The Bus Driver

Every afternoon you fall for his sad black hair and haunted eyes.

This isn’t a pale, corporate, middle-class, white dough-man like you can see every day at your desk high in the sky. This is a man who will sweat. The only kind you’ve ever known. You look at him and he looks back. His eyes make you ache.

He’s a bus driver.

Your best friend says, “He’s a bus driver. God, please don’t tell me you’re gonna get all crazy over a bus driver. Why can’t you pick somebody decent for once? Or, better yet, why can’t you just be by yourself for a while? Just sit back and wait. You only find love when you’re least suspecting it. Don’t be desperate. Desperation shows. Just be happy and self-confident and the right man will come along.”

She doesn’t really say all that, but you can tell by her face that she’s thinking it. Again.

“I gotta go. Me and Julio have to look at halls for our reception.”

Maybe he’s not just a bus driver. Maybe he’s secretly an artist. And you’re not desperate, either. You’re just. . .

Your mother says, “He probably has a pregnant girlfriend at home. He probably deals drugs. He probably picks up old ladies at bars, gives them the best sex of their lives, then steals their purses. You always pick men like that—men like your goddamned father.”

(No, she didn’t say that. Your mother’s dead, remember?)

He doesn’t have to do those things. Or, if he does do those things, it’s probably only because no one ever loved him. If you had the chance, you’d . . .

Your father says, “He probably just wants to use you for your money. Don’t let him, honey. Hey, do you mind running down to the store? We ran out of beer.”

He’s drunk. What does he know?

Maybe you don’t mind buying a few lunches, a few dinners, even a few shirts or gallons of gasoline, to be with a man this handsome who’s starving for your love. Money is something you can spare on love. Maybe he’s secretly a musician and you can snuggle on the couch as you watch your favorite movies and he can write songs for you and you can help him get a better job . . .

The face on the magazine says, “Yeah, sure he likes you. If he has a fetish for fat asses. Not to mention your acne and chin hair. Why don’t you whiten your teeth before you get carried away imagining that a man would find you attractive?”

It’s airbrushed. Don’t listen.

Maybe he doesn’t mind your fat. Or maybe he actually likes the way you look. Maybe he sees your inner beauty. Maybe he sees that you’re secretly an artist . . .

The devil says, “He’s watching you. He thinks about you every night. He wants to squeeze your fat ass in his hands and laugh in your face while you come. And it’s gonna be the best fucking sex of your life. Go get him. All it takes is a six pack. A bottle of tequila. A bag of weed. Just show him the money. Hell, show him your panties. He’ll know what to do. Sure, he’ll treat you bad, but you can treat him bad, too. When’s the last time you felt good mixed with bad, instead of just bad? Do it. Do it now. Do it all night. Call in sick tomorrow. Quit your job. Drive to Mexico. Fuck everybody. Drink. Come. Laugh. Don’t comb your hair. Kill somebody. Who cares what you do? Nobody cares about you. Do whatever you want.”

No . . . no . . . There’s a rosary at home, in your dresser drawer. Don’t listen to the devil.

You twist and sweat, alone in your bed. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .

Your high heels click down the street. Don’t listen, don’t listen, their rhythm says. Don’t think, don’t think, they say when you walk faster.

The bus door opens. Don’t look, don’t look.

The bus driver says, “Hi.”

What do you say?

You say, “Hi. I love you. I know you don’t love me yet, but please say you’ll come with me and let me love you. I know no one else sees the good in you, but I see it, and I know that you’ll be able to see the good in me. I’ve been dreaming about you for weeks. I’ve been carrying around this love, these dreams, this sickly sweet baby-talking affection in my chest. Nobody’s ever appreciated it before and it wells up inside me, just waiting for the right man. Let me love you. I know I can make us happy. I’ll do everything. All I need is for you to look at me and say that you believe it. I love you. Let me make you happy.”

The bus driver looks straight ahead. He pulls the crank that closes the door and drives his bus down the street. He’s not looking at you anymore.

He doesn’t hear you.

But I hear you. And I know exactly what you mean.