I’m thinking how I’ve got friends. They just don’t take my bus. And the bus is a branch of Hell. Think about all these bricks of Kraft Cheddar at the Publix. Yellow. They all look alike. Inflate them. Put wheels on them. A whole network of Hell on wheels tooling around the entire country. Torturemobiles. Around here they call any school bus The Big Cheese. When you get to high school it’s way easier to get around taking them. Everyone knows someone with a license by then. Most of us would do anything to avoid stepping up onto these things, all lined up, idling. Waiting.
We were late, as usual. My mom would always clean the house or leave to go jogging a half-hour before church started. Then, when she screamed and ran around frantically, trying to get ready, it was always our fault. My brother and sister and I sat timidly in our station wagon until my mother came with the red-faced fury of an Irish Catholic woman who was late–again. She started the car and she swore to us about how we didn’t help her clean.