Always, he has had someone to escort him to the learning facility. Yet now, alone he stands at the corner, watched by every car that passes by, tempting fate with his toes dangling off the edge. The sign says that the bus should be here seven minutes ago. A small crowd of ne'er-do-wells such as himself gathers around the comfort-proof bench, all tapping their feet in rhythm.
Around the corner scampers the worst form of public transportation, eager to serve. confident that its importance is comparable to an ambulance, it shoves aside single-occupancy vehicles blocking its path. The crowd (including our boy) forms a single file line, a skill that kindergarten teachers and military officers would be proud of. the bus screeches and retches to a halt, welcoming newcomers inside.
One by one, guests flash their wallets and pay the machine. The boy approaches, prepared to pay a heartless bus fare, yet he cannot seem to find anything to feed the machine coupons and receipts and gift cards make for lousy bus food. Then from behind appears a man, an older man, no more than fifty years young. He bares a smile and a wallet on a leash and reaches for the machine’s gripping teeth. his arm stretched from high above the boy’s head, enveloping his face in its shadow, and drops in the desired coins.
“Don’t worry, I can pay for you, little boy,” the man assures our gracious protagonist. The man is gray and lonely in his body, clearly a man desperate for others to still need him. if he had not been given the chance to pay a bus fee, the act of breathing would have been in vain. a genuine “thanks” escapes from the boy’s mouth while he scurries into the heart of the vehicle. Our boy, our darling ignorant child, knew not the price of a stranger’s kindness in this moment. shortened by three dollars and twenty-five cents, the man feels indebted now, rightfully so. Those three dollars could have purchased someone’s soul, yet they have been gifted to our boy.
The man follows closely behind while the boy scuttles along, to make certain that the boy is granted prime seating. His face melts when the boy stops short of seating and chooses instead to stand. His toothy grin now hidden behind folds of wax flesh, the man is given no choice but to sit alone. He sinks slowly into the dusty carpeted bench, an excruciating six feet from where the boy stands, his disappointment weighing heavy on the cabin.
The boy’s diminutive figure shudders as he reaches up for the handrail. Even this action proves him vulnerable– with mousy limbs he grabs at his bag, believing that a tense posture would protect him. he does not particularly stand out in this crowd, and garners no reason for the man’s Incessant staring, yet the man drives daggers into the side of the boy's head. The rocking floor, the shuffling of feet, the spot of gum beneath his shoe– he latches onto anything in an attempt to ignore the man. but it is to no avail; though he sits two yards from the boy, his hot putrid breath makes the boy’s neck clammy and feverish. The boy shivers where he stands, tail tucked between his legs.
Buildings flash by and the disembodied voice of a mechanical woman announces street after street, stop after stop. Her voice is the only sound on the bus besides the clanging of the engine and the occasional cough from passengers, and ringing in the boy’s ears. The woman kindly announces the next stop, still about 15 blocks from the boy’s destination, but the significance of this stop weighs heavy on our boy’s wellbeing. The automated voice announces the Next stop, and the bus comes to a halt, squelching and squeaking painfully, and after a moment of stillness hoists itself back up and trudges along.
It is at this point that the man’s head perks up, and with cracking lips speaks thus: “That was my stop.”
The boy cannot help himself but to look towards the source of the croaking– his eyes meet the man’s bloodshot ones and watch painfully as the man’s mouth stretches wide to reveal yellowed teeth and musky breath.
The boy’s pulse quickens and he claws tightly at his school bag, beads of sweat dripping down his face and splattering onto the vinyl floor. The man’s bones creak as he reveals more and more of his teeth resembling what some call a ‘smile’. His eyes sink deeper and deeper into his skull the longer the boy stares at him. The walls of the vehicle feel warm and moist. There’s no one else in the bus: just the boy and the man.
The boy chuckles shyly, afraid to look away. “Seems like you missed your stop,” he mutters.
The man stays silent for a moment, his breath making the air heavy. His smile and eye contact do not waver. He sucks in air through his teeth. “When’s your stop?”
“Oh.. It’s right now, actually.” His terror nearly slips out of his throat. The boy rushes to the comfort of the doors, though it will be longer than a moment before they allow his escape. His legs tremble, desperate to run out of the door, about to collapse. His neck cannot support the weight of his head, sweat rolls down his face producing a puddle of muck that joins the gum and shoes.
