School Bus

I always thought that it would be cool to live in a bus. Maybe I read "The Boxcar Children" one too many times, or maybe I was really born to hippie parents and only adopted by the suburbanites I called Mom and Opop. Maybe it was coupling my fear of big lonely houses with my claustrophobia of windowless closets that drew me to bus living. Whatever it was, I always thought it would be really neat to lay my head down in a bus at night. And why not? A bus functions a bit like a single wide trailer, especially if it only has to sustain one person. With the exception of a toilet and fridge, it's got everything that you need, not to mention that you can have huge parties because there are enough seats for everyone! Who WOULDN'T want to go to a bus party!? So what if everybody has to stay in one place and movement is limited? It's a BUS party. I'm getting off topic, oh dear.1

To continue my story, I always thought it would be cool to live in a bus. Alors, when I was fresh out of college with a journalism degree in a shiny frame and wallet full of nothing, I wasn't picky about living arrangements. One day, driving down the interstate in my ancient, embarassing Oldsmobile (it was reliable in 1988, alright?) I saw opportunity smiling at me. In tall weeds beside (you guessed it) a trailer home was a long, yellow bus. It had everything I could possibly want in a bus home that I could tell by my two-second drive by glance, which included A- no visible broken windows, and B- a for sale sign. I was on my way to my new job as the editor's assistant for a local, but highly subscribed, newspaper. (It was an bum-wipe of a job, running errands, checking backgrounds on information sources, filling coffee pots; but at least I did get to do some acutal print-work: when the newspaper screwed up, I was in charge of creating and inserting the CORRECTIONS article.) Anyway, as I was en route, I was unable to stop and investigate the bus. I was currently living in my apartment near my old college campus, but my rent had only a few weeks to go, and Opop told me pretty bluntly that I needed to try living on my own and closer to my job. In other words, "get the heck away from those frat boys and become an adult, young lady, preferably one who pays her own bills" in fewer words and with more expletives. I was having trouble finding apartments in the small city where I was now working and commuting to (forty minutes one way, can you believe it?) and I dreaded having to cough up hundreds of dollars a month in rent. Then again, being away from pounding rap music late at night and that pervasive reek that surrounds college boys' apartments was looking mighty sweet.2

After a long afternoon and evening of doing menial tasks and CORRECTIONS (< >), I returned to my apartment, passing the bus on the road again. It was gleaming from the happy, zinging blue light of a bug zapper, and looked like an old yellow dog napping on one side. When I got home, I took a good hard look at my quarters, and, purely on a whim, of course, I started dividing my things into boxes labeled "BUS OK STUFF" and "CHUNK/CHARITY." I just wanted to see what it would be like to live in a bus stuff-wise, having fewer things and smaller items with which to deal. When it was past midnight and I realized that I was on my computer looking up Google images so that I could figure out how many rows were in an average school bus (17, that's a 34 person party), I sent myself to bed without a midnight snack. I was being ridiculous! Only hobos live in school buses. Hobos and Pee Wee Herman, and apparently Rosa Parks, based on how many Google hits I got for her.3

*4

So naturally, being a smart and level-headed journalism-major, the next morning I popped up out of bed before the sun had finished playing through the blinds and got hastily dressed. I was on the entrance ramp when I realized that I hadn't brushed my teeth, but I figured that anyone who kept a decrepit school bus next to their trailer (facing the interstate, mind you) as lawn ornamentation would probably be impressed that I had brushed my teeth the night before. I was fortunate to find some Appalachian washboard ballads on National Public Radio, and I lost myself in the very human voices and lyrics. It was a nice day for April, with just a little bit of cool morning fog keeping the sun from being as bright as it would be at noon. I thought I'd have some trouble figuring out how to double back on the service road running beside the highway to get to the bus, but it was mercifully simple. I got nervous outside the house, was I too early? Was I waking the bus people up? Did I look stupid, a kid like me showing up in a raggedy car to ask about buying a raggedy school bus? Is my car bumping too loudly over these awful potholes in their driveway? Are they looking out the window right now, seeing my face and realizing by my pained expression that I am insulting their carefully de-grassed driveway? I parked catty-cornered in front of the trailer. I stepped out of my car onto wet grass and a fresh breeze. The house was painted with E-Z Chip beige paint; it had what were supposed to be shutters that were already nailed shut to the exterior of the house, for convenience. A small deck attached to the front door and was reached by stacked concrete blocks that were topped with that plastic green fake grass in rectangles. I worried if it was too forward of me to use the front door. It's always surprising whose feathers are most easily ruffled by slight, accidental affronts. 5

