PIA ROXAS | Last Bus Ride

PIA ROXAS

Last Bus Ride

THE AUTHOR HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT TO THIS STORY. THIS IS POSTED WITH PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR.

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M.A.C. liner # 3

The bus door whooshes open. Three men holding battered construction hats, their washed-out, tattered packs over their shoulders, hoist themselves on to the bus. They amble in, the bus aisle shaving them into a solemn, single file. They squeeze into a 3-seater, even with the bus rattling empty. They worked the full day shoulder-to-shoulder. They go home that way.

Em matches where they sit with where they came on. Row 6, Guadalupe. She finds it easier to remember seat numbers than faces. She stands from her little seat beside Romy, the bus driver. She raises herself, hanging on to the steel hold. The familiar ache fills her arm. She welcomes it. It has kept her awake through these many years of late-night bus rides. She surveys the scattered passengers. When it is late like this and the bus carries just a handful of people—like a tableau of still characters in their own separate spaces—she has the time to wonder about each one. She knows where they came from—Aralan which was formerly Taft, tan-ayala, boni, and all the unnamed little stops in between—and know where they will get off. But what are there stories? What are they doing on a creaky old bus at past 2 in the morning? Like this, standing in front of the bus, looking at them looking out or in, she feels a responsibility for them. We have to take them where they want to go Romy. We have to get them to where they want to be.

She shuffles towards the nearest passenger, expertly keeping her balance despite the throttling of the bus. So many years inside a moving vehicle, she feels more comfortable in motion. Even in bed, she can still feel the bus rolling away beneath her. Like a surging river inside her.

The passenger, a girl with heavy make-up, has her peracard ready. She has been crying. "Santa Lucia" she says. Em has to shake her old peracard reader for it to wheeze into life. This thing needs to be replaced. Then Em remembers. Too late.

Em hands the girl her ticket and checks herself from trying to say anything comforting. That girl could be her daughter. But she has seen so many girls who could be her daughter get on the bus and leave, taking their baggage with them. She's seen so many tears fall in this bus. Her own among them. And with its last stop tonight, Romy and her might just shed a few for old time's sake.

It is the girl who speaks, her voice hoarse. "What's that say?" She points at the flashing sign above the driver's seat. It's a plain rectangular thing with white Chinese characters painted on the black field. Em shrugs, "ewan, basta nandyan na yan dati pa" then moves down the aisle.

Again, the bus rolls to a stop. Domeng comes on, their line's ticket inspector. Romy greets him warmly. It is the first time Em sees him smile tonight. Domeng, as always, feels like talking.

"Ba't di pa kayo gumagarahe? Kayo na lang inaabangan ko a. Nag-transponder nang traffic, kayo na lang daw nasa labas."

"Last trip na," Romy explains "may sumasakay pa naman e."

Em sits beside Romy again while Domeng takes the first row passenger seat. They talk as they watch the dark, bumpy road, as they have for years.

"Kamusta kita?" Domeng, concerned.

"Pareho lang. Halos wala. Serbisyo na lang." Em says.

"Tsaka mahirap din namang bumitaw. Ilang taon din tayong ganito no?" Romy looks at Em. Her heart goes out to him. He has been a bus driver for more than 4 decades. His hands have been steadied by the solid curve of the wheel. She knows he will be lost without it.

"Ok nga e, forced retirement tawag diyan. Oras na nga para magpahinga tayo. Bago nang mundo." As Domeng says this, he looks up at the oldest of the trains crossing EDSA—the MRT 1. Through the lights within the cabins blinking on and off, they can see people isolated in their own little spaces.

"O ano, diba sabi ko sa inyo itong mangyayari satin nung tinayo yang MRT na yan? Naluma na yung mga bus, di naman pinapalitan ng mga operator. Tapos dumami na rin yang mga halimaw na yan. LRT. MRT. Anong ibig sabihin ng MRT? Makinis. Rumaragasa. Taob tayo. Plinano nila lahat yan. Kaya nga di nila inaayos tong kalye e, para taob nang mga kotse, bus, dyip. Naalala nyo pa ba mga kotse? Hay, pano naman tayong mga kinabubuhay yung mga ganito. Walang kwenta talaga gobyerno."

