I looked up into the long rear-view, to check out the passengers. Most were snoozing, some were looking blandly at the approaching city. And The Watcher was there, too, as alert as ever, and meeting my gaze in the mirror.
I call him The Watcher because that’s all he did: watched. He watched the way I jiggled in neutral while shifting the gears, the way I used two hands to steer—even just to change lanes. He watched the way I tipped my hat up before turning up the A/C when it was getting hot in the bus. And he watched me, too—studying not only my work, but my face. As if he recognized me. As if I were parent and teacher all wrapped up into one man.
And those red eyes of his—glaring, staring, burning into my own whenever I looked in the mirror. Trying to get my attention for some reason or another. He was like one of those kids who stared at construction workers or firetrucks, though he was much older than any child. In his forties, I’d guess. White, pale white, with blue eyes and dark wrinkles across his forehead like something from a cartoon. His hair was one big squiggle of black-turning-gray, a twisting greasy tuft that stuck out in the center of his bald, shining head. He looked, again, like a cartoon—like that Charlie Brown character—except less innocent and childlike. Almost evil. Ol’ Chuck… with some serious mental problems.
I looked down at the white lines of the road, like tiny beads of time, clicking off each second as the bus crawled nearer to its final destination. To St. Louis. And for me: to sleep.
Thirteen continuous hours from Denver, stopping only once for grub at the usual fast food joint at the Kansas border. It had been a hellish journey—the usual crying babies and complaining old folks—and The Watcher was like a demon on my shoulder the whole way, his eyes a weight I could feel behind my head like a shadow. I was eager to get to the depot.
“You look tired,” he said from the seat directly behind me. It was the first time he spoke during the whole trip, though to me it had been like we’d been having an ongoing psychic conversation the whole way, with me saying, “What the hell are you looking at?” without actually mouthing the words.
“Yup,” I replied, not bothering to look up at him in the rear-view. “Long trip.”
“You must get sick of driving so much, right? I mean…” his voice rose as he sat forward in his seat, leaning close to my ear. I could smell his breath, a cloud of dead fish stench wafting over my shoulder. “I mean, don’t you ever get tired of it all? Always on the road, never at home, never having the time to stop and take in the sights?”
“Sure,” I said. “But it’s a living.” I rolled an eye up to mirror. He was grinning. I grinned back, blatantly humoring him. “And I see plenty of sights, believe me.”
“You must see a lot of people, too, right? I mean, heck, lotsa people ride the bus. Lots, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Lotsa psychos like you, I thought.
He paused to peer through the windshield. “Ever had someone ride twice? Like… someone who rode the bus two years ago, and then rides back two years later? Ever seen that? Ever recognized that sort of person?” He returned his eyes to mine in the mirror.
It was as if every sentence he uttered was a question. I couldn’t tell if he had let all these dumb questions build up during the whole ride, or if he was just naturally inquisitive in his shy, slightly-paranoid way. Whichever, it was definitely irritating. “Nope,” I said apathetically. “Never happened.” It was a lie, and not a very tactful one, but I didn’t feel like getting into a conversation with The Watcher—an answer would no doubt only lead to more stupid questions. I’m a bus driver, not a friggin’ tour guide.
He leaned back in his seat—the red vinyl squeaked beneath his chubby weight. Before I took my eyes away from the mirror, I saw him cross his arms and pout and look down at the floor of the bus. And he was nodding, a large disbelieving smirk on his face. He knew I had lied.
I stepped down harder on the pedal. The guy was giving me the creeps. I did not look in the mirror again, not even when I pulled into the depot. I just parked, opened the door and exited, happy to be on my way to a bed and a drink and to not have some weirdo looking over my shoulder. But I knew he was still watching me, even as I quickly walked away from the bus. I could still feel his eyes on my back, like a heavy wet rucksack.
We’d arrived in St. Louis early, with plenty of time to spare. I had a ten a.m. trip the next morning (back to good old Denver), and while I’d normally just crash in the Holiday Inn right away, I decided to take my time about getting the room and taking a shower. And instead of hitting the sack, I hit the bar.
It was midnight—a Sunday night—which meant that the place was crowded with tourists and even locals who were there because the liquor stores were all closed for the weekend. I managed to get a table, one of those candlelit two-seaters that are meant for lovers and not lonely old bus drivers like myself. The waitress rushed me three beers, and I chugged the first one down in mere seconds. The second beer was for slurping. The third for nursing.
I was fairly tipsy by the time I noticed him. The Watcher. He was sitting at the bar with his back to me, right in front of the neon beer-bottle clock above the dangling bar glasses. At first it looked like he was giving the barkeep the same routine that he gave me on the bus—watching his every move like a curious child—but then I realized that he was actually staring at me in the mirrored wall behind the bar. Unfortunately, we made eye contact. I nodded and smiled at him—to merely affirm our acquaintance—and then diverted my attention.
And the next thing I knew, he was sitting down in the chair opposite mine. He cocked his head to one side, and just stared at me, as if expecting me to start a conversation. I pulled on my beer instead.
After a minute, he set fire to the end of a thick cigarette, and asked: “Do bus drivers often drink alcohol?”
Weird question. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink and drive, if that’s what you mean…” The liquor, I realized, had loosened my tongue. I was now trapped in yet another conversation with The Watcher.
The Watcher nodded, then smiled. “Did you know that it’s the end of Daylight Savings Time today? That we set the clocks back an hour tonight at precisely two a.m.?”
“Sure…” I lied—I had forgotten. “Of course I know. It’s part of my job.”
He wrinkled his face. “Since last call is at two, do you think that the bar will stay open an extra hour?”
I rolled my eyes. “Hell if I know,” I said, finishing off a beer. “Doubt it.”
“Me, too. And how would I know anyway? As always, I’ll be much too busy setting my clocks.”
This, I thought, is a very strange man. It was my turn to ask a few questions. To give him a taste of his own habit. “Why wait till two? Why not just set them before you go to sleep?”
His face turned serious, too serious for such lighthearted small talk: “Because, Mr. Bus Driver. Time is of the essence.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I see,” I replied awkwardly, making a mental note not to ask this weirdo any more questions.
The waitress—thank God—appeared then, and I ordered three more beers. I would have just gone to my room and had them room serviced, but that would cost too much. And what the hell? Since it was time to change the clocks back, I was due an extra hour of sleep. At least I had learned something talking with the bastard.