the bus is ten minutes late. maybe this wouldn’t sound like much but, considering you’ve already had to endure another twenty at the mercy of the evening chill, shivering uncontrollably – you only brought a light jacket, you always forget how cold it can get here in the winter, after sunset – it’s a bit of an ordeal. you were actually starting to wonder if you shouldn’t just walk the whole two and a half miles from your workplace, but the bus’s arrival cuts that thought short.
you mumble a greeting to the driver, scan your ticket and shore up in one of the rows of empty seats, arms wrapped around yourself for warmth. at least you’re out of the wind. you check your phone – nearly 11 pm – as the bus shudders, starts off.
you’re just settling in for a quiet trip when something crashes to the floor.
you look up. there, at the back of the bus, is another passenger. you hadn’t noticed them before, maybe because they’re so quiet, or because you’re so focused on getting home and taking a nice, long, warm shower, but a black plastic garbage bag seems to have wormed its way out of their lap and onto the ground. it takes you a moment to identify the oblong object poking out: a new shovel, crusted with dirt.
puzzled, you watch as they hurriedly slide the shovel back in and set the bag on the seat beside them.
it’s not that you haven’t seen your fair share of strangeness on public transit. dogs in purses, drunks falling over, people talking and gesturing wildly to themselves – generally you just stare at your phone until your stop’s the next one. if it’s not your problem, it’s not a problem. you don’t want to be late for work and you definitely don’t want to get home any later than you regularly have to.
but – a shovel. you can’t make sense of it. why would they have a shovel? where could they have been using it? you’re pretty sure there’s a park, a couple streets back, but what could they be digging up in a public park? or were they burying something?
too late, you realize you’ve been staring. the stranger locks eyes with you and says, indicating the bag, “i’ve just been doing some gardening. you know. late night gardening.”
they smile nervously, and you laugh a little, though you’re not really sure if it’s supposed to be a joke.
you might’ve expected them to be some sort of maintenance worker, then, if they were tending to the park’s flowerbeds. but they’re dressed normally, perfectly casual in a way that unsettles you for some reason, dark zip-up hoodie and straight-leg blue jeans with grass stains on the knees. your average american teenager.
as you study them, you notice a pair of stained work gloves sticking out of their pocket, and they hurriedly shove them down and out of sight.
to your horror, the stranger gets up and takes the seat beside you.
“i mean, i was just helping my friend,” they say, setting the trash bag at their feet with a muffled clank. “he’s been wanting to plant roses in his front yard for forever now, but, you know, he doesn’t have much upper body strength. so i came over today to help tear up his lawn. we made a real mess of the place.”
“that was nice of you,” you say politely.
“oh, well, we were both responsible.” the stranger runs nervous fingers through their short, dark hair. their pale face is flushed, and they keep fidgeting as they talk to you, fingers winding through the red plastic drawstring wrapped like a noose around the neck of the bag. they don’t seem to be carrying anything else.
“we went out for drinks afterward. you know that bar over on the corner, what’s it called, sally’s? sandra’s? over on ████████ and █████? you know that one?”
“yeah, i know it.”
“nice place. the people there don’t ask too many questions.” their eyes flit back and forth, back and forth. in the corner of the bus, a security camera echoes their anxious movements, played out on a tiny screen with a two-second delay. “he has the receipt.”
“i’ve been there once or twice,” you say cautiously. you wonder if they’re old enough to drink.
the stranger lights up. “it’s a nice place, isn’t it?”
“yeah, you said that already.”
“well. . . it is.”
they keep crossing and uncrossing their legs in front of them.
you chance a look out the window, into the pitch-dark night. the bus idles at a traffic light, and you sit up, craning your head, trying to make out the tiny print on a poorly-lit street sign from thirty feet away. “um, do you know what stop this is?”
“oh, i’m sorry,” says the stranger, sounding genuinely abashed.
“it’s okay.”
they smell like grass and mud and sweat, and the soles of their shoes are stained dark brown. the story checks out just fine – you’re not one to pry – but they keep talking and talking, glancing at you nervously every few seconds like they don’t expect you to believe it. maybe you don’t.
“where are you getting off?” you ask abruptly.
you want to know, all of a sudden. you want to know where they live. you want a name to put to the face, you want the facade of an apartment complex, you want to know who their neighbors are and what their bedroom looks like and how much is the rent. for some reason the only way you can imagine their living space is as an empty, gray, carpeted box with a single dirty mattress lying on the floor.
and the shovel, you guess.
instead they freeze up, like they’ve been caught in the act. “oh. um. well, that’s, do you know – what’s the last stop for this bus?”
“. . . ██████ mall, i think.”
“that one. that’s where i’m going.”
at this hour?, you don’t ask. the stores’ll all be closed by then.
“i live nearby,” they offer, by way of explanation.
“yeah.”
it’s quiet except for the rumbling of the engine.
“but you’d think he could just drive me the rest of the way.” their voice is angry, quiet, almost muttering to themself. “it’s not even that far. i told him. i told him. but did he listen to me, no. people never listen. you can have a gun pressed right up to the side of their head and they still won’t fucking–”
you pull the cord to stop.
the stranger looks up at you as the bus crawls up to the curb. “sorry,” they say again, toying with the mouth of the trash bag. “have a good night.”
“you too.”
“and be sure to lock your door tonight.” you look at them, and they try for a weak smile under hollow, shaded eyes. “you’d be shocked. people don’t always remember.”
“i’ll do that,” you tell them, and when you step onto the sidewalk you realize you got off one stop too early.