Em and Romy laugh politely, as they have for all the years Domeng's gone into this monologue. Em squeezes Romy's hand on the gear shift. This may be the last time they hear it.

"Nagmahal naman din kasi sobra ang petrol. Di na praktikal magdala ng sasakyan." Em, always understanding. "E kung hindi nga sinu-subsidize ang gas nitong mga bus, ba e di nung 2020 pa lang siguro phinase-out na tayo."

"Aba, alangan namang mag-thank you pa ako sa mga hinayupak na gobernador na yan." Domeng, getting seriously angry.

"Ano nang gagawin mo ngayon Domeng?" Romy soothes him to another topic.

"E, gagawin na daw junkyard ni Boss yung garahe ng linya. Alam nyo na ngayon kung ano talaga junkyard diba?" He winks at Romy. "Sabagay, para naman mapakinabangan tong mga upholstered na upuan ..So yun, tatanda pa rin ako kasama tong mga mokong na to." Romy holds on to the railings. "Nakwento ko ba na bus driver din yung lolo ko?" Romy nods. Em stands, remembering she still had a few passengers.

"Kayo, ano nang mangyayari sa inyo?"

As Em walks away, she hears Romy's voice above the bus' rumble. "Pahinga na rin, sabi mo nga. Masyado nang tumagal tong byahe namin."

PBR—BC 8

"What's this Manong? Are they all going home to Batangas?"

"Nako Robert, marami sigurong nagti-trip. Di naman regular kagaya mo yang mga yan."

Robert sits up on his seat, straining his neck to look at who the passengers are. A lot of them are young, just teenagers, giggling and giddy.

"Yeah, they look like they're just here for a last ride."

He bites his lip, thinking he said the wrong thing again. "Sorry Manong, I shouldn't have reminded you."

"Ok lang yon, nag-move on na ko. Nagpagawa na ng bangka ang asawa ko. Magse-service na lang kami sa mga, ano ba yun? Yung mga nagsu-scuba diving? Malaking kita dun ha. Tapos may padala pa yung anak ko galing Russia. Solb na kami."

"Looks like you'll be even better off Manong."

Manong hands Robert his ticket. "Sala-mat ho." Manong smiles at the young man's fumbled attempt at the old language. Most young people didn't even know what that meant.

As his habit, Robert slips the pink ticket into a tight compartment of his wallet. He thinks of the little box where he keeps all his bus tickets. Well, that'll be the last one he'll put in. Maybe in the future the tickets will be some sort of collector's item or something, if he doesn't get to make it into that installation piece he was thinking. Imagine, they stuck to paper tickets all this time. Of course with paper being so precious, he's seen how cheap the quality got through the years. How retro. How very fourth-world. I love the Philippines.

As he bends over to stuff his backpack under the seat, someone plops in beside him. It's a two-seater and Robert chafes at the close contact. He curses to himself, why now, on a ride he'd really like to savor? When the reason why he's taken a bus all these years—despite the longer journey, despite the cockroaches that come out of the cracks, despite the graffitti on the seats or the prostitutes who hang out in the back—has been the rattling emptiness. Not that those things mattered, he actually liked the graffitti and the cockroaches and the dark land slipping silently past the windows. (Fine, so he's had his fair share of back-seat prostitutes too.) But what he meant was, buses felt more alive than the bullet trains. When you stand, the shape of your butt leaves an imprint on the seat, the sweat off your back leaves stains on the back rests. Manong gives you the wrong peracard back because he's so tired from being on his feet. Buses are all so human, while trains, well...

Robert looks at the passenger beside him through her silhouette on the window. He can make out thick, wavy hair falling to shoulders, a delicate nose. She smelled of milk and oranges. She was humming to herself.

