The 37 Bus

It’s a numbing thing driving a garbage truck

There’s a route. Designed to be the most efficient. There’s the routine, the house that always puts it’s can a little too far back. The other house where the neighbors park in the street blocking a can.

Jack used to drive by that can until the day he realized that an elderly lady lived there. Then he would stop the truck and wrestle the can into position. And on snowy days he’d drag the can back up the driveway for her.

Then home again, a new route in the morning, with different hassles.

But Tuesdays. He lived for Tuesdays.

On Tuesdays, on Jefferson Street a school bus stopped, the 37 bus, and She drove that bus.

Seven kids would clamber onto that bus taking a minute or so, and if he’d time it perfectly he would be stopped at Her red sign with the flashing lights while the children boarded.

He knew nothing about Her, probably couldn’t tell you why, perhaps it was Her carriage, or the familiarity.

Perhaps he just recognized a kindred soul.

The summer break came and went. Had ever a summer taken so long to end?

But in the fall, he was there on Jefferson Street.

And a stranger drove the 37 bus.

He pulled up to the next can.