Skip to main content

Featured

the empty

The fat girl as they call her, came to school with a hypodermic needle in her backpack. It may have been to defend herself, it may have been to instigate something. She comes from a broken home and this is her second or third school. E steers clear of her, and the bullies she tangles with. It was never understood  - how things began, who threw the first insult, the first punch, the first grabbed book but the end is a chronic cycle of violence. At one point, the girl's mother got the police involved and this was seen as offensive, a step too far. The police did not resolve anything so it was all just a lot of saber rattling. That is the most common sound here. The empty threat.

Last week, there was a sobrani, sort of a cross between a parent-teacher conference and a school meeting. I was busy, so E went by herself and took notes. Five minutes in she messaged me, that I was wise not to be there. Nothing about this girl was going to be resolved.
"Boys will be boys" was all …

old school


Even here, the sad undertow of modernization takes its toll. There are a fleet of shiny blue busses on our route now. They replaced a series of random ones, covered in mud, lurching and shaking, held together with duct tape and lumpy welds, floors slick with spilled soda and beer. The old drivers were like the seven dwarves, one always laughing and smiling, one fiercely angry, one tired with red bags under his eyes, one fat, one skinny. And then, one day they were replaced. The new busses were driven by faceless men behind a glass, taking no money making no jokes just a yellow box to swipe your transit card against and recorded announcements for each stop. 

On the return trip home, we stand in a messy parking lot where different busses slam their brakes letting people off, drivers grabbing cigarettes and plastic cups of hot tea, gunning their engines and roaring off towards the river or the forest or the White House. Many of their routes pass close enough to us, so we have a habit of taking the one that is ready to leave instead of waiting for the shiny blue ones. We need to call out our stop to them in a loud voice or they will just keep driving. 

394 is ours today. The bus is an old Soviet design  - all giant bubble windows, seats on strange pedestals but plenty of room. The ceiling does not hover inches above our heads, but feels more like a miniature cathedral. No one squeezes past me as they make their way down the aisle on this ride. The drivers are all short, hairy little men that must own a single, dull razor they use randomly every few weeks. His hands are filthy as I hand the exact change to him.

The bus is half-full and he turns the ignition. A spark emerges, then a strange sound and the lights go off. A man who drives another one of the same busses leaps from the sidewalk, yanking the folding door open and pushing the bus. The driver throws the transmission into gear by force, and the bus rolls slowly, quietly. The man pushing us is wheezing, singing some strange song, repeating some curious poem. I nudge E's elbow and we smile at each other. We have a front row seat at the circus, for 30 rubles a piece. 

People are running down the sidewalk, shoving past the man that is still pushing us, getting onto the bus while it is in motion, not apologizing or saying thank you, just trampling him. The motor does not start and we are rolling slowly into traffic. The driver yanks the emergency brake on. He climbs back towards us, and pulls a floorboard up. I see what I think is the battery there, mid-way back in the giant machine, exposed to the road, no cover. How many times did we sit there, with our feet resting on it? He shakes some clips, and there is a little spark. We smell ozone now.

He nods at the passenger sitting next to the driver's seat and tells him to turn the ignition. The man leans out and does this without hesitating. The lights flick on. People are still shoving their way onto the bus. One steps on the driver's hands. He says nothing, swinging back to his seat and the engine does turn over now, all lusty diesel and smoke. We roll off towards the river as he makes change for the people standing in the aisle. 













Comments

Popular Posts

best personal blogs
best personal blogs