THE OLD BUS
by Patricia B. Gould

copyright December 2009

  The old bus stood almost disintegrated in the deep sand. Whenever anyone came by he would try to talk to them; tell them his story. How he got there, where he came from. Very few were able to hear him, but those who did, listened very carefully and heard his wonderful old tale. I could hear him loud and clear today. He started at the beginning of his life, when he was brand new, and had just come off the showroom floor.
  He said, “I was a beautiful bus that day, and so proud to be put into service. I was painted a bright Yellow with large black numbers printed across my front. Number 747. I was driven to my destination by one of the engineers who built me, he had to make sure I was in perfect condition before I was turned over to the city. He handed my keys to a man named Fred and waved goodbye. I remember old Fred, the man who drove me all around the city of Phoenix every day for twenty years. He took good care of me and polished me every weekend. I never failed once. 
  He changed my oil and pumped gas into my tank regularly. Greased my joints and checked my radiator and all my hoses. He had a routine that he followed religiously. I miss my old friend, Fred. He’s no longer around to wash my windows or shine my paint or take care of me. Old Fred died, shortly after he retired; I guess it was then that I kind of gave up, too.
  For a couple of years I sat around idle in a junk yard with other old relics like me and did nothing. Then one day my new owner, an old miner named Hank, came to the yard, looked around and pointed at me. He tinkered around with my engine, poured gas and oil into me and drove me away. He didn’t care very much about my paint. He hardly ever washed my windows. He didn’t have a routine about taking care of me either. He just put gas and oil in me regularly; he had to or I wouldn’t move.
  One day he packed some of his things inside and drove me northwest to a far away place in the Arizona mountains. It took us about 4 or 5 hours before we reached a small town called Windham, then we turned onto a rough, dirt road and headed toward Alamo Lake. After another two hours or so, the dirt road ended and a trail led to a river of sand. I sank down about a foot into the soft soil. I just couldn’t move any further, my tires were stuck permanently. I heard Hank say that he must be lost; must have taken a wrong turn, or else the map was wrong. Then I heard him mutter something about this must be the Big Sandy River. There wasn’t any water in it; just soft fluffy sand.
After about an hour of putting branches, and old broken logs and stuff under my tires, trying to give me traction, he realized I wasn’t going any further. He must have been really angry by then, because he just sat in the drivers seat and pushed on my gas pedal, making my tires spin, until one of them went flat. Then he realized all his effort to free me was useless, I still couldn’t budge. I was out of gas anyway; and my engine was smoking by the time he gave up. He grabbed his back pack and headed back the way we had come. I never saw old Hank again after that day, he slammed my door shut and just left me there, alone.
  It sure was lonely after that. About a month or so later a man came by and put another door in my right side toward the back. Took out one of my windows, cut a hole in my side and welded another door in. I heard someone call him Jake, guess that’s what his name was. He was kind of old with a beard and snow white hair. Maybe he was my new owner; I guess he was anyway, he slept inside me quite a bit.
  Jake used me for an assay office. He put a couple of old tables inside and some small scales and weights, made a few more alterations, and put a sign up on my roof -- Assay Office. A lot of people from far away came after that to have their gold, or magnesium, or copper or silver, or whatever it was they mined, assayed. I liked the company they provided, but no one seemed to want to clean or polish what was left of my paint. They didn’t even wipe their boots when they visited. No one showed me any respect, probably because of my appearance.
  Every now and then a few hunters held some pretty loud parties in and around me. Drinking and singing and telling jokes. Some used me for target practice. They’d roll out their sleeping bags and stay inside my empty shell all night. Some of my windows still remained whole back then, and once in a while someone would wash them; well, they’d rubbed the dirt off with old rags when they couldn’t see out of them any more. I guess I was still useful to some people, though, I was a pretty good shelter for them on cold nights. They built campfires all around me, the fires warmed my metal body and then warmed up my insides. Maybe my size also gave them a sense of security.
  Then there was a flood back in 1970. I was pretty old by then, but I kind of enjoyed the rain that week. It poured harder than I’d ever seen before, and it washed me clean; even some of my yellow paint was shiny and bright. I remember when I was wet that week, my paint was nice and shiny. I admired my reflection in the rushing water. It brought back fond memories of old Fred when he took such good care of me.
  About the third day of rain I heard a loud roar and the Big Sandy River came flooding over its banks, about 15 or 20 feet high. Suddenly I started floating. It sure felt good to move again. I creaked and groaned but I really enjoyed the ride as I floated down Big Sandy for about a mile, or so. First time I’d ever seen that much water. It spun me around and pushed me as far as it could. Then some trees and bushes snagged me and I became mired in the muddy river. It took days for the water to recede.
  After the flood whenever people came by it was just to remove the glass from my windows or take some of my parts. I guess they took every thing that still remained useful. They stripped me down to just my outside shell. I was so sad the day four men came and took my engine. They had a hard time getting it out; they had to use chains and tackle blocks; they pulled my transmission out at the same time. They even took my headlights and my tail lights. All the dials off my dash were taken, except for one. I can’t remember what that was used for, but it probably doesn’t work anyway, all rusted and such. They took my old rotting tires off that day, too.
  I guess I’m not good for anything now, but I still remember old Fred. I remember how good he was to me. He kept me looking like new for a long time. He drove me every day for 20 years, then he retired, got sick and died.
  Maybe I’ll die too one of these days. Maybe another flood will take me for one last ride. I can only hope. Maybe someone will come along and hear my story again like this nice lady did last weekend. I wish I could remember more details to tell her. Maybe she’ll come again and I’ll be able to recollect more. Well, thank you for stopping, Ma’am. Take care nice lady, come back soon. I’ll be right here waiting.” 


 This story won Third Place in the HWC 2011 Contest.