Bus Stop

Sometimes life is tough.

That's hardly a revelation.

We all have our trials. Our adventures. Our challenges. Sometimes we get through them quickly and look back wondering why we were ever afraid.

Other times, life grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go.

I was having one of those times.

My son was sick.

Not cold-and-flu sick. Not stay-home-from-school-for-a-week sick.

Hospital sick.

Specialists sick.

Doctors-standing-in-hallways-talking-quietly sick.

Nobody seemed completely certain what was wrong with him. There were tests, theories, treatments and more tests.

My wife and I stopped asking when things would get back to normal.

Normal had become meaningless.

Then I lost my job.

I hadn't done anything wrong.

That almost made it worse.

I had worked for the company for eleven years. I came in when I was supposed to come in. Stayed late when they needed me. Trained people. Took on extra projects. Got good reviews.

None of it mattered.

Technology changed.

Departments consolidated.

Positions disappeared.

Mine was one of them.

They called me into a conference room on a Tuesday morning and explained that my position had become redundant.

Redundant.

There's a word.

Eleven years of your life reduced to three syllables.

I received a severance package, ninety days of medical coverage and heartfelt gratitude for my years of service.

There was even cake.

My coworkers took me out for drinks afterward.

Good people.

They felt terrible.

We sat around the bar telling stories about the old days, laughing about terrible bosses, impossible deadlines and office Christmas parties everyone preferred to forget.

For a little while, I laughed too.

Then I went to the bathroom.

I washed my hands.

Looked into the mirror.

And fell apart.

I don't mean a dignified tear sliding down the cheek.

I cried.

Hard.

I leaned against the tile and sank until I was sitting on the floor.

Ninety days.

That was what kept repeating in my head.

Ninety days of insurance.

My wife's part-time job had always been our extra money. Vacations. Dinners. Birthday presents.

Now it was our only income.

The severance looked generous until I started subtracting the mortgage, groceries, utilities and everything involved in keeping a family alive.

Then there was our son.

How were we supposed to pay for his treatment?

I had called family.

Friends.

Organizations.

Assistance programs.

Some helped.

Some couldn't.

Nothing was enough.

I couldn't even afford to sit at this stupid bar and get drunk without my friends buying the drinks.

"What am I supposed to do?"

I said it to the mirror.

Then louder.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?"

A hand touched my shoulder.

I jumped.

A man stood behind me.

I hadn't heard him enter.

He looked ordinary enough. Maybe forty. Nice clothes. Calm face.

"Why are you crying?"

I stared at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you crying?"

Maybe it was the alcohol.

Maybe I had simply reached the point where I didn't care who heard me.

I told him.

Everything.

My son.

The hospital.

The job.

The insurance.

The money.

The fear.

Once I started, I couldn't stop.

When I finished, another voice came from across the room.

"I can fix that."

There was another man leaning against the wall.

I hadn't noticed him either.

He smiled.

Not a comforting smile.

Something about it made my skin crawl.

The man beside me sighed.

"Here we go."

"What?"

The second man stepped closer.

"I said I can fix it."

"Fix what?"

"Everything."

The first man laughed.

"Sure you can."

The second man's smile disappeared.

"You know I can."

"That's not the problem."

"What problem?"

"You never tell them the price."

They stared at each other.

I looked from one to the other.

"Okay. I don't know what the hell this is, but I'm leaving."

I headed for the door.

The second man grabbed my wrist.

His grip wasn't hard.

It didn't need to be.

I froze.

He leaned close.

"Come with me."

I pulled against him.

"I promise you, everything will be better."

Something about the way he said it terrified me.

I yanked my arm free.

"I'm good."

I walked out.

Behind me, I heard the first man laugh.

I went back to my friends.

I didn't tell them about the bathroom.

What would I have said?

Two weird guys offered to fix my life while I was crying beside the urinals?

No.

I had another drink.

Then another.

By the time we left, driving wasn't an option.