He can feel the man creeping closer toward him, like the meaning of six feet is disappearing. His hands, large enough to coil around the boy’s neck, approach now. The boy is trapped where he stands, cornered by the eyes of a stranger and the doors to heaven. He cannot control his arms as they pull at their own flesh, desperate to escape from what confines them.
The man is close enough to grab him now, the boy is sure. Close enough to feel him and to hold him, to caress and destroy him. His feet tap rapidly, a wild animal. The doors open. The boy stumbles when he runs. He is panting, knives in his throat making it difficult to breathe. Ears hot, face hot, neck hot. The man must have scratched his throat when he ran. What is it that runs down his body, soaking his flesh? Is it sweat, or is it blood? He does not have time to ponder this question while he scurries down the sidewalk. The bus dashes ahead of him, but he doesn’t notice. He is busy counting his steps and watching the ground. Gum, cement, spray paint. His lungs will soon collapse if he does not put an end to their misery. He can’t look up at the bus. He can’t see the man’s eyes meeting his own. But the bus yelps out his name and cries for his return. The doors usher him back inside. And then trudges along once more.
The boy watches the bus drive away, and he can hear the laughter of the man ringing in his ears.
I was only trying to catch a glimpse. Sometimes I see them, the girls in my grade and one below, and all I ever want to do is look at them. It isn’t my fault, you know. It never is my fault. They tease and taunt and mock and it isn’t fair. I never do anything wrong on purpose; I never try to hurt them or upset them on purpose, I just do.
You see, it happened like this: I was walking, taking the long way as I often do because the fluorescent lights in the hallways give me the most piercing headache, to my eleventh-grade honors biology class. I never look forward to this class. Most of my classmates in it are older than me, and I do not care for older women. Then, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the physical education class had already started. The girls, sitting criss-cross on the black top spray painted with faded game courts, staring wide eyed up at their instructor, obediently and silently. As they were told, they did. Change into your P.E. uniforms they were told. So what was I meant to do?
I heard that the girls hate the P.E. uniforms and I am not sure why. I always liked mine because no one could possibly make fun of me while I wore it. We were all equally ugly. The boys, the girls- we all wore the same hard cardboard shirt that might only go in at the waist if you prayed for it to and the same knee length polyester shorts that had a drawstring at the waist line. I, personally, kept my shorts at their desired length and allowed the burlap sack-like shirt to do as it wished with my form. The boys did the same, though I never found them attractive in the first place, so the length of their polyester shorts did not cross my mind even once. The girls, on the other hand, found the design of their uniforms disgraceful. It was uncommon to see a girl’s uniform untampered. Whether the seams of the shirt were carefully taken in by their mothers, or the shorts cut to the shortest allowed length, or the waistband rolled up 4 times over (taking advantage of the draw string, which was tied tight to reveal 24 inches of nothing), something always had to be tampered. I do not understand their disgust of the clothing, but whatever the cause I am grateful for it.
You place me in a conundrum, at the crossing of two roads, one traveled a thousand-and-one times over, and the other only dreamt of during the most lonesome of nights. If I were an idiot I might have carried onward, which I would have if at the moment I remembered that my eleventh-grade honors biology teacher marks students late mercilessly and that my record of perfect attendance would surely be put to shame. But I am no idiot, I am an opportunist. I knew the consequences my actions would bring, yet the reward was so much greater.
My instruments were all laid out in front of me. I knew they would be, for I had planned this from the very start. Three years- no, seventeen years of planning and waiting would finally pay off now. There it was before me, the trash tree I had befriended in my freshman year, whose branches reached desperately toward the frosty windows of the girls’ locker room which were left open in warm weather. Through the open windows I could hear the girls’ voices. What was it they spoke about so enthusiastically? Surely nothing about me. The only times I overheard girls talking about me was when they were declaring that was the day they would report me for harassment. What evidence do they have against me? I thought. Your memory of seeing my eyes watching a point just lower than your own? Or when you thought that I was in the girl’s bathroom just to be alone with you? I’m allowed in any bathroom I please! The school does not know which bathroom to allow me, so I am allowed to use both! I would never break a school rule just to listen to you urinate, that isn’t even something I am interested in at the best of times. If they knew what I was about to do, what visions were flashing through my mind as I walked around the trash tree trying to find the best place to begin climbing, they would surely never allow me in their presence again.
