Fiction: Your Turn To Dump

By Jill Williams

 

I rode the C bus on that crisp autumn day, just me and a trashy romance novel. I lived further off campus than the other kids. My stop was always last. But I preferred it that way—the solitude, the smell of diesel, the low moan of the engine, the cracked vinyl seats. It was all mine. I always gravitated to imperfections; they made me feel at home. Somewhere I was able to breathe and not have to pretend that I was okay.

I yanked a shiny, unwashed apple from my backpack and chomped down.

“Way to live dangerously, Farin. Consuming dirty fruit. You’re a rebel.”

The driver—a rather intemperate man (I’ve always wanted to use that word) with sullen eyes and red, hairy arms—sneered at me through the mirror.

I hollered, “So, Todd, are you heading to any frat parties this weekend? Any ragers with the bros?”

He spat on the rearview mirror, snarling, “I’m fifty fucking years old, you dumb shit. Jesus Christ, I swear you college kids lose twenty IQ points every year.”

“Fortunately for me, Todd, I’m a genius. Mensa-level. Like that dude in the wheelchair—Spawkings or something like that.”

I was messing with him. I knew it was Stephen Hawking, but I wanted to take him down a million notches because he was such a nasty, miserable troll. Never smiling. I wondered who crapped in his Cheerios.

“What the hell do they teach you in school these days?” he snapped. “I swear you kids don’t know shit. It’s Hawking, you ditz.”

“Thank you, Dr. Todd, for your elucidation. I tried taking your quantum physics class, but it was full. No surprise there, with your charismatic charm and extreme patience. Maybe next semester I can get into your ‘Muffler Mayhem’ class. I hear it’s a real beauty.”

Todd gave me the finger, shouting that I should do something to myself that was anatomically impossible.

I chuckled. Two points.

I rode that same miserable route with the same miserable man for three years. To prevent myself from gouging out my eyes and setting myself on fire, I played a little game that I called “Let’s Tick Off Todd,” awarding myself points for each sneer, snarl, or snotty reply. It kept me distracted—focusing my rage on someone who meant absolutely nothing to me.

His red, furry hands coiled around the steering wheel, choking out every bit of air. The Bus Stop Strangler and Me—now that's a Lifetime Movie.

“Todd,” I said sweetly. “Would you like to receive Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior? Right now, don’t delay. Come as you are and He’ll wash you white as snow.”

I braced myself for his volcanic eruption. The dude probably caught rats around campus, murdered them, and offered their blood to Beelzebub in some twisted ceremony at a shitty studio apartment on the south side of town.

He ground his jaw into powder, not saying a word. Disappointed, I amped up the evangelical hysteria and started singing an off-key version of “Just As I Am.” I faked tears and yelled as the imaginary sheep walked the aisle.

“Yes, you, brother in the back! I see your hand! Amen, sister! Thank you, Jesus!”

He looked out the window, his face ashen, hands shaking.

“Been there, done it,” he whispered. “Bought the religious t-shirt. A lot of damn good it did me. Phonies, every single one of them. They save your soul and crap down your throat. Thanks for the reminder, kid. Anyone ever tell you that you’re a real gem?”

I swallowed my regret. It tasted like coffee grounds and smelled of rancid bacon. I was clowning, not really meaning anything by it. Todd and I performed the same nasty, vile tango for three years. We vomited our toxic waste on each other. It was easier that way—doing it to a near stranger rather than to someone that was supposed to love you, but really didn’t.

“Well, for your information, Todd, Jesus thinks I’m the bomb dot com. At least that’s what my mom said back in the nineties.”

“Holy shit,” Todd grunted. “You actually have a mother. That’s a shocker.”

He hit a bump in the road and I nearly flew out of my seat. I could have crashed through the window and splattered on the road, my entrails and bones crushed by the wheels of this bus, Todd laughing his ass off.

Whether it was allergies or dust, my eyes watered and wouldn’t stop. I shook my head, the salt behind my eyes burning straight through to my throat. Snot ran down my lip, and then the sob hit— loud, ugly, sounding like a dying cow.

Todd was a crash test dummy: emotionless and confused. “Hey, knock it off back there. Life ain’t that bad.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Todd! I feel a million times better. ‘Life ain’t that bad’—why didn’t I think of that? Maybe I’ll get it tattooed on my arm. I’ll tour the country and speak to the youth, inspiring them with those words of wisdom.” I paused for a moment and sniffled. “No, Todd. Life ain’t that bad. It’s way worse than bad. It sucks!”

Todd grinned, his brown tobacco teeth glinting in the sun. “What happened, Snowflake? Can’t get tickets to Taylor Swift? Is the coffee shop sold out of your favorite matcha? Or did you lose a few followers on Instagram? Bet it’s really deep and painful, isn’t it?”

I wiped my eyes and hawked my snot onto the floor. I didn’t yell. My voice wobbled as I spoke.

“No. Losing my mom to cancer—it’s so trivial, isn’t it? And Dad marrying the bimbo next door with her litter of four kids from three different baby-daddies is kind of funny, actually. But the real laugh riot is Dad throwing Mom’s artwork and photos in the trash because it makes Kimberly uncomfortable. My goodness, I feel so much better now. Thanks, Todd. You’re a real pal.”

His grin evaporated. He stared at me in the rearview mirror, his brown teeth  particularly unappetizing. For a second his mouth moved and his eyes fluttered like he wanted to say something. He steeled his jaw, hands strangling the wheel like a serial killer.

It was quiet. Quiet as the winter day when they lowered her into the ground. The silence was deafening—heavy with the weight of Mom’s trashed photos and artwork, and a man burying his ghosts.

The bus screeched to a halt, hydraulic doors hissing open, letting in the scent of collegiate B.O. in the afternoon air.

I gathered my bag, wiped my snot on the corner of my sleeve, and began the walk of shame down the aisle. Forgive me, Father, for I have cried.

Todd would not meet my gaze. Some priest you turned out to be. The steering wheel pulsed in his hands, so hard that I expected an explosion.

I paused at the top step, caught his eye in the side mirror, and gave him a nod.

“Same time tomorrow?” I smiled. “It’s your turn to dump.”

I stepped down onto the pavement, practicing my best I-don’t-give-a-shit smile for my upcoming performance.

 

 

 

 

 

Jill Williams is a writer from Georgia. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in EXPAT PRESS, BULL, DEFENESTRATION, URBAN PIGS, REVOLUTION JOHN, FAREWELL TRANSMISSION and elsewhere.