Christopher A. Lane

THE BUS DRIVER

by

Christopher A. Lane

            Benito was listening to Tejano music, as he always did on the drive in, thinking about home, when a Jeep passed him doing at least 85. It had two shiny, expensive looking mountain bikes strapped to the back and, beneath the dangling, slow spinning tires, Texas plates. He swore at them in Spanish, then recanted, crossed himself, and shook his head, willing away the curse. They were going too fast and had broken a double-yellow line designating this as a no-pass zone, and they were tourists - he gritted his teeth in order to refrain from swearing at them again. But, he told himself, trying to be forgiving, they were just anxious to get up to the mountain. They were in Colorado and had woken, as he had, to find another cloudless day with a deep blue, high-altitude sky brooding over them, and had risen excited, hardly able to wait to ride the gondola to the top and hurtle down the steep, sometimes treacherous trails on their bikes. No, he decided with a sigh, there was nothing wrong with them or their behavior. They were simply la vida loco - crazy for life.

            He had shared that joy once, that same expectation, had felt within himself an effervescent can’t-wait-to-get-there electricity that made him strong and happy. But not anymore. It had drained away, escaped from a slow leak or maybe just evaporated. Somewhere in the four years since leaving Mexico for “the land of opportunity,” his delight with life had subsided and, though he couldn’t pinpoint the moment, deserted him altogether, taking with it the precious commodity of hope. 

            He shifted gears and his little burro - which is what he called the l985 Toyota pickup - sputtered and groaned, struggling up the steep grade. The little burro didn’t much like making the climb from 8,000 to 9,500 feet. The carburetor didn’t like the thin air (he didn’t much like it either for it transformed the simplest activities into panting chores), the balding tires didn’t like the curving road (his stomach did not like it either, especially right after breakfast), and the thirsty engine sucked gas. 

            As he topped the pass, which really wasn’t a pass, or at least wasn’t marked as such (he had long intended to ask someone its name, but always forgot by the time he reached work), he shifted again and reached instinctively to switch from radio to CD. It was at precisely this point in his drive that the radio station fell away into static, blocked by the mountains. He picked up Pitbull, Enrique Iglesius... discarded them. Today, he was feeling old school. He dug through the disks until he found Santana. As the guitar impresario offered a sonic display of his amazing chops, Benito thought to himself smugly how he had been listening to Carlos since he was a kid. He remembered when Supernatural went platinum and catapulted Carlos to stardom, causing the whole world to hail him as the king of Latino blues. Tapping the dashboard with his free hand, Benito sang along with a song that Carlos had chosen to deliver in español. Or rather, had chosen to write in español. Someone else was singing as Carlos was not a vocalist. Benito was not either, but here in the pickup, there was no one to tell him that he had no sense of pitch.

            It was a shame that he couldn’t listen to this on the bus, he thought, still singing but now not giving any regard to the meaning of the words. Having Carlos on board would have made the hours slip by like summer clouds. But there were rules about music on the bus. There was no radio, except for a CB, and the drivers were not allowed to bring their own music anymore. Not since one of the resort big-wigs had unexpectedly shown up to ride the shuttle and found the driver blasting rap with a chest-thumping bass line and profane lyrics. For six months after that, they had driven in silence. Then, another big-wig, or maybe the same one - who could say? - had decided that adding elevator music to the bus would make the ride more pleasurable. And perhaps it had, for the tourists, who didn’t pay attention to it on their short jaunts about the ski area or their one-time trips over to Breckenridge. The locals, however, hated it, and the drivers found it maddening. Which is why he had learned how to disable the sound system on his bus and, if questioned by a big-wig, would reply (using a heavy Mexican accent): “Eets bro-ken, señor.”

            He had to be careful with his use of Spanish. It was handy, now and then, to hide behind a “no comprendo” when an idiot from Nebraska or New Jersey asked a moronic question, or to slip in a bit of his native tongue to add spice to a reply: “Si, it gets muy caliente here in summer, señora.” But speaking fluent English was what had landed him the job and though it didn’t pay terribly well and was boring as hell, it was better than working construction, which is what most of his amigos were still trying to do. 

