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I started riding the school bus when I was 12. That’s when I transitioned from my small, private, Montessori school, into the milieu of my public school district. Because we lived on the outskirts of town, my bus picked up many of the farm kids from their widely dispersed, non-paved, nooks and crannies. I was the first kid picked up, and the last one dropped off on an hour and fifteen minute route. That meant two-and-a-half total bus-hours per day. I sat in the very front: only one seat between me and the driver. For survival reasons, I spoke very little during my first two years of public school, but I listened a lot. That’s how I learned that Mary (our bus driver) sat on a doughnut. I had no idea what that meant. Just like I didn’t know what “popping cherries” meant. But I could only imagine, from all the under-the-breath snickering, that doughnut must be another sex reference. Eventually, of course, Mary had to pee while still on shift. She abandoned her driver’s seat in the JR High parking lot, before I’d compiled my possessions to descend the stairs myself. As I passed her empty seat, I looked casually askance and caught my first glimpse of the doughnut. It was a ring-shaped pillow. White with green stripes. Granted, I still had no idea why she wanted to sit on a pillow that looked like a toilet seat, but it seemed innocent enough. At least it wasn’t covered in blood or excrement or other illicit bodily fluids. I felt vaguely safer. My mom always propped a pillow behind her when she drove. Otherwise she couldn’t reach the pedals. I wondered… if my schoolmates knew that, would they all laugh and whisper about hemorrhoids… like they did to Mary? God. Remind me never to let any of these people get into a car with my mother. I knew that if I could only figure out what hemorrhoids meant, the whole doughnut debacle would be solved for me. Unfortunately, during this phase of intense cultural transition, the only tool at my disposal was my deftness with context clues. The word hemorrhoids reminded me, vaguely, of another word that folks continuously snickered under their breath. Homo. I could only guess that this doughnut pillow was somehow connected to gay sex. I just had to let this mystery marinate, along with all the other vocab and pop-cultural references I grappled with, clumsily, through the entire school day. It was exhausting. I was doing everything I could think of to educate myself. I started listening to 94.5 FM. Because that’s what most of the other kids listened to. I desperately missed Joni Mitchell, John Prine, and Cat Stevens… but New Kids on the Block, Milli Vanilli, and MC Hammer were more likely to alleviate my social ostracization. I also decided to make Wesley my secret mentor. Wesley rode the bus too… one stop after mine. He was intimidating as all-git-out, but his slang vocabulary was captivating. He sat in the very back seat. Wesley was several years older than me, and his parents owned the large acreage behind my house. When he first stepped onto the bus I recognized him immediately. Every summer Wesley and his friends carried their dirt bikes and their boom boxes through his parent’s field and over the barbed wire boundary into my back yard. They pushed their bikes through our driveway to reach the blacktop pavement of the overgrown cul-de-sac that was our neighborhood. Our cul-de-sac was the only accessible pavement for miles… unless you counted the highway. Wesley and company, all sporting flat-top haircuts, LOVED to ride, as quickly as possible, up one side of the cul-de-sac, then back down the hill, momentum kicking up their pace as they flew up the other side and then turned to whiz, even faster, back down. They pedaled and coasted up and down the neighborhood ‘U’, effortlessly, for hours. Over the years they developed their repertoire of stunts (wheelies, jumps, games of chicken, etc…) and eventually began performing the whole gamut one handed while supporting hefty boom boxes on their shoulders. The music reverberated at top volume, straight into their ears. They were all tuned to the same station. During the lifetime that Wes and I had been “neighbors,” we’d probably totaled about 6 conversations… all of them concerned the Donahue’s dog. ‘Grunt’ was a yellow lab who was known throughout the neighborhood for lifting his leg to pee each time you spat at him. No kid could walk past the Donahue’s yard without spitting on Grunt. I’d heard, through cul-de-sac rumor, that Wesley, at the young age of 13, had already been slapped with a criminal offence. Supposedly, a few years back, he’d been arrested for shooting a cardinal dead with a bee bee gun. This was grounds for arrest, as the Cardinal is the Kentucky State bird. I’d also heard folks in the neighborhood say that somewhere, hidden within all that meandering acreage, Wesley’s folks were growing pot. Some kids even claimed to have found it. I knew that growing pot was “bad” but I truthfully had no idea what exactly it meant. Even after three consecutive years of the D.A.R.E. program, I didn’t understand what it meant to “Grow. Pot.” Drugs were never represented to me, by the drug education program, as plants. I thought drugs were made from household cleaning products. Angelica’s stop was about ½ way through the route. She sat 2/3 of the way toward the back of the bus. She boofed her bangs to high heaven