Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-29447668-20161018012830

The noise down front jolted me from my uneasy slumber. My neck ached as I sat up and looked around the 93 morning bus. My worst fears were confirmed – the bus had stopped, and I would be late to work. The boss had told me I would be put on corrective action if I was late one more time. Corrective action meant being written up, and from there, being fired. Being fired meant a resume gap, which meant I could not get another job. My rent would not be paid, and I would be evicted, joining the other homeless people on the street to face the pity and contempt of the respectable populace – those who earned their right to live in society. I had grown up homeless, living in disgrace in the shelter because of my shiftless father. I would not be taken down again by some no-account lowlife.

My hands began to shake and the silver bracelets on my arm jingled. My throat tightened and I began to choke with terror. I could not breathe. Then I began to hyperventilate.

The cause of the trouble was down front. Two stupid guys had boarded the bus without paying and the driver had called them back to pay the fare.

''Please, dear God, let them pay the fare so we can be on our way. I don’t want to be fired.''

Of course, the troublemakers chose to argue and curse, not even bothering to speak proper English.

   “I don’ gotta pay no goddam fare for no goddam ride, muthafucka,” said one.

“Sir, you have to pay the fare. It’s $1.75,” said the poor driver, who surely had had enough of these thugs already.

The other young man was on his phone, yelling something about his baby momma’s car. He also paid no attention to the driver’s pleas to pay the fare.

The bus was still stalled. I looked at my watch. If I resolved the matter, I could still get to work on time. If God looked upon me favorably, maybe I could even go to the bathroom before work. I was the only one who was paying any attention to the trouble down front. Every last one of my fellow passengers was playing with their phone, reading the newspaper, or fast asleep. It was up to me.

I stood up and went down front. My race, appearance, gender, and age meant the young men would not see me as a threat. My purse was neatly slung across my body. My right hand was in my purse, as if I were fishing for change to pay the fare for the young men.

I crept up behind the worst offender, the one who was polluting the air with his foul language. With one swift motion, I raised my right arm, stabbing him in the neck with my nail scissors. My aim was true. The young man had cursed his last curse. His body fell lifeless on the floor of the bus. Luckily, I jumped back just in time to keep the pool of blood from splattering my person or clothing. I didn’t even get any blood on my pumps.

I smiled, rejoicing in the peace and quiet. Then I remembered the other young man. He looked at me, said “oh shit” and jumped off the bus.

I smiled again, for that meant I didn’t have to use my nail file in his eye.

“OK, sir, we can go now. I took care of the problem,” I told the driver.

Why did the driver start screaming? We were all set to go and be on time for work.



<p style="margin:0px0px11px;"> ​NOTE: Thank you, Emptyrealincentive, for editing the first draft of this story. <ac_metadata title="Morning Commute (2nd draft, needs review)"> </ac_metadata>