            The problem with construction, he thought as he shifted down again and willed the old Toyota up the hill, wasn’t with the money. The money was great, when you could get it. The problem was getting it. Work was inconsistent and when things were slow, you ended up living in your car at the nearest campgrounds. Some men gave up and went back to Mexico. He shuddered at the thought.

            When he and seven others had stolen across the border into El Paso four years earlier, it had been with a dream of making it. They would be the last in a long line of poverty-stricken familias, they felt certain, the first to become Americans, the first to know success. In retrospect, they had been naïve, hopelessly idealistic, estupido. Two of their group had been caught right away and deported. The rest had fled to Colorado, figuring that the farther they were from the border, the better off they would be. Also, one of them had an uncle who said there was work in Pueblo. The work turned out to be a two-week stint harvesting apples in a small orchard in a place called Penrose. After that, they spent six horrible weeks without jobs, homes, or money. 

            At that point, Benito would have given up, had it not been for those he had left behind who were depending on him: his wife, three children, the youngest sick with a disease of the bones. To go back would not only be to admit failure - to wear it like a bandanna about the head - but also to let his family down. He would not do that, even if it meant dying of starvation in Colorado.

            Thankfully, he and three of the other hermanos were eventually hired on to build homes in a new subdivision on the west side of the freeway. None of them had construction experience, but the manager didn’t seem to care. He needed strong backs and willing hands. It was hard work that required walking beams and rooflines and being out in the hot sun all day, everyday. But the pay was excelente and he sent as much of it as he could back to his family. When his wife wrote back that she was proud of him, he began to feel like a man again.

            Then two bad things happened. First, the work tapered off. Somehow - he was sure it was a milagro - he managed to hang on until the final layoffs were made. The second bad thing occurred just a week later, as he was living with four others in a tiny apartment in a complex full of out-of-work Hispanics (he wondered how the landlord ever received a dollar of rent as they were all penniless). Without warning, the department of immigration decided to move through the area, checking green cards. He was separated from his amigos in the ensuing chaos and panic, and hid for a while under an overpass with a collection of homeless people, several of whom were also illegals. That was the low point, as life in the ghettos of Juarez was better than sleeping next to a greasy, horrid smelling, toothless man who called himself Geppetto and talked to his hand as though it were a marionette.

            After nearly a month of making his home in a cardboard box, of pillaging food from trash bins behind fast food restaurants, when he had begun to feel as though he was more animal than human - a rodent that had somehow managed to learn to walk on two legs rather than four - he had started to believe that he would soon die, either of disease or hunger or possibly at the hand of one of the wild-eyed, mentally unstable men residing beneath the underpass. Then he received word of a means of escape. It came to him via the newspaper - a discarded, week-old edition of the want ads he was scouring to find a job opening that might overlook his illegal alien status. It was in the personal section, under an ad for a diet plan that promised to help you lose 30 pounds in 30 days for only $50 (which he found sadly humorous, having lost all of his extra pounds from simple joblessness, without having to pay someone money) and above an ad which gave thanks to St. Jude for travel mercies. 

            It read: Need a green card? Call this number. 

            He tore it out, spent thirty minutes in front of McDonald’s panhandling to raise money for the call, dialed an ancient pay phone with trembling hands and reached voicemail. According to the recording, the organization could provide a green card for “a reasonable fee.” It didn’t say what that reasonable fee might be but the recording gave an address and Benito decided to pursue it. 

            What he found was a tiny office wedged between a pawn shop and a thrift store. Inside, at a card table - the only piece of furniture, aside from a folding chair - a man with bushy eyebrows and a tired face greeted him with a gruff, “Hola.” He then questioned Benito suspiciously about his background and identity, suggesting several times that Benito might be a policeman. Benito denied this, of course, and, after supplying information about his home in Juarez - details about where they shopped for groceries, street names, and about the farm where he had helped to harvest sugar before coming to America - the man seemed satisfied.

            “It works like this,” the man told him. And he explained that while his service was entirely legitimate, if Benito told the authorities about it, the man would have his associates come and poke out his ojos. Benito believed him, for he was a very rough looking man with a hard, worldly face that seemed to have witnessed much violence. 

