What Am I?

by Gary W. Cantor

     The bus rolled to a stop and Dave got on.  Then, after paying his fare, he looked around and was mildly surprised because he was the only passenger.  Of course, there were usually only a few others when he rode the bus at that time of the evening, but this was the first time that he had ever been the only passenger.

     Slowly, he walked over to a seat not far from the front and sat down.  Then, as was his habit, he looked over at the window.  He saw his face and grimaced back at the reflection.  Then, he moved closer to the window and looked up at the sky.  The moon was full but there were no stars to be seen.

    The bus started to move again, and for a few moments all that he heard was the roar of the bus�fs engine.  In wasn�ft an unpleasant sound, and as he listened he remembered another sound that he had always associated with buses: the sound of grinding gears.  As a child, he had ridden on an old school bus every day for several years, and his favorite driver had always forced his way from one gear to another as they rolled along.  He thought of the driver, who had been an old man at the time, and wondered if he was still alive.

     Suddenly, though, his reverie was interrupted by a voice; the voice of another driver.

     �gIt�fs pretty nice where you live, isn�ft it?�h

     He could see driver�fs face, tilted upward, looking at him in the mirror.

     �gYeah, it�fs okay,�h Dave answered.

     He was somewhat surprised because the driver had never spoken to him before.  Dave knew that his name was Bill, because of the name plate that was always pinned on his uniform, but until this day he had just been a silent figure who sat behind the wheel of the bus and picked up and dropped off passengers and watched their hands as they placed their fares into the small receptacle that stood beside his seat.

     �gDo you live in one of those new apartments over there?�h the driver asked.

     �gYeah,�h Dave answered.

     �gThey look real nice from the outside, but I�fve never gone inside.�h

     Dave didn�ft say anything in response, and for several seconds after that it became very quiet.  But then, the driver spoke up again.

     �gIt�fs getting pretty bad where I live.  Blacks are coming in.  Some Hispanics too.�h

     �gOh.�h

     �gI wouldn�ft mind, you see, if it was just me.  But I�fve got three kids�cso I kind of worry about the schools.�h

     �gHow old are your kids?�h  Dave asked.

     �gTwo are in high school and the other�fs just eight.  Do you have any kids?�h

     �gNo.  I�fm not married.�h

      The driver laughed and then said, �gYou�fre lucky, pal.�h  Then he laughed again and asked, �gWhat do you do?�h

     Dave hesitated for a moment, and then cleared his throat before answering.  �gI�fm a doctor.�h  Then he added, �gbut still just an intern.�h

     �gHey that�fs great,�h the driver said.

     At that point, Dave put his face up to the window and looked out as they passed the next bus stop.  Nobody was waiting, and the bus rolled on without slowing down.

     �gI should have studied more when I was young,�h the driver said.  �gThen I wouldn�ft have wound up driving a bus.  I drive a cab, too.  On weekends.  That�fs an experience for you!�h

     �gYeah?�h

     �gYou bet.  God, there are a lot of nuts around.  I can tell you that.  And if you�fre not careful you can get yourself killed, too.  Just last month, some black guy got in my cab, stuck a gun in the back of my neck and told me to give him all my money.�h

     �gWhat did you do?�h

     �gGave him the money.  What do you think?  It was only fifty bucks, but the damn Nigger would have blown my head off if I didn�ft.  They�fre fucking animals, you know.  Believe me.  Sometimes I have to go into the projects, and, well, I could tell you stories.  Believe me!�h

     �gYeah, I guess it�fs pretty rough driving a cab.�h

     �gIt sure as hell can be.  Buses aren�ft so bad.  Of course some of the Niggers and Spics sneak on without paying.  But, at least you don�ft get robbed.  But cabs, that�fs a different story.�h

     �gYeah, I can imagine.�h

     The bus approached a traffic light, and when it turned yellow the driver slammed on the brakes.  Dave reached out and held onto the seat in front of him, and when the bus came to a stop he heard the driver exhale deeply.

     �gIt�fs still mostly white where you live, right?�h asked the driver.

     �gYeah,�h Dave answered.

     �gWell, I don�ft know how long it�fs going to stay that way.  There are more and more Spics moving into those cheap apartments on the other side of the park, and it�fs just a matter of time until they start taking over the whole area.  I�fve seen that kind of thing over and over again.  God, those people multiply fast.�h

     �gYeah, things sure change,�h Dave said.

     �gGod, the whole damn country�fs changing,�h the driver said.  �gI saw the news the other day, and they said that pretty soon Hispanics would be over half the population of California.  And that�fs not all.  Chinese and Filipinos and the like are coming in like mad, too.  Pretty soon, guys like us are going to be the minority everywhere.  And it�fs happening so damn fast!�h

     The driver seemed to be talking faster now, and as Dave looked at him from behind he could see that the back of his neck had turned red.

     At this point the light changed and the bus started to roll on once again.  It slowly accelerated, and then passed another empty bus stop.

     �gHow about at the hospital where you work?�h the driver said.  �gI�fll bet there are a lot of foreigners there, too.�h

     �gYeah,�h said Dave.  And then he laughed.  �gSometimes, it�fs difficult to find someone who speaks English.�h

     �gGod, isn�ft it ridiculous?  And it�fs not like the old days.  In the old days, everyone who came here wanted to blend in.  They all wanted to learn English and become American.  Hell, my grandparents didn�ft speak English when they first came here.  But they learned.  Everyone did.�h

     �gYeah,�h Dave concurred.  �gIt seems like people just want to live here on their own terms now.�h

     �gYou can say that again.  Nobody wants to be an American anymore.�h

     Dave pressed his face against the window and looked out.  He knew that his stop was coming up soon and when he saw the street sign that said �gIndian Lake�h he pushed the button, indicating that he wanted to get off.  The driver slowed down and Dave pulled himself out of his seat.  Then, as he stood in the aisle, he said, �gI don�ft know.  Maybe there�fs nothing that we can do about it all.  But, on the other hand, changing some of the immigration laws wouldn�ft be so bad.  It does seem like things are changing way too fast.�h

     �gHell,�h said the driver.  �gGood luck with that one.  You can�ft change anything like that with our government.  The Jews run everything, and they�fre more than happy to see us go down the drain.�h  Then he chuckled.

     All of a sudden, Dave froze.  He felt his heart jump, and felt pressure in the middle of his chest.  He wanted to say something, but he didn�ft know what to say.  So, as the bus came to a stop, he just walked slowly toward the front door and then turned and looked blankly at the driver.

     The driver then glanced over at Dave, and with a puzzled look on his face, asked, �gWhat are you?�h

     Dave didn�ft answer.  He just turned to his right, stepped down the stairs, and got off the bus.  Then, as he heard the door close behind him, he looked up at the moonlit sky and muttered, �gWhat am I?�h