The Bus Stop

The small boy sat patiently by the tree stump, his over-sized backpack slumped on the ground beside him. As the other neighborhood kids began to join him, I could see his level of anxiety rise. His legs began to bounce up and down, his eyebrows furrowed, as though in deep thought, and his eyes dodged those of the children around him. I saw the mental age difference between this boy and the others, who stood in a circle, giggling and teasing playfully. He may only have 7 years of life, but he feels like he's had 70. I continued to wash the dishes monotonously, staring out the window, knowing exactly how that little boy was feeling.

I saw the red kickball being passed from kid-to-kid, and I watched every bounce, as if it somehow held meaning. Each time it hit the ground, I hoped it would bounce towards that boy, that he would have the courage to grab the ball and join them, but I know that so often, things don't work the way they were meant.

The small girl with her red, curly hair, pulled up in pig-tails, never seemed to catch the ball at the right time, and always seemed to be chasing after it as it rolled behind her. She looked to be about 6 years old, probably in first grade. The other girl at the stop, most likely her sister, looked to be about 10, and must have been one of the oldest at the stop. She was always tossing the ball with a little more force, daring the other kids to challenge her. She acted like she may have a crush on the older of the other two boys, who looked to be the same age as her, teasing him in that way that little girls do. Her dominant personality took control of the small social circle that was the bus stop. I think about my years in elementary school, and that girl who held the same place as this one. Her name was Lisa, and she had a way of making people do what she wanted. She always did bother me, but my teacher sat her and I next to each other, probably because I was “well-behaved”, and was a “good example”. But those phrases really meant “terrified of authority” and “afraid of mistakes”.

I suddenly realize that the juice glass I had been washing has broken, and the cuts on my hand are leaking blood into the soapy water in the sink. The hot water begins to sting the raw, open slices in my hand, and I finally realize that I have to take my attention away from the bus stop across the street.

I slide the ointment out of the tube and onto my finger, caressing it into the cuts on the creases of my hand. The sting of pain doesn't quite disappear, but it probably won't for another hour or so. As I peel the white plastic backing off of the bandage, sticking it onto my hand, my mind wanders back to that kid at the bus stop, and I know that there's something about him that reminds me of myself. His obvious social anxiety was distracting, and I couldn't help but wonder the cause. I wondered if his teachers mislabeled his fear for good behavior, as they did for me so long ago.

I hear the loud engine of the bus, and soon the broad, yellow atrocity stops to let the kids walk the steps up to the aisle inside, which can be just as loud as the engine, if not louder. I see the kids pick their seats together, but the boy finds an empty one, and stares out the window.

As I sit at my desk at work, I can't help but find my mind preoccupied with this boy, and I can't help but wonder the cause of his anxiety. My hand picks up the phone each time it rings, and my mouth answers the questions, but my mind is on auto-pilot, and I may as well be back at the kitchen sink, staring out that window.

The next morning, I purposefully time my breakfast so I'll be washing my dishes while the kids wait for the bus again. I watch the boy arrive first again, and I notice that his clothes are the same as the day before. I think about bringing a muffin out to him, trying to talk to him, putting a smile on his ever-sad face, but I know the other kids will be there soon again, and will tease him for anything they can. I try to think of some way I could help, but I know some things can never be done right. I know there's nothing for me to do.

As the other children arrive, they grab that kickball out of the bush they use for safe-keeping, and begin to bounce it around again. The older boy teases that girl that seems to like him, and I watch the way the other kids watch those two. There's a sense of authority given to them, probably because of their age, and I wonder what it would have been like to be one of them, when I was young. The younger boy, probably 8 years old, has the lightest blonde hair I've ever seen, and he's dressed in plain clothes, a simple grey t-shirt and blue jeans. He seems quiet, and it's hard to tell what he's thinking. He seems to be a polar opposite to the older boy, who's dark brown hair is a bit unruly and always seems to be mussed, which clearly speaks of his personality. He's jumping about, everytime I seem to look, and his hyperness almost makes him seem on-edge. It clearly makes the lonesome boy nervous, as he looks longingly into the woods, seemingly wishing he could disappear within them.

I continue to watch the four passing the ball around, and I can't help but find that bounce entrancing. I stare every time, following the rhythm with my eyes, still feeling like there's something significant behind that bold red kickball. It hits the ground lightly, without even enough force to move the small stones on the pavement, and it makes me think of how young and fragile those little lives are. Those small arms are frail, not from age and deterioration, but from the lack of labor and the youngness written in their bones. It continues to bounce lightly off the ground, until the load roar of the motor arrives to bring them to school. I see the ball being thrown into that bush, and this time, it's not the kid at the bus stop that distracts me all day, but that silly rubber ball.

I'm not sure what it is that suddenly made me so out-of-focus with my life, but I haven't been able to think straight since that boy at the bus stop caught my attention. But for some reason, I can't pinpoint what's so bothersome to my mind, or why I've been so distracted. I haven't been thinking about one thing in particular, but I almost feel that I'm having deja vu, every time I see the group of children at the bus stop. I try to place what it is that's so familiar about that damn bus stop, but all I can see is that red ball in the bush. Something hits my stomach, almost a pang of anger, maybe fear, when I picture that ball stuck in the bush, but I can't place why it bothers me the way it does. I know now, though, that until I figure out what it is that bothers me so much, I won't be able to concentrate the way I used to. It's as if my life is pausing, all because of this entrancing scenery in front of my house each day. It's as though that scene has more meaning to it than my everyday life.