            Though he did not understand all that the man had to say, Benito did understand this much: it seemed to be a quick, easy way to get a green card. He also understood that he would have to come up with $1,000 cash and agree to pay $2,000 more over the course of the next year.

            And he understood that the examples the man was showing him, whether authentic or not, certainly looked like the real thing. All you had to do was past on your photo.

            Benito nodded and pretended to be the boy he had once been: easily taken in and willing to do anything for anyone because all people were basically good. He had since learned that this was not the case and that people were basically bad, even those who had yet to express this dark side of themselves. He knew that he himself had a dark side and as the man spoke, he knew that he would be letting that dark side loose if he accepted the offer. But there seemed to be little choice.

            As a devout Catholic, Benito had reservations about this scheme and even greater reservations about the idea he was entertaining: stealing one of the sample green cards without paying for it. He knew this was wrong but also knew that his family was depending on him to send back money. The purpose of this theft would be to support his familia, he told himself. He was only doing what had to be done. Good purpose and intent, he felt, canceled out the immoral means by which it would be achieved.

            Betraying this man, taking a green card and then quickly fleeing the man’s sphere of influence - which couldn’t be greater than Pueblo, could it? - and never sending him a dime, Benito realized, would be a pecado – a sin. Would Dios forgive him? He rationalized that this man’s sin was far greater: taking poor people’s money, overcharging them for something that should have been free. He felt that in the end, he would be able to speak to Dios with a clear conscience. 

            So, after making an agreement with the man, signing papers with a fake name and address, he picked up a green card and, as the man held out his hand for the expected payment, Benito ran for the door.

            Strangely, the man did not chase him. As he slid out the door, Benito heard the man curse softly and say, “Tendre tus ojos...” I will have your eyes...

            He went directly to the bus station and, using the extra cash he had panhandled at McDonald’s, boarded the first bus scheduled to leave. It took him north, up Interstate 25, then west on Highway 24 to Woodland Park, Divide, Florissant, to Lake George, and Hartsel. It was splendid countryside with sprawling meadows and rugged mountains. There were wandering streams where men in waders and Montana hats (at least, that’s what they made him think of) were flyfishing. 

            The bus was bound for Buena Vista and, for all he knew, would wind up in Utah, or maybe California. But when it stopped in Hartsel and the passengers were allowed off for coffee and food, he decided not to get back on. Instead, he began walking north, following a sign for a place called Fairplay. The name seemed to him a good name, even an omen, as though Dios was telling him that in this direction, he would find justice - something that he had seldom experienced thus far in his life. 

            It was twenty-some miles to Fairplay, but he didn’t mind for the road circumvented a valley of ranches where crooked, sun-bleached barns stood like ancient altars and cattle grazed sleepily and horses galloped playfully, tails held high, across expansive fields backed by glorious, silent peaks dressed in shades of blue and purple. He refused two offers for rides, thinking to himself that he had discovered the pastures of heaven. 

            Fairplay turned out to be a tiny speed trap where a single policeman waited at one end of town, anxious to give tourists a ticket. Benito stopped in at the grocery store, asked about work, but was given a shake of the head and a frown by a man who was not interested in hiring him. The man then threatened to call ICE. It was then that Benito surmised he had left the rather comforting conclave of immigrants and was now in the West - the American West. 

            Realizing his mistake, he cursed himself and his foolish reliance on hunches and wished to Dios - in prayer and in profane self-admonishment - that he had gone to Buena Vista. Surely in a place with a Spanish name – Good View – he could find work. 

            He was in the process of trying to decide whether to walk to Buena Vista - according to the sign it was 26 miles - walk back to Hartsel, or make the rounds of the local restaurants in hopes of discovering discarded food and, possibly, an alley way where he could spend the night, when a pickup screeched to a halt in front of him and the driver, grinning wildly, laid on the horn.

            Benito squinted at him, then noticed the collection of people sitting in the bed of the truck: three women, two men, all Hispanic. The driver was young, white, and had hair the color of a DeWalt power drill - the kind Benito had learned to use in his construction work. The other young man in the bench seat had hair that matched Benito’s orange bandanna. Both of them wore rings from their ears, noses, lips... 

