A Wolf On The Bus
By: Matthew Wallace
Exhaustion flooded my body, leaving a dull ache pulsating just behind my eyes. With my right thumb and index finger, I squeezed the bridge of my nose, exhaling deeply, trying to soothe the pain. This tactic worked temporarily; at least until the bus hit a pothole or speedbump, sending jolts of electricity into my skull.
I reached into the yellow and red backpack that I had nestled beneath my seat and extracted a red pill bottle from the small front compartment. Twisting off the cap, I shook three oval tablets into my palm, threw them into my mouth, tilted my head back, and swallowed. I took another deep breath, allowing my body to relax as the medication entered my bloodstream. I could tell it was beginning to work when the bus hit one of the city’s famous potholes, and I could no longer feel my brain jostling around in my head.
I stared out of the window that was centered directly across from me, watching the buildings and parked cars whip by. I always made a point to focus on the outside world when confined to a public metro bus. The seats faced one another, lined with your backs against the windows, and I hated the idea of potentially making awkward eye contact with a stranger.
Today, there was a woman sitting across from me. She held a baby that couldn’t have been more than a few months old. I assumed it was her daughter due to the fact that she had it swaddled in a pink and purple princess blanket. The woman was looking down at her baby, and making popping noises with her mouth, which caused the little girl to giggle and reach for her mother’s face. I couldn’t help but think it was adorable, and felt a faint smile begin the curl around the corners of my mouth.
Distracted, I realized that I had been staring for a second too long, the mother glancing up and making eye contact with me. Shit, I thought, quickly averting my gaze further down the bus. I fixed my eyes on a man wearing a blue hoodie, scrolling through his phone and nodding along to whatever song his headphones were emitting. My heart leapt inside of my chest, and I could feel my cheeks getting warm with embarrassment, certain that they were now a light pink.
I was ready for this day to be over. Work had been an absolute nightmare, and to say I was tired would have been an understatement. My job as a clerk at the county courthouse was one that I took pride in, but the past few days had been overwhelming. Every day this week protesters had congregated in front of the building, chanting and waving their handwritten signs. To be honest, I wasn’t all that sure what they were protesting; something about rights for all living beings. All I know is that I can’t step out of the building without being verbally assaulted, and that I spend all day getting yelled at by the courthouse’s patrons, who have to walk through the crowd to get in the door.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something about those Neanderthals,” Mrs. Thornton, a 67-year-old crone living off of her deceased husband’s social security, yelled at me.
“They’re exercising their first amendment right, Mrs. Thornton,” I responded, along with a sigh, now used to hearing something along those lines from the people I was trying to help.
Mrs. Thornton huffed. “That’s absurd,” she snarled. “They should all be shot in my opinion. Good-for-nothings.”
I can’t say that I really agreed with people like Mrs. Thornton, but I must admit I felt annoyed at them for making my life difficult. People have the right to protest, and fight for their beliefs, whether others agree with them or not. That is what makes our country so great. I just wished they would pick a different place to do it.
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