Memories Monday

Sitting in the schoolbus, those first years after we moved to Glen Rock, in the parking lot of the Midland Park CRC. Our bus waited there every day for about fifteen minutes, waited for another bus to come and drop off the high school kids so that we could finish our route. We were the "long routers", the last stops on a route that was over an hour long. Lydia Troper. Patty Zimmerman and her little sister, who always smelled like pee. JJ Jaarsma, who's dead now. His little sister. They were adopted. Garry Schafer. Glenn and Paul Fessler. Chip and another high school kid (Ray?) who I was terrified of. Chip and that kid sat in the "way back" -- the coveted back seats -- and played the same Led Zeppelin compilation tape (I didn't know it was Zeppelin, I just called it "big kids" music) on their boom box every single day. They'd start it up just after we left the parking lot and somewhere after Stairway it'd be time for me and John and Jay to get off the bus.

Back to the parking lot. Most kids got off the bus for those fifteen minutes, maybe play a little kickball, run around, get a drink from the water fountain if the church was open. I always stayed on the bus, because I was always reading (sometimes I didn't even notice that the bus had stopped or started up again.) I sat three seats back from the driver, on the left side of the aisle, right behind Garry. He was always reading too. He was my first sort-of-friend, although we totally ignored each other once we got off the bus. It was a pretty silent friendship, even on the bus -- as it usually goes with bookworms.

I remember how, that first year, if my own book was finished mid-route and I didn't have anything new (oh the horror!) Garry would let me read over his shoulder. He was big into Encyclopedia Brown. I was a faster reader than he was and would have to wait for him to flip the page, before I could find out Encyclopedia's solution to the "crime" -- I'd lean my head on my arms, feel the cool metal of the back of Garry's seat under my arms. Smell the bus (remember that pink sawdust stuff they used to sprinkle over the throw up in the aisle, if someone didn't make it in time to the front of the bus so that they could throw up on the sidewalk? You never got the smell of that sawdust stuff out of the bus. The throw up, yeah. Sawdust stuff, no.) and sweaty kids and uneaten lunches in lunchboxes, the bus driver's cigarette, the smell of autumn (leaves and grass, freshly raked grass) in New Jersey. The way the back of Garry's head looked, his dark hair and pale skin. The feel of the green fake leather seats, how cool and slippery they were. The headache I had, because I hadn't eaten my lunch again -- every day the same, Lebanese bologne on white bread and a carton of lukewarm milk.

The bus driver would round up the kids outside, climb in and start the bus, which would shake to life. In the way back Chip would start up the Led Zeppelin and Garry would flip the page, so that I could continue reading. We'd pull away from the parking lot and begin the last leg of the route. Every day the same, a safe little predictable world, in the bus.

I was eleven, twelve, thirteen. Fourteen. Garry and I moved onto different books, different genres, although I do remember reading Madeleine L'Engle "together" :-) I reached high school and soccer and cheerleading practices kept me after school and my bus days were pretty much over. In the spring when I didn't have practice, and before I was allowed to drive to school, I'd still take the bus. We were the big kids then, played our own music. Sat in the way back. Didn't read anymore.