She saw him looking at him. Or was she looking out the window? Or seeing him look at her through her reflection on the window? Caught, he looks ahead, trying to see what's on the plasma monitor just above the driver's seat. But as always, there's just too much interference.

He looks out again, trying to concentrate on the landscape rather than the girl's silhouette. The long neck that curves down to her breasts. The little ears peeking out from under her hair. The soft curve of her shoulder pressing against his arm. Aray, this is going to be a long ride.

MRT 38

Allan catches a glimpse of the MAC bus down below as the MRT pulls away. He remembers he used to wait for hours back when tan-ayala still had, what was it? waiting sheds, just for that particular bus. They were old and ratty even then, the dirty orange paint peeling off, no air control, no plasma HD anything. But they suited the rattling emptiness inside him, and at that time, his old rattling bones.

He liked the MAC because its route would pass Cubao, the dirty Cubao. The one with people on the grimy sidewalk sleeping, the one with the seedy 2nd hand stores and the ancient moviehouses/sex joints.

Without air control, you could smell the overt ripeness of the city, its near-decay. That smell that was in his body too.

He looks at himself in the dark mag.field walls of the cabin. His image crackles from the electricity from another MRT zipping towards the opposite direction. It's late, there aren't many people. As his train races, grumbling on its tracks, he steadies himself against the cold titanium pole, feeling the litheness of his newly modified body. He sniffs the cold, smell-less air of the cabin. Wonders of engineering never cease.

As the train eases into a smooth stop, a pleasant voice of indeterminate gender wafts into the cabin, "We are approaching Cuba-o station. Please step away from the sides." Allan feels the hairs on his neck and arms vibrate ever so slightly. The mag.field walls blink once, twice, then zap out. A handful of people step onto the cabin—no more than an open platform at this point.

Allan's eyes move instantly to a tall, curly-haired woman who just stepped in. Something about the way she looked into somewhere far away stirred something in him. A stranger with something familiar about her.

He follows the slight motion of every sinew of her body as she takes one of the hand-holds and sets herself against the sudden jolt of the train's motion. She faces in his direction. Again, "Please step away from the sides." His hairs prickle. The mag.field walls zap back on. The train jumps into quick motion. Her body dips forward. Rocks back. And Allan imagines, to someone looking up from the dark street below, it must almost seem like they're having a conversation.

Provl. Bus Route— BC 8

Robert can hardly feel his butt now. His back is plastered to the seat. He tilts his head ever so slowly to look at the girl who has fallen asleep on his shoulder. With his nose almost buried in her hair, the scent of orange and milk and a light top note of sweat shoots straight into his brain. Impulsively, he kisses the top of her head. And looks away quickly. His heart pumps furiously.

Suddenly, a wave of fear moves through the bus. He hears the teenagers' gaggle—"What's that?", "Fire, there's a fire.", "Oh no..", "Will they let us through?" Robert looks out the window. Some men in grimy, ashen clothes are running alongside the bus, their faces lit by an orange glow. They seemed to be cheering the bus. Shouting something Robert can't understand. From the end of the bus, Manong runs to the driver's side. He hears the bus door open. The din from outside stumbles in—Di makatarungan! Ibalik ang pampasaherong sasakyan! Pahirapan ang bayan! Sasakyang pang-mahirap, wag bawasan! Inchoate shouting. Hoarse, angry chanting. Manong shouts, "Umuwi na kayo!"

The bus passes a mob of weary men, old and hardened. They watch the bus silently, waiting for it to pass, The relatively younger men slap the bus' sides, cheering.

"Last trip! Last trip!" he hears one man call just below the window. At this, several men cheer.

Beyond them, a huge bonfire burns. Angry men feed it with puppets of government officials, with posters from the last election campaign—Ynares sa '36. Some tired women barely hold up a banner—Metro Bus Operators' Association. Robert watches them until they slip slowly away from hearing and sight.

