Bus Stop
by Ronnie Smith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Jim has been released into ‘community care’ having been told that he is ready. Is he ready?
_____________________________________________________________________
Jim was ready.
The doctor and the nurses all said so, his home visitor and his sister said so and he trusted them. They said he was ready. He must be ready.
He sat in his worn felt chair in the bare kitchenette thinking about it, listening to the lonely hissing of the old gas fire, louder in the mid-morning silence of his flat where no clock ticked. Thinking about it and staring at the brown wall paper until the strange whirls of the ancient worn pattern started to dance around the room.
Thinking about being ready. Thinking about today being the day. Thinking about the safety of the harsh neon ward with the stench of disinfectant still in his nostrils and the taste of the coating of the pills still in his mouth. The whispered conversations of doctors and nurses behind the frosted glass of their office, talking about him. Thinking and caressing the absolute absence of responsibility there.
Today was the day. Jim pushed out of his chair and walked over to the window to look at the bus shelter, three floors down, right outside his building. The sun’s new warmth made the tarmac steam while the sky threatened another shower from the west.
Jim could see people moving behind the dull Perspex of the bus stop, three of them, shuffling together, quite close to each other, probably friends. Familiar and comfortable with each other. No doubt they were talking and sharing, he saw cigarette smoke rising above the roof.
Today was the day but now was not the moment. Friends behind the Perspex, talking in casual tones, laughing. Friends displaying their friendship, excluding him, isolating him, forcing him outside. Better to stay three floors up for the moment.
Jim would wait. There were many buses. Many buses that would take him into town, there was no rush. He didn’t have to go the whole way, just far enough to the old cinema where they played bingo now, every night with huge prizes. Then he could get off, cross the street and take another bus back again. Maybe it would take an hour, maybe less. Not so long but long enough for the first time.
Then he could be back in his kitchenette. Safe.
A bus came, a forty seven. It could have been a forty two A, a fifty seven A or B or even a sixty three but no, it was a forty seven. All the people got on it, together, shadows leaving the shelter as though sucked onto the bus. Nice for them, to go on the same bus, perhaps to the same place, shopping perhaps or a pub, and carry on laughing and talking together. Friends. Not Jim’s friends.
Now the bus stop was empty. Steam still rising from the street. Glare from the sunshine on the drying road. Maybe it would rain again soon but Jim shouldn’t worry about that because he was ready, he had his umbrella and it was time, now. He rushed to the hall and took his jacket from its hook, heavy and new and his umbrella. His sister bought the jacket for him, brought it to him. Then, when he wasn’t ready, when things had to be brought to him. When he couldn’t go out.
He checked the pockets for keys and money, keys and money, keys and money. No phone, he didn’t like phones. And hankies.
Then he went back to the window one more time, to check, to make sure no one was at the bus stop before he turned off the fire.
Clear.
Jim locked the door and walked quickly to the stairs. After two steps he turned back. Did he lock the door properly? Yes but better to check. Imagine not locking the door just because running back to check was too much trouble. Asking for trouble and getting plenty of it. An hour was plenty of time for them to get in and take everything. They were always waiting, waiting and watching. Why help them by not checking the door because it was too much bother to go back?
Out onto the pavement, steam still rising but the sky starting to darken. He turned up his collar, buried one hand in his pocket, grasped the umbrella tightly in the other and stared down at the tarmac.
He heard a voice. A voice behind the dull Perspex. Only one voice, a man, maybe making a phone call. Jim looked up and saw the dark shape, just one, one that hadn’t been there when he’d checked only a few moments before.
Shuffling on its own and talking on the phone, laughing. Jim hadn’t been quick enough but what if the man had come while Jim was already there, trapped in the bus stop?
Jim stopped walking. He stood still and looked, looked at the dark shape in the shelter, shuffling and talking. Looked up and down the long empty street. Nothing was moving. Steam was still rising but no buses were coming. The shadow would not be leaving soon, would not be sucked onto a bus and leave him in peace to catch the next one.
Even then, if the man got onto a bus leaving Jim alone to catch the next one, others might come. They could come at any moment, talking and laughing, smoking cigarettes, occupying the bus stop. At any moment.
Jim didn’t move. He felt a wet hedge leaf between his fingers, like he used to when he was a child. There were other bus stops, before and after this one. He knew where they were. He could walk to them and get on the bus either before or after this bus stop, earlier or later than now. The street was empty and the other bus stops weren’t so far away and he had his umbrella. He could do that, walk to another bus stop.
But how did he know there would be other people, dark shapes talking and laughing, cigarette smoke, at the other bus stops? He didn’t. He could walk all that way for nothing. No, this was not the right time. Maybe today wasn’t the day or not right now anyway.
He turned round and walked quickly back into his building.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Jim has been released into ‘community care’ having been told that he is ready. Is he ready?
_____________________________________________________________________
Jim was ready.
