Paranoid Jerk

        Fabian inched his size 10 shoes closer to the curb. The black shoes, purchased at K-Mart, were scuffed and dirty. Fabian noticed this and thought to himself that he would shine them when he got back to his apartment. Whether out of spite or forgetfulness, he had still not opened the Kiwi Shoe Polish one of his co-workers had given him earlier in the year as a suggestive gift. A strong gust of cold air made its way around the bus stop shelter and pressed full force against Fabian’s exposed neck and face. He gritted his small baby-like teeth and attempted to block the wind with a Noble Spruce, which was the reason for this particular excursion. He had just come from the Moran Christmas Tree lot, where he purchased a magnificent Abies procera specimen. He picked out the tree because he liked its short stiff branches, which would support the heavy, limited-edition ornaments that came with his favorite Burger King value meal. He needed just one more to have the whole set. The tree stood just over 7 feet tall; Fabian at just under 6 feet. Fabian glanced at his digital calculator watch and began to worry that the needles might begin to dry and yellow if he didn’t get the tree home soon. A squat Mexican woman, hovering over her three plump children, looked at Fabian disapprovingly. She had quietly determined that Fabian intended to take that tree onto the bus with him.
        Fabian furrowed his heavy Neaderthalic brow, partially hiding his dark eyes. In the distance, he made out the shape of the #56 bus. His tree would be ok. The thought of the majestic tree occupying his apartment made Fabian smile. It was a large smile, and it occupied most of Fabian’s face, though only for a brief moment. Fabian did not want to be seen smiling for no apparent reason. As the bus slowly moved towards the shelter, Fabian held the tree close to his chest. Had the tree any nerve receptors in its branches, it would have felt Fabian’s heart palpitating. Fabian inched his shoes away from the curb, steadied his tree, and began to smile again.
        Otis King manned the controls of the forty foot Americana (4000 series) with his usual cheerfulness. He drummed his wedding ring rhythmically against the oversized steering wheel. He preferred a Samba beat. Obscured by his graying eyebrows, a thin scar snaked for an inch and half just above his left eye. The scar became more visible whenever Otis smiled, as did his gold tooth. Though he didn’t remember being hit with the brass knuckles, he would never forget the young nursing student that attended to him. Nor would he forget the health baby boy he helped deliver on a rainy afternoon nearly ten years to day after his beating. After 23 years as a city bus driver, he was accustomed to strange happenings and unusual behavior. However, as he effortlessly navigated the bus toward the curb something caused Otis King to raise his eyebrow, thereby enhancing the whiteness of his scar just as he opened the bus door.
        “I know you not bringin that tree on my bus man!” Otis’s voice shot through the cold air. Fabian replied in a very soft, but defensive voice, “It’s my right.” Fabian repeated himself, this time less certain, “It’s my right”. Sensing Fabian’s hesitation, the squat Mexican woman moved towards the bus door. She only wanted to get her ninos out of the cold. Fabian, his peripheral vision blocked entirely by the spruce, suddenly stepped forward, determined to bring the tree on bus. It was, after all, his right as a human being. The tree swung forward on Fabian’s left hip and knocked the leading nino off its feet. The nino immediately began wailing. Fabian froze in his tracks. “Oh. I’m — I’m sorry” stammered Fabian. The squat Mexican woman quickly pulled her nino up by one arm, ignoring the shell-shocked Fabian. She was used to hardship and her nino would survive. Fabian, angered by the outcome of events, made note of the nino’s already dirty clothes and absolved himself of any responsibility of the nino’s soiled outfit. As the squat Mexican woman boarded the bus, Fabian stepped back, as if to say, “I’ll catch the next one.”
        Otis leaned forward in his bucket seat. “Awww man, you’re killin’ me. I ain’t got all day. C’mon. Get that damn tree on here man.” Fabian did not need to be told twice. With rejuvenated confidence, he quickly turned and backed himself up the steps onto the bus, lugging the regal tree behind him. The driver asked Fabian if he was going to pay for the tree’s fare in addition to his own. Fabian seemed confused, so Otis relented. “I’m kidding man.” After paying his fare, Fabian dragged the tree down the bus’s narrow aisle leaving a fine trail of pine needles behind. Most of the passengers ignored both Fabian and the tree. A few snickered. An old man sent a look of disgruntled dissatisfaction towards Fabian, who did not notice. As Fabian settled into his seat near the back of the bus, he used his mitten to clear the winter condensation from the window. He waxed his mitten in clock-wise motion, then again counter-clockwise. The window quickly began to fog over, but as Fabian’s dark eyes stared out into the distance, they made out the dim shape of what seemed to be a shooting star. A smile formed on Fabian’s face and, just as quickly, was restrained.