twenty-something

True North | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One

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The mammoth beast roared. Ollie looked up, startled, at the bus as the driver started the engine. In the cool November air, in the exposed bus depot of Boston's South Station, he examined the huge metal monster, for a moment pretending he was a child boarding such a thing for the first time. His eyes traced its long, silver torso, examining the tinted windows and open cargo compartments. He eyed the white letters on their green background, reading "Vermont Transit." Ollie, the seasoned bus traveler, smiled as if he were seven again, reminded of his destination.

He had waited in the middle of the long, unmoving line for the past twenty minutes, and boredom had gotten the best of him. Before and behind him stood a number of impatient elderly people and annoyed college students, all eager to board the bus. If it weren't for his many flights of fancy during these trips, Ollie probably would have been driven insane by the routine of using mass transportation to head home for school breaks. This was the final time that he would have to take a bus for Thanksgiving and, as a fifth year senior finally ready to graduate in December, he actually looked back at his many travels aboard the Transit chariots with some sentimentality.

The bus door slowly opened, its hydraulics hissing, and the driver -- a kind-looking, upper-middle-aged man who seemed the type that enjoyed lengthy chats with his passengers -- finally stepped out. He was a pleasantly plump gentleman, with graying brown hair and a brown-gray uniform that matched it, a color somewhere between that of a police officer's outfit and a UPS man's. He greeted the crowd as a whole, bellowing in a deep but welcoming voice. Then the overly chatty fellow started taking tickets and people began to enter the coach. The long line of elderly and academia finally started to move, slowly, issuing a collective sigh.

Ollie smiled, hoisted his duffel over his shoulder, and grasped his other bags tightly in both hands. The line managed to move about three feet every thirty seconds. Anxious to get inside and plop himself down in an empty window seat, he hoped to get in early enough to hog the seat next to him with a bag and appear to be anti-social. His true hope, as always, was that some interesting and beautiful stranger would snatch up the seat, a worldly traveler and kindred spirit that Ollie could bond with. In reality, the romantic notion was usually squashed when some sweet old lady with a mothball smell took the seat -- but he took the gamble anyway.

As the line inched forward, a cell phone rang loudly. Ollie sighed in annoyance. On the sixth ring, he was ready to curse at the owner for not answering when he realized that the phone was his. Embarrassed, he reached for it in his jacket pocket unsuccessfully. He struggled with his many bags, eventually dropping some from his hand and hitting a seventy-year-old woman behind him with his duffel. He panicked, worried that she might have busted a hip, but she was fine, more offended than anything, and once Ollie apologized, he finally got to the phone. It had long stopped ringing and the caller had already left a voice mail, which he promptly disregarded.

By the time he composed himself and gathered up his things, Ollie found that the line had proceeded without him. Flustered and frustrated, he advanced, finally meeting the driver face-to-face. The friendly older man introduced himself as Paul and made small talk about Ollie's destination of Rutland. Ordinarily, Ollie would have welcomed the exchange and spent a good portion of the beginning of his ride imagining Paul's everyday life. But today, jaded by the cell phone incident, the city attitude embraced him; Ollie was short with Paul and boarded the bus unimpressed.

As he made his way up the steps, Ollie immediately felt guilty for dismissing Paul. Almost as immediately, the feeling was washed away when he saw that all of the window seats had been taken and most of the aisle ones were too, already occupied by the bags of people who'd shared Ollie's hope for traveling anti-socially. However, judging by the unwelcoming faces of his fellow passengers, he knew that none of them were looking for company.

The person behind him cleared his throat. The old lady he'd knocked over earlier glared at him. Frantic, Ollie searched the bus -- and finally noticed a young man wearing a Boston University sweatshirt towards the back. Ollie was immediately drawn to his fellow BU student (and Vermonter, he assumed), a burly, jock-ish redhead who looked like a Freshman. Ollie quickly approached him and asked if he could take the seat. The boy grunted his reluctant approval and moved his belongings from the spare seat with what appeared to be great difficulty. Ollie stowed his own luggage then sat himself down.

After a few moments of dull and painful silence, Ollie turned to his neighbor. "You go to BU?" Ollie asked, acknowledging the sweatshirt. The boy again grunted an affirmative. "Me too. What school?"

"COM," the boy replied, referring the College of Communications. Ollie imagined the boy would someday, in his thirties, become a famous redheaded sports broadcaster on ESPN, with a beautiful blonde wife and a younger, more adventurous mistress.

"I'm in A&S. Well, Arts mostly. Studio art major," Ollie offered, as if the boy asked, or was interested. He paused, searching for any sign of life in his neighbor, but finding none, continued: "My name's Ollie, by the way."

"Ed," the boy said, monosyllabic as ever. Ollie took the cue and left Ed alone.

He looked around, wanting, needing, some stimulation to his imagination. Ed put on headphones, reclined his seat, and closed his eyes. All around him, people settled into their seats with different degrees of scowls upon their faces. When Paul finally boarded the bus a few minutes later, Ollie looked up expectantly. Paul gave a speech on the rules of the bus -- instructions on trash, bathrooms, cell phones, and the volume of portable music devices -- then took his seat. He promptly began a conversation with the elderly woman sitting behind him and shut off the overhead lights, plunging the compartment into the darkness of the surrounding garage. The bus emitted a loud beeping noise, its warning as it backed out of the terminal. As it began its descent out of South Station, Ollie looked out onto the city in the late afternoon light. He could hear the music on Ed's too-loud Walkman, which provided an oddly fitting soundtrack to the ride.

Before they entered Chinatown, even before they left the ramp, a cell phone loudly rang, singing the first bits of Yankee Doodle before its owner answered it. Ollie suddenly remembered the voice mail that awaited him and urgently searched for his phone. Ed, apparently already napping, grunted as Ollie rustled around beside him. Once he managed to get his phone and dial into his mailbox, he was rewarded by the sound of Chris's recorded voice. He smiled widely as he listened to the message.

"Hey, it's me," Chris said over the cell phone static. "Thought I'd try to catch you before you got on the bus. Call me if you get a chance. Otherwise, I will see you tomorrow around one. Don't tell your mom that, in case I'm late. OK - I will see you. Love ya." He paused. "And happy Thanksgiving, in advance."

Ollie hung up and looked over Ed, out the window, as the bus navigated the Wednesday afternoon traffic. In four hours, he'd be home with his family. In twenty-four, Chris would join him. Instead of fantasizing about other people and their make-believe lives, Ollie, for once, thought about his own.