I topped the steps. -I have confidence in confidence alone!- I hummed to myself. I rang the doorbell, and shifted nervously in my sneakers. Do I stay on the top step? I wondered, or do I stand on the next-to-the-top step so as to seem less pushy? Are my clothes too nice? What if no women live here and I become some kind of object of icky attention for two old farts? What if-6

The door opened, and a black face appeared, framed by white whiskers.7

"Yeah? Selling cookies honey?"8

I was a little disgruntled at being called honey by someone who hadn't bought me dinner yet. "Excuse me sir, I was wondering if, I was wondering about the bus?" My question-talking nervousness cropped up.9

"Hmph." said the face. I couldn't see into the darkened house. It smelled alright, like cheap candles labeled "honeydew melon" or "cool cucumber." "I guess you'll be wanting my husband."10

"I'm sorry ma'am!" I squeaked. Oops, I thought. I wasn't off on the right foot so far. The door was pushed to in my face. I decided that this woman was not much of a bus saleslady. A cool breeze pushed back my bangs, and it felt good playing across my bare neck and forehead. I looked over at the end of the bus, peeking from the side of the trailer. It would be nice to sleep in an open-air bus, I decided. The door opened again. All I could see at first was a gleaming pair of eyes and a pale wife-beat tank. This couple apparently didn't invest in lightbulbs, but that was alright, maybe they were hippies too.11

"I'm here for the bus?" I told the eyes. As my sight adjusted, I could see that the eyes belonged to an older black man, maybe around 60.12

"Huh." he said. I knew I shouldn't have gone so early. Sleepy old people don't function well. "Les' walk around." He came outside and I hurried down the steps out of his way. I followed him around the trailer past a dog chain with no dog attactched and waited while he went into a pre-fab shed and re-emerged with a key ring. He waved me over to the bus. Up close, it was behemoth, just like when I was little. It sagged onto its left wheels, not because that were flat (or at least not very) but because it was in a ditch. Wild grass and weeds sprung around it and itched at my ankles. Tiny pink flowers bloomed around the tires. A rusty chain passed through the door handles and was secured by a padlock. To this the older man lifted the keys and unlocked the bus, Mr. Bean style. 13

"I know it looks bad," he said, acknowledging the lock, "but nobody's ever broke in. Nobody's ever mussed up the windows, either. Used to be, some kids liked to throw bricks. My dog took care of most of that." With a tinkling tug, the chain fell off the handles.14

"Now, are you interested in buying, or just looking?" he asked. Inner-est-ted, he said.15

"I'm interested in buying, actually?" I told him. In-tres-ted, I said.16

"Now are you?" He opened the doors and leaned against one. "Go right on up, ain't nothing to hurt in there. Should be clean; I hate a mess."17

Inside, the bus smelled musty and old, just like library books. I love that smell, but only in books. Each seat was there, nine per column, two per row. Eighteen seats that could hold thirty-six people. Some party! Even better was that the back was handicapped equipped, with a big empty space and a sideways bench. If there's one precious commodity in a school bus, it's space. Ask any elementary school kid. I walked briskly down the bus and back up; everything was right. The backs of the seats were a horrible mess, cut and carved and autographed and begummed, but the seats themselves were fine. A rail shelf ran above each column of seats. Cobwebs covered the top of the bus, and there was no emergency exit on the roof. As if reading my thoughts, the bus owner spoke.18