Marikina Auto Corp. liner #3

They had dropped Domeng off along EDSA, right by one of the dark, smoky shacks lit inside by plasmaoke monitors. He said he wanted to have a little of his own fun before running the, wink, bus junkyard.

There were only about six people on the bus now. A drunk man in the middle, lolling back & forth between two seats. Two men had hailed the bus and dumped hin in—"Ibaba niyo yan sa Maine ha."

That young girl, crying.

A dirty, shifty man Em watched closely when he first came in. "Baka hold-upper na naman Romy." And Romy had just shrugged, "Wala din naman syang mananakaw e."

A balot vendor who'd come on board to sell, but seeing the empty seats, just sat down to go home.

The only construction worker left from the three who got on together.

And a willowy, pimply-faced young man seated at the very back.

Seated beside Romy, Em glances occasionally at the long mirror hung above the front view window, checking on her passengers. There wasn't much to see on the dark road anyway.

Above them, three MRTs intersect, their lights firing the bus' dark corners into white relief. In that flash, Em sees just how ancient the bus is—all the cracks in the enamel, the rust on the steel bars, the tears in the plastic fabric, even the passengers tired faces, brought out suddenly by the harsh light. What a shady bunch of losers these passengers are. Were these the types of characters I served most of my life?

But Romy's voice breaks into her thoughts, "Em, para lang ako saglit. Kailangan kong umihi." He angles the bus to the side of the road, right by a run-down apartment, slams the hydraulics of the door and steps off into the dark.

The crying girl and the construction worker stir from their thoughts and look up. Seeing her unperturbed, they slide back into themselves. The rest remain dormant.

Romy takes longer than Em expected. He is gone quite a few minutes. Em stands by the door and peers into the dark. She can only make out a pile of garbage, broken pieces of furniture on the gravel. She hears a dog's bark bouncing off the walls, some sort of small engine coughing into life in the distance. Her hands grip the doors tighter. She considers shutting the door, wonders if after all these years she can drive this bus.

Then she hears footsteps on gravel. "Romy?"

"O…"

She steps back in and sits as Romy climbs on. "Saan ka galing?"

As she looks up at the mirror, she sees that the construction worker has seated himself beside the young man in the very back seat. The young man's head is obstructed from view by the seat in front of them while the construction worker's mouth moves silently to his private ecstasy.

Manila Railways Trans-system 38

Allan studies the fabric of the woman's shoes, ratty, well-trod. Then moves up the smooth curves of her exposed legs, right up until where the fabric of her skirt touches her thighs. The roundness of her body, the youth of her skin touches something in him. The slight bulge of her navel, the plumpness of her breasts promise warmth. And suddenly, Allan feels oppressed by the tight dryness of his palms, the unpleasant tautness of his face. He shifts in his feet, distracting himself from staring at the beautiful youth right in front of him.

"Your stylus…."

He looks at her, startled by the interaction. The woman nods in the direction of the floor, her eyes on the stylus rolling away. Allan follows her gaze, bothered by the blinking lights of the cabin. He lunges forward, goes down to his knees to grab the stylus under a seat. He fumbles back to his feet, conscious of his ungainliness, and goes back to his place.

He looks to the girl, his mouth ready for an expression of thanks. But she has turned to the opposite direction.

Again, the train eases into slower motion. "Please step away from the sides." The prickling of hair. The walls disappearing.

The woman steps out.

The walls zap on.

Her image crackles on the mag.field wall as she walks away and the train zips past.

Allan watches her slip away, his image ghosting on the mag.field wall.

Another train passes. The wall crackles. The lights of the other train blink on then off, illuminating its passengers briefly. Some are looking in each other's direction, their bodies rocking back and forth to the train's motion. Allan imagines they are having a conversation.

# 8

The girl stirs from her sleep and raises her head from Robert's shoulder. She looks up at him, still in a daze.

"Oh...I'm so sorry."

"It's OK. That's my good deed for the day. Especially since I'm usually very selfish when it comes to my shoulders."

