Whatever. I don’t care. They can do what they want. The bus is a long way off. I turn my back on the industrialized landscape and start walking.
THE NUMBER 91
Heidi Champa
Moving to the city had meant giving up many things, but my car was the first to go. There was no place to park it at my new apartment and paying for a space across town seemed pointless. So, I bid it farewell and sold it to a new, and hopefully loving, owner. It would be public transportation for me, from now on. While I missed the joys of singing along to the radio and putting on my makeup at stoplights, at least I could console myself with the idea that I was helping to save the environment.
I stood on the narrow swath of cement, waiting for the Number 91 tram. Every day, it was the same routine: the 7:40 a.m. and the 5:17 p.m. The trams were usually on time, not like the buses. That was a lesson I learned the hard way, after being late for work three days in a row. So, I started waiting for the loud, rumbling cars every morning, and I hadn’t missed a single meeting since.
The trams also provided an added bonus I hadn’t counted on. Every Monday, Thursday and Friday, I got to ride home with Stella. She was gorgeous, even in the awful blue-gray transit authority uniform. It seemed a crime to put someone so beautiful into something so ugly, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Her sewn-on name tag stuck out from under her long dark hair, and from the first day I read her name, Stella was burned into my brain. I always sat at the front of the car so I could stare at her through the glass partition.
I had only spoken to her once, but that was all it took. It was the first day I stepped on the tram; the very first time I saw her perfect face. I realized I didn’t know how the ticket system worked, and I panicked a bit before biting the bullet and asking for help. I tapped on the little windowed compartment and Stella turned and gave me a nod.
“How much for the weekly pass?” I asked, then smiled. Her blue eyes were so distracting, I almost forgot why I was standing there. She smiled back, her rose-pink lips stretching over her almost too-perfect teeth.
“The machine is right back there; it will give you the ticket. The weekly pass is seven-fifty.”
She wasn’t impatient or angry. She didn’t even give me the look of pity that the rest of the city folk had perfected for people like me—just that smile. I almost stumbled, my high heel slipping on the grooved walkway as the tram lurched forward. I recovered and headed back to the machine to buy my ticket, fumbling with my money, trying to remain cool and calm despite my pounding heart. After that, I was hooked. But I never talked to her again. There was no legitimate reason for me to engage her, despite my efforts to think of one. So, I had to be content to look at her and admire her from afar.
I become an expert with a monthly pass, like most of the people around me. I was a regular. Every day that Stella drove we shared a smile, and I sat and watched her through the glass. Occasionally, she glanced my way, in her casual, offhand manner. When she did, I felt my body tighten and my insides turn to mush. Being new to the city, I didn’t have many friends. Stella managed to make me feel less alone, without ever saying a word. Somehow, knowing she was there made me feel like I had someone to count on, even though we were strangers.
I started to learn my way around the city and ventured out beyond my little neighborhood. I even managed to convince a few friendly people that I wasn’t a total hick—no small feat with the accent I had. Even with my newfound comfort and community, Stella remained my touchstone. During those rides home, I couldn’t stop glancing her way, looking at her lovely profile and trying to grow the courage to say something, anything to her. As we screeched our way through the city over the tramlines, I couldn’t help but wonder what her voice might sound like, how her hands might feel on my body.
One Friday night, after a long day, I waited patiently for the tram that would take me home. My stomach contracted, as it always did, as the Number 91 pulled up to the stop. All I could think about were Stella’s soft blue eyes that would soon be staring back at me. But, as I entered, a different face looked down from the window. It was the usual Tuesday driver. His shock of red hair and messy beard gave him away immediately. I hesitated a few seconds, until the person behind me shoved me forward. I swayed with the tram down the street, my mind wandering. It was weird how thrown I was by her absence. I relied on Stella to always be there. Even though she just drove the tram, I felt more alone than I had in months. I shook my head, trying to get my composure back, but the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t go away.
At home, I went through the motions of getting ready for a night out; a night out I wasn’t particularly interested in. But I had promised my friends, and I didn’t have a good excuse to cancel on such short notice. What was I supposed to say? I can’t go out because the girl I pine for wasn’t on the tram today. It sounded sad, even to me.
Bar after bar, drink after drink, all I could think about was Stella. I was finally ready to talk to her. I had it all worked out. The end of the line was only three stops from my house. I was going to wait until the last stop and ask her some banal question, just to buy some time with her. Not a great plan, but it was the best I had come up with. At least now I would have more time to think of something clever to say, something that would make her see how much I liked her. It would just have to wait until after the weekend. If I had waited this long, a few more days weren’t going to kill me.
As the shot glass in my hand hit the bar, I was finally starting to feel a bit better. Even drunk, my brain was annoyingly lucid, my sorrows finally starting to drown. I bid my new friends farewell and headed for the reliable old 91 that arrived in mere moments. Late-night trams were usually slow and only arrived every thirty minutes. But as most city dwellers knew, you timed your last drink according to tram time. I could see the lights in the distance as I leaned against the cool Plexiglas of the enclosure. As the tram came skidding to a halt, I could have sworn my drunken eyes were playing tricks: it was her behind the glass. Stella—waiting to greet me with her smile. I walked onto the tram, my mouth gaping open. I fumbled with my purse to find my ticket, but no matter how much I dug, it refused to be found. She kept her eyes on me, and the few people on the tram were too drunk to care about the delay. She finally motioned me past, her small hand waving for me to sit down.
I sat before the tram lurched and wound down the deserted streets. The stops came and went, and my fellow tipsy passengers trickled off, finally leaving Stella and me alone. My stop was next, and I saw my chances dwindling with each block we passed. When we came to my stop, the tram shimmied to a halt. Stella looked at me; the doors opened for me to pass through. But I didn’t move. I just held her gaze, my eyes refusing to leave hers. After a few seconds, she closed the door, and the tram continued down the street, all the way to the end of the line. I sat there in silence, my stomach flipping over as Stella turned the lights off, putting the tram out of service. Suddenly, the glass door that kept her separated from the rest of the tram opened, and for the first time, I saw all of Stella. She was shorter than me, her long dark hair hanging down her back stopping just above her ass. That horrible uniform didn’t do much for her, but her curves were still visible through the coverall-style outfit. It was strange being so close to her, and my whole body registered the proximity. My mouth started moving before I could stop it, the first thing on my mind suddenly coming out of my lips.