and wore heavy black eyeliner. She also wore a cover-up makeup that was vaguely skin-toned but bordering on a stark white. Each morning she ate an entire sleeve of saltine crackers on the way to school while listening to a cassette tape single of Bryan Adams’ recent top 10 hit, “Everything I Do, I Do It For You” on her Walkman. In the pre-dawn stillness, on the mornings when we were all half-asleep, I could hear the click of her cassette, every 7 minutes or so, as it alternated sides. Sometimes she would encourage me to listen to various sections of the song… like it was a Beethoven Sonata, involving intricate layers which she was only beginning to unfold. But, without fail, every time the song came around to the climactic lyric, “I would DIE for you!” she sang along in a wailing, passionate, whisper. The sound was more than a little unnerving. We all knew that this was Angelica and her boyfriend’s “special song.” We knew that he was 18 (Angelica was 14), that he no longer attended school, and that he worked to make money for the house that they would soon rent together. One early morning in February, when it was especially cold and still quite dark, we pulled up in front of Angelica’s driveway. We usually saw Angelica as soon as our bus turned the curb. Her driveway, which was so long that we’d never laid eyes on her house, was blocked by a clunky metal gate. Angelica was generally perched on top of the gate; feet tucked under one of the rungs, wearing her metallic, grey puffy coat with the hood up (though pushed slightly back to accommodate her lofty bangs). But this morning there was no Angelica. Instead there was a gold sedan parked on the opposite side of the gate, just sitting there… We waited for a while, uneasy but silent. No one said anything, but it was obvious that the presence of the unfamiliar sedan made us even more wary about driving away without Angelica. “Hey Mary?” Said Wesley, “Did Jelly say she had a Dr. appointment?” (Wesley always called Angelica ‘Jelly’). “Nope,” answered Mary. “Is there anybody in that car?” He asked. We all moved to the sedan-side of the bus and rubbed the fog off our windows, hoping to discern whether or not the car was occupied. “Looks like somebody’s in there.” Said Debby “Well I hope it’s not a dead body!” Mary trailed off… cringing… “I mean… it’s so cold this morning…” But there was nothing to be done about it. The words were already out… reverberating through the school bus… Dead body!... Dead body!... Dead body! “Go check it out, Wes,” said Mary. “What!?” asked Wesley, totally aghast. “It’s WITCH’S TIT cold out there Mary! I’m not goin’ outside!” “I can’t drive off” said Mary, “and leave somebody frozen to death in Angelica’s driveway! Just go tell me if there’s a human being in that vehicle!” We all looked at Wesley. In my head I was hearing Angelica’s passionate, singing, whisper: “I would DIE for you!” Wesley stood and buttoned his jean jacket up to just under his neck. His “cool” denim jacket seemed about as functional as a piece of lingerie against this February cold. He walked straight and tall down the bus isle, even broadening his shoulders a little, but instead of maintaining his larger-than-life 9th grader persona, he was clearly just a scared shitless skinny kid with tousled hair. Mary nodded approvingly as he passed, gripped the lever, and opened the bus door. We all huddled against the windows and watched Wesley, in the first light of dawn, rubbing his sleeve on the driver’s side window. He pressed his face up against it and then tapped. Then he knocked harder with his fist. Then he dried the door. Mary started having second thoughts: “Get back in here Wesley! NOW!” Wesley ignored her and opened the door. We could tell he was shaking the person inside. “He’s not dead!” He yelled at us. Mary stood… as if to follow Wesley, and then sat and reached for the CB radio. Then she abandoned the radio and started again for the stairs. At last she stood still, just inside the bus door, and shouted, “Wesley, GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW OR I WILL SUSPEND YOU!” Wesley was leaned over, talking to the person in the car. Eventually he turned and came back to us. Mary leapt into her seat, shut the door behind him, and took off before he’d stepped out of the bus foyer. “That dude was drunk as a skunk!” exclaimed Wesley. “Don’t talk like that!” said Mary. “Sorry Mary.” Said Wes… clearly subdued from his experience. Though Mary was absorbed by her get-away, she was obviously taken aback by his rare civility. “‘s’allright Wes.” She said. “What happened in the car?” Wes sank down, unexpectedly, into the front seat… just behind Mary… just in front of me. “The guy didn’t know why he was there. He must’ve tried to leave a few hours ago, and then passed out. Radio base and tell them that Angelica’s missing and there’s a drunk dude in her driveway.” Despite her clear aversion to following Wesley’s orders, Mary picked up the radio and gave a brief description of the scenario, blatantly excluding Wesley’s hands-on contribution. Wes leaned back in his seat, uncustomary silent for the remainder of the ride. About 5 minutes before we pulled into the parking lot I mustered enough courage to ask, “Hey Wesley, what station do you listen to?” “98.1 The Bull,” He said answered. I checked it out the second I got home. Country.
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