The Bus Driver's Wife

The bus driver is my best friend.

He is an old man nearing his sixties, with beard, short cropped hair, and moustache as white as snow. He is a Russian-Australian, and his Australian accent is very thick since he spends most of his life in Brisbane. He has a kind, rounded face that reminds me of Santa Claus, and his eyes always smile such warmth that make us smile back in return. He drives the 180 bus from the heart of Brisbane to the Garden City interchange every Monday to Thursday night, and he wears a dark uniform with a nametag that says Steve.

I have been friends with him since the first year of university. At that time I had just moved to Australia, dominated by fear and loneliness. My bus stop is the last stop before the Interchange, so the bus is usually either very deserted or full of drunk people trying to grab and harass women who appear to be alone. When I first came here, I did not know how to read the bus timetable, let alone buy a ticket. I encountered Steve on the last bus heading home that night, and he smiled at me kindly as if he could read my misery.

“Where are you going, Miss?”

“I live in Garie Street,” I hesitated, caught the name on his badge, and continued, “Sir.”

He smiled again. “Call me Steve. First time on an Australian bus, eh?” his eyes twinkled. He must have noticed I was a foreign student. “You need to stop in Agaton bus stop. It’s the last stop before the Interchange, so I’ll call on you when we’re there.”

I sighed in relief. “Thank you.” And then I realized one more problem. “Um, what ticket should I buy?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “This is the last bus heading to the Interchange, so you can buy a one way ticket for $1.80. You get to pay half price since you’re a student. You’ll need to show your ID every time you get into the bus.”

“Ah.” My face brightened. This whole ticket buying scheme had finally been mastered.

We drove in silence that night, people dropping off in each stop. It seemed like such a long drive home, and the bus screeched to a stop at Agaton. My bus stop. I waved and said my thanks, crossed the road, and looked back. Steve was still there, sitting inside his huge yellow bus, waiting for me till I disappeared in darkness.

From that day on, I always take his bus. My schedules are always mixed up, so I end up taking night classes. I usually take the seat closest to Steve, and just watch him handle difficult passengers who do not have small changes, those who forget their IDs but expect to pay half price, and those who forget their bus stops and swear crossly at Steve for not stopping. I watch him in silence as he smiles at every passenger, saying hello and good evening, counting their change precisely, waving goodbye when he drops someone off, and telling them to have a good night.

I cannot help but wonder that Steve is very different. He is unlike the other grumpy bus drivers who shout at foreigners who do not have the slightest clue on how to take the bus to their destinations. He is unlike the moody drivers who scowl when you say hello and thank you. I am fascinated by the simple act of kindness he puts into his work dutifully every day, as if every passenger is his friend, or even family.

And when we are nearing the Interchange and the bus is practically almost empty, I will stand next to him, clutching the metal stick just behind his chair to keep myself stable. We will talk about my classes, his job, our families, and our lives. I tell him that I am tired because I have to commute an hour a day for classes, that I am lonely because my parents cannot afford weekly international calls and I can hardly call home, and that I have to work for a living since my family cannot afford my life abroad. I talk about the reason I am here. I need to get away from a very bad breakup. I receive a scholarship in Master degree for Economics. I need a new environment. But I am still lonely.

Steve, in return, talks about his wife. His children have left home and get married to the men he dislikes. His wife has to work part time at a local deli, along with other endless freelance jobs to support their lives and she complains about Steve’s long, boring job that does not pay well. Steve only takes the night shifts, because he is older. The younger, fitter drivers can take the double shifts, driving better, newer buses. Steve confides in me that sometimes life is too tiring and there is nothing worth being happy about, but whenever he is driving his old yellow bus, he feels a deeper attachment. He is happy doing public service, and he loves his job just the way it is.

Tonight I stand beside him again, sipping on warm milk tea to ease the coolness of winter on my pores. Steve seems awfully quiet that day, and I wonder why. He keeps looking straight ahead, not catching my eyes once with the humor in his eyes. One by one, passengers stop and jump off the bus, waving goodbye. Steve just nods them off.

“I’m going to quit this job,” Steve finally says, surprising me. His tone sounds so decisive and emotionless. He knows I am going to ask why, so he continues hurriedly, “My wife is thinking of leaving me. She says I come home late every night and she has to work most hours of the day. She is tired of me, I suppose.”

“She cannot be tired of you,” I gasp in horror. “You love her! That’s why you work so hard.”

Steve gazes at his wrinkled hands sadly. “Yes, I do love her very much. But I am old, nobody will hire me anymore. All I can do is casual work, forklift work, and tough works at the factory. Those do not even cover our expenses.”

“You cannot quit this job!” I insist. I will lose a friend, a company, a good person.

“I’m going to get sacked anytime soon, anyway. They already have a new candidate to take my place. I might be going back to Russia,” Steve tells me. “I’ll retire there. Live a nice, cozy life, eh?” He chuckles.

“Will your wife come with you?” I ask hopefully. How dreadful it will be to retire alone!

Steve shrugs. “Who knows?”

My bus stop is nearing so we have to end our conversation. I wave at him half heartedly, but he smiles so radiantly at him that I feel tears in my eyes.

**

Today is the last day of work for Steve. He has resigned a couple of days ago, and has to keep taking the night shifts until the new candidate takes over. I stand beside him the whole night, even though the bus is not packed with people.

“Have you packed yet?” I ask, and then bit back my lip in regret. I loathe asking that question. It just seems so final.

“I don’t have a lot of things,” he says, laughing. “I’m just an old man, what do I have except a rusty bag and a passport?”

“You have love,” I tell him.

He smiles at me so patiently that I want to cry. What am I to know all about love? I do not even have love. My ex boyfriend is an emotional abuser and I have given up on love a long time ago.

“No, dear. We have memories.” He looks at me and says, “Ring the bus bell, please. It will be the last time I hear it.”

I say nothing and press on the bell, creating a sharp ding sound and the light above the ticket machine to flash, signing “Next Stop”.

The bus slowly halts to a full stop. I turn before leaving, and give him a half wave. “Steve. Thank you.”

“Thank YOU,” he replies. “Have a nice night.”

As I get out of the bus, I see a middle-aged woman stepping into the bus. She hesitates and stops right at the platform, but then she gathers her courage and takes another step forward. Steve does not say anything until the woman finds her voice and says breathlessly, “I come back for you.”

Steve’s face is hidden in darkness so I cannot see his response. But when I hear him say, “I know,” to the woman, I know that he is smiling.

**