            “Hop in!” the driver yelled, enthusiastically.

            Benito hesitated, glanced at the riders in the back, all of whom were studying the floor of the pickup bed with heavy eyes.

            “You goin’ to Keystone?”

            Keystone... It sounded like something solid and though he had never been there, it also made him think of sunlight and tall trees. What if it was the key to unlock the prison of unemployment he had been banished to? he thought. What if Dios had led him to Fairplay, tested his faith with a few minutes of despair and abandonment (mi Dios, why hath though forsaken me...?) only to offer up the answer, the means of escape, the ram in the thicket? 

            “Yes.” He thanked the boy and climbed into the back of the pickup. They zoomed up the hill and in what seemed like moments, were in a place called Alma. The driver slowed radically, drove at a pace that wasn’t much faster than a man could walk, passed a policemen at the far end of town and, with a hoot, floored the pedal, causing the brothers and sisters in the back to grasp the side of the bed and lean radically in order to remain upright.

            There were three pair of skis in the back of the pickup with them, Benito noticed.  He smiled at the others, tried to make conversation, but had no success. Apparently, he decided, the driver and his friend were going skiing at Keystone and these in the back were going...  he wasn’t sure what they were headed toward. They had duffel bags, as though they had been selected for military service - even the women - but acted like they were being deported and were about to be tossed back over the border.

            After driving over a high pass with a twisting road, they descended into something called Breckenridge. It was like an Old West town with quaint storefronts and charming cottages with wooden porches and flower boxes and people milling about everywhere. The mountain in back of it was riddled with denuded streaks that came down through the thick forest like invisible streams seeking level ground. Keystone, he thought. The ski mountain.

            But the pickup continued on out of town and up another small pass, this time coming down beside a lake. Cabins were perched along the far shore and palatial houses were balanced on the ridge overlooking the water. They turned onto another highway and the pickup raced up a steep grade, the wind buffeting those in the back, causing the women to cover their hair with their hands. 

            They came up on several lodges and then some buildings fashioned out of huge, glossy logs. There was a hotel, then what appeared to be luxurious apartments. They went by another small lake, and as the sides of the road began to be lined by buildings, Benito looked up and saw more ski runs. Perhaps this was Keystone. But there was no snow, except on the very topmost peak, and he wondered where these skiers were going to ski.

            The pickup turned in at a sign marked: River Run. A great deal of construction was going on here, three very large cranes lifting trusses and setting walls into place. It looked to Benito like they were building an entire city. 

            The pickup jerked to a stop in a vacant, unpaved lot. 

            “All out!” the driver called.

            The inhabitants of the back began climbing stiffly over the side, dragging their green bags behind them, nodding and telling the young men gravely, “Gracias.”

            “No problemo,” the driver responded happily.

            Together, the group trudged toward one of the buildings in the construction area that was finished - or at least, it had a roof and a door and had been painted on the outside. 

            Benito watched them file into the building, faces toward the ground, bags over their shoulders. He was about to follow them when two men came walking around the corner of the building. They were in khaki shorts and polo shirts with Keystone written over their hearts. One was on a cell phone, the other was grimacing angrily, as though he had just been slapped in the face and was about to retaliate. 

            “So what the hell am I supposed to do?” the angry man asked. The other man was too busy with his phone conversation to reply. The angry man glared at Benito. “If only these damned wetbacks spoke English.”

            “I speak English,” Benito said, sidestepping the derogatory term. He sensed an opportunity.

            “You do?” the man asked, his countenance changing completely. “Fluently?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Let’s hear.”

            Benito shrugged and began to comment on the beauty of the surroundings, careful to add numerous adjectives, all of which were very positive and complimentary. 

            “Okay, okay, shut up.”

            The angry man, who was no longer angry, conferred with the other man, who was still on the phone, but covered the mouthpiece for a moment to listen. He nodded and the formerly angry man said, “You got your CDL?”

            When Benito hesitated, the man said, “Your Commercial Driver’s License”

            “Sure.”

            “Seriously?”

            Benito nodded. He didn’t even have a regular driver’s license, much less a CDL – whatever that was. But he knew that you sometimes had to stretch the truth in order to survive.