I've been watching the bus stop for the last week, now, trying to place that half-memory, that vague pain of familiarity, but I still have yet to remember anything but the fact that I'm bothered by this scene that's being played on my street every morning. It feels like someone's putting this play on for me, laying out a stage on my windowsill with this scene that never seems to change. It's like a recurring dream, a song stuck on repeat, or a skipping dvd.

The weekend went by with my mind racking itself for any sort of memory that may explain what's been bothering me so much, but to no avail. Today, the children continue their usual routine, with the awkward kid giving himself about five minutes to settle before the others get there, and when the others arrive, they pull their ball out of the bush, and bounce it around while they wait. I've watched that bounce for days now, and it has a haunting rhythm that can't find it's way out of my thoughts. Today, as they pass it around their circle, I see it bounce past the younger girl, and out of her reach, as she runs after it. It begins to roll into the woods behind them, and I see myself chasing after that ball, as a seven year old girl, at my bus stop. I watch her looking into the woods, and I see her wondering if she'll have time to make it to the bus after she grabs the ball. The dilemma written all over her face, she looks back to the other kids, and sees them calling her back, telling her that the bus is coming. She looks after the ball one last time, then turns around and heads back to the others.

The bus leaves the stop and I realize that the memory trying to come back to me isn't one of playing with the ball, or sitting at the bus stop, but chasing after it, as it rolls into the woods. I realize that this is the moment I've wanted to come to me for the last week, and I swiftly walk to my screen door, sliding my feet into my shoes and preparing myself mentally for whatever it is that I'm about to remember. I cross the street, heading in the direction of the ball. I know that something about fetching this ball from the woods has stuck in my mind for such a long time, but tried to stay hidden, until now. I work at keeping myself determined and strong, but I already feel the fear rising in my chest, like the bubbles stuck in a shaken soda bottle, choking itself with pressure until it forces itself out, and only half of the soda remains. As I walk down the slight hill into the woods to find this ball, I feel my legs wanting to run, wanting to move with the gravity that's pulling my body downwards. My seven-year-old self follows the moving ball, as I chase after the one that's stopped moving. I see my little self bursting with excitement, and I can see the joy of adventure and the thrill of being alone in the woods for the first time filling my head with pride. I watch this girl with some hesitation, knowing that there was something here that changed me, something that went wrong, something that stopped my pride from staying in my head for more than two minutes. I feel myself remembering that I was different when I left these woods, and I fear the realization that may come with reentering them. I consider turning around to avoid my fear, but I know that this needs to happen, that I need to let myself out of this trap that watching the bus stop has become for me. As I near the ball, I feel a presence that no seven-year-old would be comfortable near. The eyes of the presence are hungry with lust, lingering on me in a way that sickens. I stop watching the ball, and when I realize what I'm about to remember, I feel the vomit rise up my throat, burning it's way out of my mouth. I watch the clothes come off of my small body, as I slump on the ground, wondering how this never came up before, wondering how nobody ever knew, how somebody so vulgar could remain a free soul after what I see happening. I watch myself trying to scream through his grungy fingers, my mouth cringing as I taste the mixture of dirt and sweat transfer to my tongue. I see him pull out a knife, but I can't hear a thing, I just see the obvious fear of his threat instilled in my young eyes. I feel the heat of my tears rolling down my face, as I lay back into the hill, curled in disgust, wanting to disbelieve what I now know. I begin to doubt my parents, and wonder why they never found out. I question myself, and wonder why I never let anyone find out. I remember that fear that I saw in my young eyes, as the scene replayed itself before me, as I watch my life and everything I felt I knew unraveling. It's disturbing to think about how much our parents can not know about our lives, even at an age where they're supposed to be in charge of every place we go, every other kid we play with, have every tv show pre-approved, and it strikes me, how nothing is ever what it seems. I try to imagine how I must have behaved afterwards, quietly feeling haunted by this man, this animal who took my sense of security, my calm exterior, and shattered it into the anxiety-ridden teenager I became. I begin to understand the fear that powered most of my seemingly unprovoked nervousness growing up, and I try to let it sink in, try to grasp the new reality of my adult life. I try to remind myself that I have already overcome this challenge, I have already worked through this. I bring myself to open my eyes, and take myself back to the conscious world. I don't want to move, but I don't want to stay. I wish myself back a week, before I noticed that boy at the bus stop, before I became curiously distracted. Sardonically, I think to myself that curiosity killed the cat, but they never told me they raped him too.

I look up and see the red kickball, and crawl across the dead leaves so I can reach it. I pick it up, wipe the moisture from my face, and walk up the hill, placing the ball in the bush as I return to my house. I slowly pick up the phone, and tell my boss I'll be out for the day, then lie on the sofa, curling up to protect myself from the knowledge that can transform a life so easily. I pull the knitted blanket up to my neck and force myself back to sleep, back to the place I was a week ago, back to the place where what I didn't know was what I didn't want to know.

My mind won't stop running, and I think about the dynamics between those kids at the stop. That girl, the dominant personality raging through her thick exterior, must have something that fires her big personality. She must have someone even more over-powering watching over her every move at home. The small red-head giggles, not in fun, but out of nervousness, every time she has to run after the ball that bounces past her. The oldest boy, the one who flirts with the girl, secretly fears that every move he makes may be a mistake. His lengthy curls come from a lack of attention, a lack of security in his self. The blond boy is the only sane one. He knows not to draw attention to himself, and he remains strong in his lack of personality. The lonesome boy is only different because he has already been broken. The others will catch up soon.