"Now there ain't an escape thing on the ceiling; according to law, you can't use this for school children, but I guess for church is alright, or a big family." He really liked to say 'now,' I think. He also said 'school chirren.'19

"Thank you!" I squeaked.20

"Could I ask you what you were inner-est-ted in, exactly?" he asked, leaning his graying head in the bus.21

"Well, umm.. I don't know yet. Personal use?"22

He stared at me for a bit, and then nodded.23

"People used to live in these all the time," he stated, "but that was during the Sixties. People did all kinds of crazy things."24

I smiled and tried to look interested, but ended up looking very sheepish. 25

"Could I ask what you used this bus for." I questioned, sounding very abrasive. I don't function well when I buy things. It's a glitch.26

"I was going to help out my wife's brother, he's a pastor at a church nearby, but the church just never got off the ground. Weren't ever enough church members to fill this bus, much less kids for Vacation Bible School or something."27

He wiped at his face in the stifling, leathery air of the school bus. "So when he decided to pack up and try again up in Maryland, I got stuck with this and the rest of the bill for it. But that's alright. The Lord gives-"28

"and He taketh away," I finished with him. Except I said "taketh" and he said "takes."29

I nodded. I had made my decision.30

"Sir? How much would you be willing to part with this bus for?"31

The man gave me a quick, serious look.32

"The ad I put in the paper said no less than two grand."33

"You put an ad in the paper?"34

"Yep. Isn't that how you found us out here?"35

"No, I saw your sign from the highway. What paper was it? I work at the Reporter, and I haven't seen an ad for a bus come through."36

"Now that's a shame, I wondered why no one had been stopping by, even just to look around. I paid fifteen dollars."37

"Well I'll make sure it gets in the paper for you?"38

"If you're going to buy it, you won't need the ad anymore."39

"Oh, that's right! I'm sorry. You said two-thousand?"40

My mind reeled. That was a lot of money. I mean, it was insanely cheap- habitation AND transportation, one flat payment! But I didn't have two-thousand big ones. Not in cash. Maybe in the bank, if I deposited the rest of my birthday checks from last month.41

"Umm.. you wouldn't take fifteen hundred, would you?"42

"Paper said two," he gruffed.43

"Umm..Alright. Would you take a check?"44

He told me that he would, but that he didn't have a bank account anymore, and it was too difficult to make it out to his wife's, because she was rolling her hair. I told him that I'd come back in two days at the same time with the money in cash. As we traversed the yard and I prepared to wipe off my wet shoes and get into my car, he said 45

"Now it doesn't drive, not without some work," and waited for my reaction.46

"Oh, okay!" I said, when I meant to say "what do you mean, 'not without some work?' How much will this "work" cost? Why don't you do this "work?"" But I didn't. I said "oh, okay!" because I am a squeaky-voiced weenie in social situations and I spent the rest of the day working, digging up graduation checks, writing a deposit slip and giving my landlady my two weeks notice. It was time to move out, and move into the bus. Which is sort of what Opop wanted, independence that didn't come at the price of my happiness!47

Right?48

The two days later, I returned to the beige home in the grassy field with a briefcase containing two grand. I didn't really need the case, everything would have fit in a gallon size plastic bag, but I liked the spy feeling. The older man invited me in his honey-dew scented home, where his wife was cooking something that smelled like homemade mac and cheese. She didn't look happy to see me, but that's probably because she was only wearing a muumuu and flip flops. She did warm up, however, when her husband emptied my briefcase and slowly counted the money.49

"Two thousand," he said. He passed me the case and passed me a key ring from his pocket. It had two keys on it, a big one and a little one. 50

"This 'un," he pointed at the big one, "starts up the bus, if you can get it started. It needs some work like I said. This other one is for the padlock, which I'm gonna let you have on the house."51

I thanked him, and he led me outside to the bus. This time, I didn't go in it again, but we popped the hood and inspected the engine. Or where it should have been.52

"Oh." I said.
"Yep," he replied. "Stolen."
"That's a problem."
"Yep."53

It was a problem for two reasons- one, the engine was supposed to help me cool and heat the bus in emergency situations, and two- the engine was how I was going to move the bus off the field in the first place.54