I ordered the cheapest ride I could find.

A shared one.

The car arrived.

I climbed into the back seat and barely noticed the other passengers.

I leaned against the window.

Nobody spoke.

Streetlights passed.

One after another.

I closed my eyes.

Eventually the car stopped.

"This is where you get out."

I opened my eyes.

"What?"

I looked outside.

I didn't recognize the neighborhood.

"This isn't my house."

Then I looked beside me.

Bathroom Guy Number Two smiled.

Bathroom Guy Number One sat on the other side of him.

"Oh, hell no."

Number Two opened his door.

He walked around the car and opened mine.

"Come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

He held out his hand.

"I told you. I can fix everything."

I stared at him.

"My son?"

"Yes."

"My job?"

"Yes."

"Money?"

"Everything."

I looked at his hand.

For one second, I wanted to take it.

God help me.

I wanted to.

My son healthy.

Bills paid.

Insurance.

My wife sleeping through the night again.

Me sleeping through the night again.

Everything fixed.

Then I remembered the bathroom.

"You never tell them the price."

I pulled farther into the car.

"No."

He frowned.

The other man opened his door.

"Probably wise."

I looked at him.

"Who the hell are you people?"

Neither answered.

Of course.

The second man stepped closer.

"You're making a mistake."

"I'm not going anywhere with either of you."

Both men looked confused.

Then they looked at each other.

Number One started laughing.

Number Two rolled his eyes.

"What?"

Number One shook his head.

"It's not like that."

"What's not like what?"

He laughed harder.

"Oh."

I pointed between them.

"I'm flattered, gentlemen. Really. But whatever the two of you have planned for tonight, I do not play that way."

Number Two looked offended.

Number One was practically doubled over.

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

He reached into his coat.

I backed away.

"Easy."

He pulled out a ticket.

A bus ticket.

He held it toward me.

"You can go with him."

I looked at Number Two.

"Or?"

Number One offered me the ticket.

"You can take this."

"A bus ticket?"

"Yes."

"He's offering to fix my entire life and you're offering public transportation?"

Number Two chuckled.

Number One shrugged.

"Pretty much."

"You expect me to choose that?"

"No."

He placed the ticket on my lap.

"I expect you to choose."

I stared at it.

"Where does it go?"

"You'll find out."

"What's waiting there?"

"You'll find out."

"Will it help my son?"

His expression changed.

For the first time, he looked almost sad.

"I don't know."

I looked at Number Two.

He extended his hand again.

"I do."

That was the difference.

One promised everything.

The other promised nothing.

I looked down at the ticket.

"What am I supposed to do?"

Number One nodded toward the sidewalk.

There was a bus stop about fifty feet ahead.

"Go find your answer."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

I laughed.

Maybe I really was drunk.

Maybe none of this was happening.

Maybe I was unconscious in the back of a perfectly normal rideshare having the strangest dream of my life.

What did I have to lose?

I picked up the ticket.

"Fine."

Number Two groaned.

"Oh, come on."

I stepped out.

"This one would've been fun."

Number One glared at him.

"You always kill the fun."

I started toward the bus stop.

I heard them arguing behind me.

Then nothing.

I turned.

The car was gone.

So were the men.

I hadn't heard an engine.

Hadn't seen headlights.

Nothing.

Empty street.

"Okay."

I looked at the ticket.

"Sure."

The bus stop was old.

A glass shelter.

Wooden bench.

One yellow light overhead.

Rain had started, but inside the shelter it was strangely warm.

I studied the route map.

There weren't any stops.

No numbers.

No streets.

Just lines running across a map that seemed to lead nowhere.

I sat.

Five minutes.

Ten.

No bus.

"This is ridiculous."

I considered walking home.

Then I heard something.

A choking sound.

I stood.

Someone was on the ground across the street.

An old man.

A child knelt beside him.

"Grandpa!"

I ran.

The little boy was crying.