The girl gives him a wan smile. The girl sits up straight, inching away. Robert already misses her weight falling against his.

"How long was your act of charity?"

"Since maybe half an hour after we left the station."

"Oh wow. I'm really so sorry."

"I told you, it's ok. I got to imagine I had a girlfriend."

The girl settles back into the seat, straightens her clothes, gathers her bags around her.

Freed, Robert does the same, feeling for the first time the comfortable familiarity of sitting beside a girl you know. Robert takes a risk—"Are you going home or is this a beach trip?"

"Well…"

But if she did speak any words after that, it was swallowed up by the teenagers' cheers as the bus trundled into the bus terminal, the last stop. People reached for their bags, craned their necks to look out and the hustle of piling out of the bus broke out around them.

Caught in the energy, Robert started pulling out his bags and gathering his things. He and the girl stand, cramped into the space between seats. As they wait their turn to file out, Robert takes the chance to smell her for the last time.

He hears her say under her breath, "I took the last bus ride out, but still missed it."

As they approach the door, Robert stops to shake hands with Manong. Manong is the first to wish Robert well. "Ingat ka Robert ha. Malay mo, magkita pa tayo sa train."

Robert laughs, amazed at how Manong takes things so well. "Good luck Manong. You never know, I might end up on your boat too." They shake hands.

The girl jumps off the bus and puts her bags down. She looks around as if she is expecting someone to meet her. A few feet away, the teenagers take turns shooting holographs of the bus. The terminal crawls with strangers.

Robert passes the girl, meaning to head for the exit, to walk lightly away, like she didn't leave her imprint on him.

But just a few feet past, he turns back, calls out to her. Be casual, he thinks.

"So…where are you going?"

The girl looks at him. This is the first time he sees her face in full. He is overcome by her delicateness, the sadness of her face converging into the point of her small mouth.

"Actually…I have nowhere to go."

She studies him as she says this, seeing if he will recoil, find her strange. He looks at her and without thought, the words come out on their own.

"Come home with me."

She picks up her bags and follows.

They walk away together.

# 3

The crying girl will be the last off the bus.

Em is in front with Romy. Crying girl comes up to look out the front window. She says weakly, "I'll get off at the next corner. Just after the old gas station." Her voice is hoarse. Her eyes shot.

Em looks up at her from her little seat "Miss, OK ka lang? May magsu-sundo ba sayo dun sa kanto?"

The girl looks at her, finding a stranger's concern disconcerting. She take a while to answer, "I can take care of myself."

Romy edges the bus into her stop and she jumps off lightly, gets swallowed by the dark.

The hydraulics pull the door shut. In the sudden quiet, they sit, looking out on to the empty road. The bus waits for motion.

Em places her hand on her husband's, his knuckles gripping the wheel.

"Rinig ko na dito yung ilog."

Romy rears the bus' engine back into life. The bus’ familiar empty rattling fills their ears. At first going steadily, then accelerating at a frightening speed.

Em, swaying with the bus' motion, takes sure steps to a middle 2-seater. She rests her old, tired back on the backrest. Her body feels out the temporary comfort of the cushioned seat.

Romy locks the wheel into a straight trajectory, then lets go of the wheel.

He stands slowly, stretching his body out to the strange sensation of standing erect.

He follows to Em's seat and sits beside her.

Em looks out the window, surveying the dark land slipping past. She has always wanted to sit in the window seat. Romy keeps looking forward, watching the dark road.

They reach for each other's hands. The Pasig River swells up in front of them. The bus throttles forward, carrying its last passengers on its last ride.

Em turns her eyes away from the impending plunge and looks forward instead. She feels the surging motion. Of bus, of river. She sees the flashing light of the sign above the driver's seat, the three white chinese characters against black. She looks at Romy, looking stubbornly ahead. We don't know what it means. It is flashing ahead of us. We don't know what it means.

This story won Second Prize for Futuristic Fiction in the 2005 Palanca Awards