, thus, banish it forever. I think I hear it laughing.

After three days of being semi-conscious most of the time, I am allowed out of my room. I quickly learn that the guard outside my door, a young woman about a head shorter than me with blonde hair that curls down to her shoulders and a gun at her hip, will become my shadow. One of the nurses takes me for a walk.

“How are you feeling, today?” the nurse asks as we walk down the white hall. It smells of sanitation.

“Oh, fantastic.”

He frowns, noting my sarcasm, and possibly, the wince of pain as each foot hits the ground. Who knew walking could be so difficult?

“You’re walking well,” he tells me.

I don’t say anything. I just look at him. Maybe I lost more of my memory than I realize, but the last I remember, I was a lot better at this whole walking thing than I am now. I look down at the ground to keep my balance.

The nurse sighs. “Cut yourself some slack. You’ve been confined to bed for months. You’re picking it back up at a remarkable pace.”

I shrug. “Whatever.”

Over the next few weeks, the walks get longer. Soon, whomever it is that gets to decide how I live my life now decides I should add weights into the routine. It’s torture, but it must be torture for the demon voice, too, because it finally shuts it up. I decide I prefer the torture of lifting weights to the demon.

Lying in my bed, room illuminated by starlight, bored and in agony after a hard workout of lifting as much as three pounds, the demon is at its most talkative.

You could escape, you know. Silence for a while, then, Just break your thumb, get out of the handcuff. Ask a nurse for a sedative. Use it on the nurse. Then on the guard, if necessary. Break the window. They make it too easy, really.

I try to ignore the voice. I don’t want to listen to it. But I do want to listen. Its way offers escape. Its way offers freedom. I may have lasted as long as five minutes before I grit my teeth, bash my thumb against the bedpost, and, just to make sure, jerk it up and out as hard as I can with my free hand. There’s an audible snap. The demon reminds me to check that my hand is actually free. I slip it out of the handcuff; with the thumb out of place, my other four fingers glide through. I slip my hand back through, so it looks like I’m still confined, before I press the red button to call the nurse.

A few moments later, there’s a knock on my door and the nurse enters. “What is it?” he asks.

“I can’t sleep. I’m in too much pain. Can you give me a sedative or something?” The demon coaches me on what to say, how to look, how to act.

“Sure.” The nurse leaves, then returns with a syringe of what I assume must be the sedative.

The moment he leans down to inject the drug into my arm, I slip my hand completely free of the handcuff and grab the sedative, while I use my other palm to hit him in the jaw. The demon tells me to spring near the door, and now I listen without hesitation. The moment the guard hears the thump of the nurse’s unconscious body, she bursts through the door, gun ready. I inject the sedative into her exposed carotid artery before she sees me. I confiscate her gun and use it to smash a hole in the window. I jump out of the second story window and land in a half-roll, half-flop. If I live to see the sunrise, I am sure I will feel all the cuts that my blood flows from, not to mention whatever it is I must have broken, but for now, the adrenaline masks all pain. As I sprint away, I hear the hospital’s alarms blaring.

Teaming up with the demon voice is the Elmer’s glue that seals the two sides of my head back together. It feels good to be working together with someone, even if that someone is myself. Of course, Elmer’s glue never lasts long.

When I get to the highway, I stop running. I walk along the shoulder, kicking at a rock. I look down at the rock, then up at the moon. It’s full tonight. I imagine the moon and stars would be breathtakingly bright, if not for the pollution that hides them from the world. The demon is quiet. It’s proud of me. It tells me I’ve done well.

When I get to the point where the bus fell, I stop. I contemplate the skid marks on the concrete blocks. One is still askew. I look at the moon. I look at the road below. Despite the late hour, traffic is still plentiful.

I jump.

I relish my brief freedom as the wind rushes around me. I think of the man flying through my windshield. Yes, I answer the demon voice that asked that question so long ago: I do feel like Superman. I hear the shattering of bones marking the end of my descent. The honk of a car cuts off as my senses fail.

It’s just. It’s right.