We rode the bus into the city. I hated the bus. For years, the bus the bus the bus, my mom told me. The bus was a lima bean. And there we were, stewing with it. And suddenly all of it was gone, the dreariness replaced by a spark that might last two more decades until the bus descended into marriages and children and alcoholism and defeated the one chance it had to erase the noose of prediction. Now, I hate the bus like I hate those canned beans of my youth, kidney shaped and pale green like private school skirts. The bus, though is more liberated, the bus is a categorical denial of itself, a radiant vision of life happening inch by inch. The bus is character and plot device at the same goddamned time.
by Hank Cherry
