Meanwhile back in the 90s, I must’ve fallen asleep with the Twilight Zone airing:
Monday morning and the bus heads toward downtown to my job. I sit in my usual place as the signs speed by… “CARPAL TUNNEL SYNDROME?”
I drift between sleep and the work I am halfway attempting to do that is stacked in my lap with the whir of the engine and the heater fan sounding in my ears. A man in front of me thrusts his newspaper to remove the crinkles while two women across engage in conversation.
“And so who really does she think she is?”
Another woman puts on her makeup, I watch the mascara wand nervously thinking of the ocassional bump and swirl in the road.
Miss Pullhorn is sitting on the bench seat. She is a large, friendly lady who has been riding the bus downtown for fifteen years to the same job in the same dirty, brown hopeless building.
The bus continues as I work and doze. I feel I have been on the bus for a long time. Nobody is talking now; everyone is looking straight ahead. The driver steers the course, and I try to see out the window. Where is my office? I can’t see anything but clouds and a heavy mist enveloping the bus. I tap the man reading his paper, he doesn’t look back. I turn to the gossiping women, they won’t acknowledge me.
“Miss Pullhorn, hey Miss Pullhorn, where is he going?”
She sits with her hands in her lap and stares with blank eyes. Look at these people, they are strange, I have to get out. I grab the rail and walk forward.
“Driver, stop, I need off this bus! We’ve passed my office! Stop! I don’t know where you are going! Driver! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”