"He can't breathe!"

The old man's hands were at his throat.

Choking.

I knew what to do.

Years ago, before life took me somewhere else, I'd wanted to be a doctor.

I took classes.

Learned first aid.

CPR.

Emergency response.

I never became a doctor.

But I remembered.

I got behind him.

Did what I'd been taught.

Once.

Again.

The obstruction came free.

The old man collapsed against me, coughing violently.

Air.

He was breathing.

The little boy threw his arms around him.

"Grandpa!"

The old man held him.

For several moments, neither moved.

Then he looked at me.

"You saved my life."

"You need a hospital."

He nodded.

Headlights appeared.

A black sedan pulled toward the curb.

Two men got out immediately.

Another followed.

"Sir!"

They rushed toward us.

One helped the old man stand.

Another checked the child.

The third looked at me suspiciously until the old man waved him off.

"He's the reason I'm still breathing."

That changed things.

Doors opened.

Everyone began climbing into the car.

I stepped back.

"Wait."

The old man looked at me.

"You're coming."

"I'm fine."

"I'm not."

He smiled.

"Come."

I hesitated.

Then got in.

It took me a few minutes to realize who he was.

I'd seen his face before.

News.

Business magazines.

Advertisements.

His company employed thousands of people.

The little boy sat beside me.

His grandfather was across from us while one of the men checked his blood pressure.

"Hospital," the old man told the driver.

Then he looked at me.

"What do you do?"

I laughed.

"Currently?"

"Currently."

"Nothing."

His eyebrows rose.

"I got laid off today."

"What did you do before today?"

I told him.

Eleven years condensed into a few minutes.

Operations.

Systems.

People.

Projects.

The things I knew.

The things I'd built.

The teams I'd managed.

He listened.

One of the men beside him listened too.

The old man looked at him.

"Don't we need someone like that?"

The man nodded slowly.

"We have several openings."

The old man looked back at me.

"Come see us Monday."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"Monday."

"I don't understand."

"You need a job."

"Yes."

"I own a company."

"I know."

"We need people."

He smiled.

"You appear useful."

The little boy giggled.

I couldn't speak.

There were a thousand questions I should have asked.

Salary.

Position.

Location.

Hours.

Instead, only one mattered.

"Does it have medical benefits?"

Everyone went quiet.

The old man's expression softened.

"Medical benefits?"

"My son is sick."

I swallowed.

"I have ninety days."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then nodded.

"Yes, son."

My eyes burned.

"Full medical benefits."

I looked away before anyone saw me cry.

The little boy leaned against my arm.

A few minutes later, he fell asleep there.

We continued toward the hospital.

I looked through the rear window.

The street was disappearing behind us.

I searched for the bus stop.

Nothing.

No shelter.

No yellow light.

No route map.

Just darkness and rain.

I reached into my pocket.

The ticket was gone.

I almost laughed.

Then I looked toward the front of the car.

The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror.

My breath caught.

It was him.

The first man.

He smiled.

Just a small smile.

Then he nodded.

A streetlight passed over the windshield.

For a second, light filled the car.

I blinked.

The driver looked into the mirror again.

Different man.

I stared.

The little boy shifted against me.

His grandfather was breathing.

My son was waiting at the hospital.

And Monday morning, apparently, I had somewhere to be.

I looked out at the rain.

I thought about the hand I'd almost taken.

The promise that everything could simply be fixed.

Then I thought about the ticket.

It hadn't fixed anything.

It had only taken me somewhere I needed to be.

The rest had been up to me.

Maybe that was the point.

I don't know.

I never saw either of those men again.

And I've looked for that bus stop more times than I care to admit.

I've never found it.

Maybe it isn't there anymore.

Maybe it never was.

Or maybe somewhere tonight, somebody else is sitting on the worst day of their life with two choices in front of them.

One promising everything.

The other promising nothing.

Except a chance.

I hope they choose wisely.

**

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