MORNING COMMUTE Zoe Zachko,
Tenafly High School
It's morning. You wake up to the sound of your alarm, a sound reminiscent of high school fire alarms, war movies, and ambulances. It's, without a doubt, the sound you hate most. But you've tried other sounds, other alarms, and they just don't work. You get up (albeit two snooze buttons and a solid twenty minutes later), brush your teeth, comb your hair, maybe even put in a little gel. Anything to distract your coworkers from your eye bags the size of suitcases and your empty, dead-tired gaze. It's Monday, the week has just started, and God do you hate work. It's pitch-black out as you shuffle your way to the bus stop. Once again, the point of Daylight Savings is pondered by you and the lack of a decent pair of gloves is cursed by you. Winter mornings are hard, but your boss makes sure that the mornings you miss the 9 A.M. briefs are the hardest. So you push on. At the bus stop are the usual crew–people you've seen the faces of for the past ten years without fail–but you've yet to find the desire to learn their names. Blonde with the Red Wool Coat got divorced last month, and the settlement money must've been good, because she's been wearing a different outfit every day for the past week. Bald and Tall–at least six feet but you've yet to ask for his exact height–has a son who used to come with him to work all the time. Cute kid with rosy cheeks, very un-cute fiery temper tantrums. A tall teenager with the same rosy cheeks stands next to him. Huh. Time flies fast. The bus pulls into the stop, nearly taking out Short Brunette who always stands at the curb and holds her thumb out even though the bus river has yet to miss this stop and the ten other habitual riders who have waited here for the last ten years. And still after these ten years, Short Brunette always manages to look more shocked and more frightened as the large, swaying toaster on wheels almost careens right into her. Some things never change. You get on the bus and walk down the narrow aisle, purposefully not looking down, lest you see something that makes you want to push aside the line of passengers behind you–already grumbling about your average walking pace–and unload your meager breakfast onto the curb.
Short Story
You find a seat (at least two rows behind the middle seat; anything before that is where the smelly, elderly, or tourists sit) and you gracefully dive into it as the bus driver swerves back into the road and takes off at the speed of light, only to slam to a halt at the stoplight fifty meters away. You're lucky today; the seat next to you is empty, and it stays that way for the next few stops. The bus goes from small suburban town number one to small suburban town number two, three, and four. Speeding to screeching. More people come onto the bus, all wearing the same business casual uniform. Mostly blacks, grays, respectable muted blues and maroons. You see Blond with the Red Wool Coat sitting in the handicap seat. She stands out like a sweet potato fry in a basket of regular potato fries. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. You see a pair of tourists get onto the bus and sit in the very first row. Those are the true infiltrators; they are the cauliflower bites that have supplanted your side of mac and cheese due to the blunder of an overworked waitress. Eureka! The bus has pulled out of the residential area and onto the freeway and the seat next to you is still empty. Monday blessings are few and far between, so this one you savor like a glass of red wine you paid twenty dollars for at a restaurant even though you know you could've bought the whole bottle for fifteen at the store. You pull your laptop out of your bag to get a headstart on work for the day. But really, you're scrolling through Facebook to see if any of your past classmates are doing anything worth being jealous over. You notice a slew of emails from work that have been streaming in since 7:15. It's your Corporate V.P. George accidentally sending out his kids' soccer practice schedule to the wrong email list. Again. You hear a groan, high and whiny, accompanied by a loud whoosh of air and anunpleasant squelching sound. Is that you? No, it's the bus that has just blown a tire and pulled up alongside the road. A long line of business-casual uniformed prisoners shuffle out of the vehicle, most are grumbling, a few are groaning, some are too tired to care. You are of the latter. Short Brunette is on the verge of tears, probably worried about being late to her early morning meeting. You should probably be worried too. But standing there on the side of the freeway, your hands cold, seeing cars go by, lined up
28
