My bus pass encourages a rather disappointing beep from the hideous machine at the base of the dirty
plexiglass separating me from the seemingly unfortunate driver. He grunts without any signs of recognisable life, and I start to make my way to a seat, scratching my crutches down the aisle. I suddenl jolt backwards as the bastard at the wheel moves the bus off without a shred of care or decency. I grab for open air and luckily find a pole, pulling myself upright long enough to find a seat 135 degrees away.
‘Git,’ I murmur.
Letting go of the pole, I contemplate the myriad of viruses my left hand has just been exposed to on the pole, damn it – into the backpack to find the wipes. Someone behind me sniggers, I ignore them.
It’s easy enough to trip them up with a crutch when they get off. People watching is always an interesting sport. Bus is much more “trench warfare” than train and can be much more adventurous – that is if all
of the relevant vaccinations are up to date. With all the potholes, it’ll be a bumpier ride than applying for benefits. So, from my lunchtime vantage point at the front, I turn just enough to see my fellow
companions on the Alloa 52.
Client number one is Mr. Snigger from earlier. He glares back at me from beneath his raincoat, despite the sunshine developing outside. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and half grins with a mouth
devoid of healthy teeth. He traces his thumbnail across his throat and laughs, lowering his head to complete the facade of reading the newspaper in his lap. I doubt that reading is one of his strengths,
along with hygiene and social prowess.
Candidate number two is an older lady, totally absorbed in her knitting. A dying art, I think. She is smiling and her head moves as if to a silent beat of music that only she can hear. She is well dressed,
too well for the bus however maybe a nice appointment awaits her when she disembarks. Hopefully the driver is kinder to her. There’s a couple of others awaiting my critical gaze however my eyes are heavy, it’s that time of the day. So, I turn, reach out my player thing – I can’t remember the name, but my son says it saves taking CD’s with you – plug in, and close my eyes knowing that I won’t miss my stop.
I awake with a start as an earthquake hits the bus as it navigates through the potholes of central Stirling. It’s still light but fading, that’s a good sign. I look around and both of my previous companions
have left the bus only to be replaced by a small cohort of students. Noisy however inherently harmless, aside the politics ones – they just piss me off. The Westminster of tomorrow, I swear all they teach them is how to argue louder than the person opposite them, nothing ever gets done that actually benefits us.
I unplug the music player and allow a few minutes to come around and properly survey the surroundings. Along with the students there were a couple of business looking people, it must be after 5pm. I look outside and we’re just coming out of Dollar. Such a lovely village, with a high school you need a mortgage to attend. Bloody good at what they do, though, so I hear.
The students are all university age. I attended Stirling too in my forties, had a brilliant time although had to commute on to campus each day. Such an enriching experience, and a stunning place to study – so beautiful. From swans and lakes to libraries and cafés, and curly fries in the Union bar that were the best antidote to a long day of lectures. They also had Guinness, sadly I had a car. There’s four of them, three lads and a lady. All on their phones, just like my grandson.
‘Games and apps, grandad, games and apps – and videos,’ he says.
The other two are also on their phones, slightly different use though. They’re typing furiously whilst talking quietly and quickly into invisible headsets. You no longer leave the office, it comes home
with you – how ghastly.
All this reminds me to look at mine. I am always being nagged to check my phone as that is how this generation seem to communicate. The bus veers to the right and I drop it.
‘Shit,’ I say a bit too loud.
A student comes forward, picks it up and gives it to me with a kind smile. I smile back – the first time in several days. I swipe to open the bloody thing and the screen bursts to life. Two messages. Boots
– your prescription is ready. Great, thanks – I collected it this morning, quite the scoop. The other is from my grandson, he’s passed his piano exam. I smile again and try to reply however there’s always something with this bloody thing that won’t work for me. I’ll do it when I get home, from my home phone, like normal people used to. I plug in again and close my eyes. I won’t miss my stop.
I awake with someone shaking my shoulder, the bus is still and it’s dark outside.
‘Michael, you’re home now. End of the route for today,’ says a much kinder looking bus driver.
‘Saves the heating you know,’ I say as I struggle up on my crutches and down towards the door.
The pipes, the pens + the crutches 