THE JOURNEY BEGINS
I hated riding the school bus. There was always a lingering smell of sour green-apple bubble gum and stale corn chips. I was the new kid in town. Summer break was over and the new school year had begun. I always dreaded the ride home, for the bus was chock full of pandemonium; there were kids of all ages and types. The quiet ones sat as close to the front as possible, while the tough talking rowdy guys were as far toward the back as they could get. I was somewhere in the middle, and always the last kid to get off the bus. Each day I learned who got off where, and quickly came to realize that after a few stops almost all the quiet kids were gone. I looked forward to turning by the Blue Pond Shopping Plaza, for this would be the last stop to unload all those noisy heathens that remained. Just behind the plaza was the wide entrance of Florence Boulevard, which led into the subdivision of Blue Pond. I had heard of this place, but mostly only in fragments of conversations due to the never ending screaming and spitball battles. And so I discerned this place from the view of a nine year old. Blue Pond certainly seemed mysterious enough, with cornfields and pastures surrounding the outskirts on one side, while the eastern end displayed lumpy hills of thick kudzu for what seemed like forever. Just to the back of the corn field a football field length barn stood alone. And then there was “the Pond.” Smack dab in the center of the neighborhood was a huge field of hay. In its center a perfectly round stand of trees bordered a deep deacon blue pool of water. I’d heard the tales, in bits and pieces, enough to know this impregnable pit had no bottom, but it careened deep into underground caves and endless waterways that beckoned all to stay away. Divers had vanished in vain attempting to find its end only to bring about their own. Lines had been dropped in excess of three hundred feet from green metal dugouts, but found no mud. As of tales from the crypt, this still black pit was a watery grave to several souls. A model-T Ford lay deep in its brood as well as motorcycles, washing machines, and even the hull of a boat could be spotted at times from the spongy leafed banks. It was as if the Pond itself would tease onlookers by subsiding its murk just enough to reveal some of the captured cadavers.
And the screeching bus ride came to an end. The flap of the stop signal slapped against rust and yellow and the flurry for this day was over. I would move quietly to the front row, happy that I and the gravel voiced driver with long ears and furry eyebrows whose full face I’d never seen were all that remained for the last stop. I was always glad to get to the traffic light. Just one more block and I could escape. Ahead I could see the corner of our mobile home. “Not far now,” I thought. The light changed, then boom! The taste of metal filled my mouth, and my face was seemingly on fire. I was no longer seated, but upside down and in flight. When I came down, I was staring straight into the face of the driver whose face had previously only been seen in a rearview mirror from the nose up. He lay in a crumpled heap on the bus floor with a menacing scowl draping the upper part of his face. A deep groan came from his mouth, unseen before this, now fully visible and wide open. He tried to say something but he was in obvious pain, and could not get air. The taste of fresh blood took the place of the metal safety bar that I’d been thrown into. My vision grew blurry from the flush of red liquid oozing from my nose and scalp. Petrified, I wanted to get up and run out of the steaming heap, but before I could, a blurred view of a furry old hand gripped at the collar of my jacket. The sound of gushing steam and sirens filled the air as I was lifted up. Somehow the old bus driver had found enough strength to raise me to my feet and said, “Son, you’re gonna be okay, just a good scratch, that’s all.” “I want my mama,” is all I could muster, and I felt my teeth move as I spoke.
A nice lady appeared through the door and put a towel to my face, and said something about her business across the street, antiques or something, but in the foray I couldn’t focus. A paramedic appeared and ushered me to an ambulance, which more resembled a hearse with red flashing lights. As I was being wheeled away on the stretcher, I remember seeing the name tag of a police officer named “Eddie,” who was cuffing the man responsible for running the red light and crashing into the bus. A black Cadillac whistled steam profusely and was squashed into the nose of the bus. I heard the man mumble something in a drunken stupor, and the officer promptly pressed him into the back of the squad car. Of course the drunk driver had no injuries. The ambulance sped me away, and the young paramedic let me switch on the siren in hopes of averting my fear. “That’s where I live, I want to go there,” I said as we sped right past the drive where Chip, my dog, loyally waited for me. Instead, I looked backward as the only familiar scenes that I knew disappeared in the distance. The last in sight was the top of a sign now barely visible in the foreboding distance that read, Blue Pond Plaza.
|