The doctor and the nurses all said so, his home visitor and his sister said so and he trusted them. They said he was ready. He must be ready.
He sat in his worn felt chair in the bare kitchenette thinking about it, listening to the lonely hissing of the old gas fire, louder in the mid-morning silence of his flat where no clock ticked. Thinking about it and staring at the brown wall paper until the strange whirls of the ancient worn pattern started to dance around the room.
Thinking about being ready. Thinking about today being the day. Thinking about the safety of the harsh neon ward with the stench of disinfectant still in his nostrils and the taste of the coating of the pills still in his mouth. The whispered conversations of doctors and nurses behind the frosted glass of their office, talking about him. Thinking and caressing the absolute absence of responsibility there.
Today was the day. Jim pushed out of his chair and walked over to the window to look at the bus shelter, three floors down, right outside his building. The sun’s new warmth made the tarmac steam while the sky threatened another shower from the west.
Jim could see people moving behind the dull Perspex of the bus stop, three of them, shuffling together, quite close to each other, probably friends. Familiar and comfortable with each other. No doubt they were talking and sharing, he saw cigarette smoke rising above the roof.
Today was the day but now was not the moment. Friends behind the Perspex, talking in casual tones, laughing. Friends displaying their friendship, excluding him, isolating him, forcing him outside. Better to stay three floors up for the moment.
Jim would wait. There were many buses. Many buses that would take him into town, there was no rush. He didn’t have to go the whole way, just far enough to the old cinema where they played bingo now, every night with huge prizes. Then he could get off, cross the street and take another bus back again. Maybe it would take an hour, maybe less. Not so long but long enough for the first time.
Then he could be back in his kitchenette. Safe.
A bus came, a forty seven. It could have been a forty two A, a fifty seven A or B or even a sixty three but no, it was a forty seven. All the people got on it, together, shadows leaving the shelter as though sucked onto the bus. Nice for them, to go on the same bus, perhaps to the same place, shopping perhaps or a pub, and carry on laughing and talking together. Friends. Not Jim’s friends.
Now the bus stop was empty. Steam still rising from the street. Glare from the sunshine on the drying road. Maybe it would rain again soon but Jim shouldn’t worry about that because he was ready, he had his umbrella and it was time, now. He rushed to the hall and took his jacket from its hook, heavy and new and his umbrella. His sister bought the jacket for him, brought it to him. Then, when he wasn’t ready, when things had to be brought to him. When he couldn’t go out.
He checked the pockets for keys and money, keys and money, keys and money. No phone, he didn’t like phones. And hankies.
Then he went back to the window one more time, to check, to make sure no one was at the bus stop before he turned off the fire.
Clear.
Jim locked the door and walked quickly to the stairs. After two steps he turned back. Did he lock the door properly? Yes but better to check. Imagine not locking the door just because running back to check was too much trouble. Asking for trouble and getting plenty of it. An hour was plenty of time for them to get in and take everything. They were always waiting, waiting and watching. Why help them by not checking the door because it was too much bother to go back?
Out onto the pavement, steam still rising but the sky starting to darken. He turned up his collar, buried one hand in his pocket, grasped the umbrella tightly in the other and stared down at the tarmac.
He heard a voice. A voice behind the dull Perspex. Only one voice, a man, maybe making a phone call. Jim looked up and saw the dark shape, just one, one that hadn’t been there when he’d checked only a few moments before.
Shuffling on its own and talking on the phone, laughing. Jim hadn’t been quick enough but what if the man had come while Jim was already there, trapped in the bus stop?
Jim stopped walking. He stood still and looked, looked at the dark shape in the shelter, shuffling and talking. Looked up and down the long empty street. Nothing was moving. Steam was still rising but no buses were coming. The shadow would not be leaving soon, would not be sucked onto a bus and leave him in peace to catch the next one.
Even then, if the man got onto a bus leaving Jim alone to catch the next one, others might come. They could come at any moment, talking and laughing, smoking cigarettes, occupying the bus stop. At any moment.
Jim didn’t move. He felt a wet hedge leaf between his fingers, like he used to when he was a child. There were other bus stops, before and after this one. He knew where they were. He could walk to them and get on the bus either before or after this bus stop, earlier or later than now. The street was empty and the other bus stops weren’t so far away and he had his umbrella. He could do that, walk to another bus stop.
But how did he know there would be other people, dark shapes talking and laughing, cigarette smoke, at the other bus stops? He didn’t. He could walk all that way for nothing. No, this was not the right time. Maybe today wasn’t the day or not right now anyway.
He turned round and walked quickly back into his building.
About the Author
Born in Glasgow, Ronnie Smith has lived and worked in Romania for the past eight years and is getting back into the writing of fiction after a long break. He publishes in Romania, in English and Romanian, and hopes to be published more in Scotland in the future. He is currently working on a novel set in post-independence Scotland.