            The man on the phone waved his hand impatiently and said, “What matters is the card. Ask if he’s got a card?”

            The other man asked, “Do you have a green card?”

            “I do,” Benito assured him.

            The man on the phone said, “Make him show you.”

            Benito showed him, careful to keep his thumb over the space where his photo should have been.

            The man barely glanced at the card, then, for the first time, smiled. “Hire him.”

            “You’re hired.”

            “For what?”

            “Bus driver. You’re on the early am shuttle.” He told Benito where to go, where to pick up something called a stipend, and where also to find affordable housing in the area - outside of Breckenridge, on the way to Dillon.

            In a matter of hours, he not only had a job, but an apartment (which he shared with three other men), and was within walking distance to a shuttle bus that would take him back and forth to work. Milagros.

            Maybe he was too greedy, he thought as he passed a sign that read: Keystone Ski Resort - 1 mile. Who wouldn’t be happy being here, in the mountains, with steady work - and now, after months of saving, even his own little burro to drive? But he had expected more. He had thought that Dios was moving him somewhere, moving him to better places. He had expected, after driving a bus for a while, to be promoted, to become manager of transportation, maybe. Or some other job that was important and paid well and would enable him to send more money home and, after saving a little, bring his family to be with him. But no. It wasn’t working out like that. He was still driving the morning bus, his pay had been cut once, because of the resort’s on-going financial difficulties, and, as rumor had it, he was now in danger of losing his position on account of last season’s lack of snow. 

            It pissed him off that the weather could determine his future.

            Be thankful, he told himself as he turned in at River Run and made his way through the labyrinth of dirt and paved roads en route to the employee parking area. Maybe the crappy ski season had been a work of Dios, he mused as he parked and got out of the pickup. Maybe it was Señor’s way of testing him again. Dios was taking care of him, he knew, and even if his family was still in poverty, his youngest still in need of treatment, probably dying - he doubted he would ever see her again - he was still lucky. Blessed. He didn’t feel blessed or lucky. He felt cursed. But that was just a feeling. It would pass. Or at least, he prayed that it would.

            “Hey, Benny,” a voice called.

            He looked up and saw a kid with a goatee and sunglasses sitting on the log rail next to the administration building, smoking. It was either James or Nathan, he couldn’t tell which. Both of them were new this summer and both liked to wear their baseball caps backwards. 

            “Hey,” Benny responded, trying to sound pleased without betraying his inability to recognize the kid. 

            “You on the bus today?”

            “Yep.” He nodded, now certain it was Nathan. For some reason, the boy asked Benny the same question every time he saw him, knowing full well that he would be “on the bus” - meaning driving the bus - since that was his job. 

            “Cool.”

            And he always said that too, as though driving a bus was a really great job that he hoped to one day aspire to. 

            Benito waved a hand at Nathan and went into the building. It was cold inside and he shivered as he found his card and slid it into the time clock.

            “What’s up, Benny?”

            He glanced over his shoulder and saw Hank, one of the supervisors, coming down the hall toward him. Hank was nice enough, but always made Benny a little nervous. He wasn’t sure why.

            “Got a minute?”  He disappeared into his office without waiting for an answer.

            Of course, he had a minute, Benito thought. Even if he was running behind, you didn’t brush off a supervisor. He paused to make sure his watch and the time clock were in synch - he had seven minutes until he had to be out at his bus, just enough time to grab a cup of coffee from the lounge, or meet with Hank, before going into the office.

            “Have a seat,” Hank offered. He was slouched behind his desk, blowing on a mug of tea. Hank was a vegetarian, a conservationist, and a practitioner of alternative medicine (Benito knew this because Hank regularly told people the health risks of eating meat, the damage the ongoing development at the village was doing to Mother Earth, and offered anyone who so much as yawned an opportunity to experience acupuncture).

            Benito sat down.

            “How you been doing?” Hank asked.

            Benito didn’t like the question. It was far too conversational. Which meant that something bad was coming. “Okay.”

            “Good. Good to hear.” There was a pause, then, “Say, your man knocked two over the fence yesterday, you see that?”

