Standing there in the early morning chill, the same group as every day, looking out toward the eastern sky as the sun slowly crept a little bit higher over the horizon, they waited for the bus to arrive, the #99 route. Some looked into their devices in defeated attempts at stimulation. Others kicked at the ice and watched the steam from everyone’s breath push into a common cloud before dissipating quickly. No one spoke, as was customary. They’d shared that common morning bus stop experience with each other for only a few months as it were; certainly not long enough to break the ice metaphorically with risky words of introduction. They could just kick at the real ice on the sidewalk, silently, each one on their own, the need for connection not galvanizing enough to chip away at the barriers between them.
The bus came exactly on time, as it always did. The soft voice of the recording coming through the speakers implanted around the bus shelter gently imparted the message: “Number 99 approaching. Number 99 approaching.” The doors slid open silently and the commuters shuffled aboard in single file, a solitary beep registering each individual’s presence through a code scan. There were no bus drivers anymore, of course. Only a few of the elderly souls on the bus even remembered a time when there were actual people driving the bus, everyone else having only heard strange tales of a time when humans operated vehicles.
Not that everyone looked back on such times with warm nostalgic remembrance. Mr. McMahon, for one, seated at the front of the new model cyberbus was thankful everyday for many things, including the smooth ride along the route. Just thinking back to the old times physically pained him, as well as psychically. He had suffered organ damage due to the quick acceleration and sudden hard braking habitually done by the bus drivers of the past. They would usually ratchet it up to 40 or 45 miles per hour leaving one bus stop before quickly braking to a stop upon reaching the next one, causing poor Mr. McMahon and others to feel like internally, things were shifting, and not in a good way.
He did miss talking to the bus drivers, however. In days gone by, he had liked to sit in the front and talk with the driver. Now, that was impossible. He and Richard, his old driver on this route, would talk about the baseball scores or other sports news. They would sometimes discuss their family situation, things like that. It was nice to have that interaction. He was also considerate of the other passengers on the bus who were not chatting with the driver. Mr. McMahon felt that they enjoyed listening in on the conversation, that it was comforting to them somehow; just the sound of human voices discussing nothing of any real significant importance.
On the #99 Cyberbus, there was no talking. The sound coming out of the speakers was very low. Cartoon music and puerile dialogue in high-pitched voices was the mandatory soundtrack for the passengers on the bus, while the LED strips overhead switched between various primary colors. The experience of riding the cyberbus felt like a cross between being at a nightclub and a daycare.
Mr. McMahon was on his way to work at the discount supermarket. For even though he was well into his eighth decade of life, he still enjoyed working and there were no other alternatives for him anyway. The rest of his family was already deceased, and he had no known relatives to go live with. The senior care facilities had all been closed down by the health care companies. Social security funds had been absorbed into defense spending. So, what was left to do but keep working. Riding the cyberbus to work was relaxing for Mr McMahon. While everyone else mostly stared down into their device screens, he gazed off into the distance, reminiscing or ruminating about some ideas and theories that he’d carried around inside his head for many decades, still trying to work out the particulars.
Mr. McMahon greeted everyone as he walked into the break room to put his uniform on and clock in. He always had a kind word for everyone else. Perhaps, him being so elderly and genuine, no one viewed him as a threat or a weirdo, or as anything other than what he was: a gentle, elderly man; a bit melancholy at times, perhaps, but, for the most part, always up and at ‘em and ready to chat with anyone.
He proceeded out onto the shop floor to work his shift. He would clock out in the early afternoon and then, before boarding the Cyberbus #99 to return to his apartment, he usually liked to get a small cup of coffee and sit and gaze out the window for a while, remembering people from his past, family and friends. Random poems formed in his head, composed of a lines he heard in the store today mixed with something his father had said to him seventy years before. It was funny how it all worked out, how the lines seemed to go together so well; like his brain had been waiting for just the right words to complete the phrase that sat in his head for seventy years. He smiled and put on his coat as he saw the bus approaching.
THE MOSSY BOG 