"I'm a little concerned about moving it?" I muttered.
"Well, I don't have nothing big enough to haul it, but I can give you a friend's number. He owns a car place, he could tow it, and I'd get him to do it half price. He owes me a card game favor, anyhow."55

"Do you happen to know what 'half price' is?" I asked.56

He scratched his head and looked into the bus's gaping injury. He told me that he suspect about seventy five big ones. I exhaled sharply; that would be my grocery money until my next paycheck. 57

I thanked him for all his help and wrote down the friend's number. As I returned to my car, downtrodden for having to leave my purchase in its shallow ditch, the man shouted to me from his door.58

"If that sum gun tries to charge you a dollar over eighty, you tell him that Joseph's still got his golf clubs, alright?"59

*60

That night, my boyfriend Dave came over for spaghetti. I didn't really want him to come over. I wanted to fix enough to freeze and re-eat later that week, not to sacrifice to bear-man. As he happily munched away from the other side of my little bar, I resisted the urge to steal his Texas Toast and I told him about my new home.61

"Dave," I said. I always call him Dave. "I bought a schoolbus today."62

He took a sip from my tea glass. "Don't you have anything for me to drink?"63

"I said I bought a schoolbus today." I told him.64

"Where is it?" he asked, looking around.65

"A real one. It's in somebody's yard."66

"You bought. A schoolbus." He put down his fork (finally) and stared hard at me. "Because your car just wasn't fat and slow enough?"67

"Be nice to the Oldsmobile! No, I bought one, a real one, because it'd be cool to live there." I drummed my fingers on the table. This was not a hard concept, really.68

"Are you telling me that you are leaving this pre-parentally-paid apartment for......... a schoolbus?" he scanned my living space. "Are we shacking up or something?"69

"No!" I said, frustrated. "I've just always wanted to live in one! Okay? It's cool! There are all these windows, and it's small and personal and cozy-"70

"Cozy!? You can say that again!"71

"Fine then, I will! It's cozy. Think of how cheap and convenient it would be, and so much easier. And cheaper!" I beamed, proud of myself. "There's just so much expression you can have with a schoolbus."72

"Cheaper, huh?" He was not impressed. "How much did you cough up for this little expenditure? And can it please be reversed? I like coming here every Wednesday for spaghetti and every Friday for a movie. I don't want to visit a bus-girlfriend! HOW WILL YOU BATHE!?!"73

"Gah, it was only two grand, all right? I'll still bathe somehow."74

"TWO GRAND!? Where did YOU get two grand?"75

As I snatched his plate of spaghetti and dumped it into some tuppeware, I explained how the bus purchase came about. He was still not too excited, especially when I said that I was going to need a loan to the tune of fifty dollars to help move the bus.76

"I'm not living there," he said.77

"Yes, I know that."78

"So why do I have to pay?" he whined.79

I convinced him that if he valued our relationship and this opportunity for me to grow as an invidual that he was going to be encouraging AND supportive. And that if he did not lend me fifty dollars, we would be watching 'Pride and Prejudice' on box set for the next year and a half.
This was a very convincing argument.
After Dave left at 6, consuming the last of my Ritz crackers on his way, I dialed the number for Mr. Joseph's friend. It was after hours, so I got an answering machine.80

"Howdy. This is Big Earl's Towing Company, Incorporated. We move anything and everything, and some in between. Leave us a message and we'll get back to you the next bizness day. Dial one for Big Earl."81

I decided that it would be against my best interests to disrupt Big Earl's dinner, so I left a message.82

"Hi! I was wondering if you, uh, Big E-, somebody at your place could move a schoolbus for me? It doesn't have an engine, and I kind of need it moved soon. My number is 555-1468. Thank you!"83

I slept very well that night, my head filled with bus thoughts. I only woke once during the night, worrying if the bus would use diesel or gasoline, not that I could afford either.
In the morning, I got a call from Big Earl himself.84

*