            Benito nodded. He hadn’t seen it but he knew Hank was referring to José Abreu, the first baseman for the White Sox. Though the White Sox weren’t Benito’s team (he had adopted the Rockies), and Abreu was from Cuba rather than Mexico, Hank seemed to think Hispanic was Hispanic when it came to baseball and always referred to Abreu as Benito’s “man.” This didn’t offend Benito. He found it amusing.

            After sipping his tea, Hank bent over the desk, sighing at some papers. “Listen, I got a call from Pueblo.”

            Benito nodded again and felt a terrible wave of panic sweep through his chest. He tried to steady his breathing and began silently petitioning Dios. Oh, please, please, Señor… I need Your help! Nothing good could come from Pueblo. When he refocused his attention, Hank was talking, saying something about green cards and being a forgiving kind of guy and willing to give people the benefit of the doubt and needing to see Benito’s CDL again. Benito nodded whenever Hank paused, thinking to himself that there was no “again” because he didn’t have one. He was also thinking that it was time to move on and his family would have to wait a little longer to come to America and his daughter probably would never see the land of opportunity.

            “...So go ahead and drive your route today, then bring that stuff in for me tomorrow. Okay?”

            “Sure.”

            “Great. Well, then....” Hank shrugged, satisfied but maybe a little unconvinced, Benito thought, especially at the corners of his eyes. “That’s it. Have a good day.”

            Benito left and hurried to the lounge where he poured the final dregs of coffee into a Styrofoam cup and then dropped a dollar into the community refreshment fund. He didn’t have to do that, he knew, especially since he was leaving. But he believed in fulfilling your responsibilities and chipping in to help the greater good, wherever possible. 

            He reached the parking area at exactly 7:45 and stood waiting for George to turn up. George was the night shift driver who would be turning bus number ll7 over to him this morning, as he did every morning. George was also a pothead who regularly got high while on duty, sometimes drank beer while on duty, and was always late to his stops and in returning to the lot. Benito liked him simply because he liked everyone - or at least, made an effort to. He was determined to apply the golden rule without prejudice, treating others kindly, no matter how slothful or deceitful they were and no matter how they treated him. Which meant that he would not hold a grudge against Hank, for, in effect, firing him, or against the people at the IRS or ICE for chasing him from job to job, or against his parents, for allowing him to grow up without a future, or against the president of Mexico for letting the people suffer in poverty. No, he would ask Jesus and Maria to bless them all, even George, the dopehead, who had once run the bus into a ditch and blamed it on Benito, putting him within a citation of being dismissed. 

            He stood waiting for George to show up, watching for trails of dust in the trees that might signal his approach, listening past the sound of the creek, for the diesel engine, thinking that he would miss all of this, even miss the boring route, the stops at the condos and the helpless, bumbling tourists who could never seem to get to the stop on time and who asked questions about the mountains and the history of Keystone, to which he answered with great fictions or with enough Spanish to show that he had no reason for knowing about the past... He would miss the drive in from Dillon, miss the sky here that was so desperately blue that it sometimes caused him to wonder if he were dreaming.

            He had still not heard the bus or seen anything to suggest that George was close when his mind wandered to the subject of destinations. Where would he go next? Buena Vista wasn’t far enough. What about Utah? Or California? He had heard good things about California. 

            He was trying to recall the meaning of the name - he knew that Los Angeles meant “City of Angels”, which was a good thing - but California... – when he heard gears grinding and could tell at once that George was very high or very drunk and having trouble putting the stick shift into the appropriate places. Number ll7 could be ornery, especially on cold mornings, but treated well, like a lady (which all inanimate objects were, in traditional male lore, from ships to guitars to cars), it ran smoothly and without problems.

            He saw the dust collecting in the sharp sun-streaks beneath the trees and knew that George was climbing the final hill. Benito got the picture of his family out of his jacket. It was old and bent, but he always placed it on the dash of the bus, to help him remember and to give him a reason - a purpose - in every day. No matter how things went, this picture represented why he was doing it.

            He stood with his hands clasping the picture, watching the dust swirl in the sunlight, waiting for George to find the right gear and make the final curve of the road. George seldom treated ll7 like a lady.