That is a mere inconvenience, however. I’ve only a year more in this school before I enter college. There, they will not know of my previous misconduct and the women will like me. Why deprive myself of something so crucial if it will not matter in just a few short months? What is a year in the face of eternity? I grabbed hold of the tree. After this I will learn its name so I needn’t call it a trash tree any longer, I decided. I may be scrawny but thank God I can at least lift my own weight with ease. If I were weak I would have had to give up there and then, but I am not nearly as weak as I look. Many have underestimated me, but I am strong. I am strong and the women love me.
Branches broke and footing was lost but I trekked onward. Who else has a will at the same level as I? None! I reached the desired height, with the sight of those girls just a few more feet away. The edge of the window pane tilted toward me. Not even a screen separated the girls and I. I could have climbed in with them if I desired. If I fell head first onto the ice cold concrete of the room, a loud thud would have echoed against the halls of red steel lockers. They would have all rushed toward my side. ‘Are you okay?’ they would have said, and as I peered up to look at their faces to answer, all I would have seen would be their unconcealed skin, from their ankles to their chests.
I assume an animalistic posture, embarrassing for anyone else but not for me. I feel no shame. I placed one hand in front of the other, crawling forward, hoping that the branch would not give way under my weight. Maybe now all those nights of skipping dinner and instead gorging myself on top ramen were finally paying off. My heart was beating out of my chest at that point, and I was certain that my face must have been completely red. This was not an uncommon occurrence for me, of course. I am an excitable person. And with topless girls so close I could nearly taste them I could not even think to contain myself.
I reached the point at which crawling any further would surely break the branch. I had to strain my neck to see into the open window. The sight before me was this: 3 rows of lockers decorated the room, with a girl standing before every other door. The girls are separated by year, with the youngest at the lockers in the back and the eldest at the ones in the front. From the high window I was able to see almost everything. Each girl was already stripped down to their underwear. They all wore a different size bra, no two girls looked exactly the same. The way they moved was captivating, with such grace did they remove their clothing. Careful not to ruffle their hair while removing their shirts and even more careful to not pull down their underwear when removing their pants. From the high window I could see directly into the girls’ cleavage. Oh, how soft their skin must be. The sweet scent of perfume beckoned me further.
For an instant I imagined what I would do if I were in there with them. I prefer intimacy, as I am a romantic, but being surrounded by girls wouldn’t be half bad. I’d like to watch them kiss each other, their chests pressing up against one another, their gentle arms grabbing at each other in a fit of passion. And then I would join them, and I would lick every inch of their bodies and they would giggle in their sweet voices and then I would die.
In my distracted state I inched closer to the window for a better look. One of the girls called out my name. She said that I should come closer. She told me to look at her. She wanted me to look at her chest and see how much bigger it was than the other girls’. She wanted to see my face so she could imagine me wrapping my hands around her waist which was much smaller than the other girls’. I didn’t want to deny her, so I crawled closer. It wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t hear the creaking of wood over the girls’ voices. They all wanted me. I had to. And then I fell.
I didn’t notice, and then my ribs broke. And everyone knows how desperately I try to avoid pain. I hate being in pain, more than anything in the world. It is others who are supposed to feel pain, not I. So it wasn’t fair. They were the ones who told me to, so they should have felt pain. I cried out, louder than I thought my voice was able.
“Who’s there? Someone yelled outside,” a girl said.
“Oh, I think something must have happened. I’ll go get a teacher,” another said.
A crowd surrounded me, all asking ‘Are you okay?’ and I sighed. Not a girl in sight. And then I fainted.
And that’s really how it happened, that’s the truth. It was the girls’ fault. This is why we have dress codes, so things like this do not happen to people like me. I am a fair and honest student, an even fairer and more honest citizen. You believe that I was tricked, no? Swindled? How am I to turn a blind eye when I know that a girl’s bosom is on display just for my eyes only? I am innocent. And next week when I try again I will be sure to tie a noose to the tree so when I fall I will not have to face your judgment again.