Love Renewed on a Bus
By Patrick Brian Coomer
© 2023
Anne didn’t know what led her to the bus stop that Monday morning. Habit, more or less. The start of a week which would be as never before, nor ever again.
Her hose was torn, clothing semi-fresh. Electric had cut off two nights ago during the rinse cycle. Everything had changed in five days.
Was her firm was still operating? Doom bloomed in shades of black grey, but Anne continued as if nothing had happened.
But life’s finality had happened. The facts assaulted her from every direction. She was not able to accept the truth, because it had no comparable reality.
A week earlier, she braved a late-winter blizzard to catch Line 9 at the Powell/Milwaukie westbound stop. To work. That then-constant trek to do another’s bidding. For beans, not quite cooked. Anne tapped her transit pass, pivoting her eyes away from the bus driver. No contact desired nor notice of that annoying “Gene the too-happy bus driver” bouncing off her hardened shell.
He’s just a fucking bus driver, she thought. Just drive the bus like you’re paid to. It’s too damn early to be smiling.
Anne settled uneasily next to last night’s hangover. In the full rush hour bus, there was no other choice. She hated standing because it disrupted her musical balance.
Just inches away, Jim Beam’s poster boy was snoozing the night off, unaware of anything around him. His week-old stubble accentuated last decade’s BudLight T-shirt. He didn’t notice the exquisitely dressed legal secretary sitting next to him wearing lavender perfume.
Good thing he’s out of it, she thought. Good grief, how he reeks!
Amidst an abnormal amount of coughing and sneezing, Anne registered nothing over the noise-cancelling headphones blasting her favorite Tedeschi Trucks tune. Sweet and Low helped prep her for the coming onslaught of legal briefs for attorneys demanding impossible deadlines. She dreamed of a future lover cuddling her on a brisk January eve. She sighed, resigned to yet another silky fantasy.
Anne snorted in condescension. Perhaps her father was right, a law degree would elevate her from bottom-feeder hell to greatness.
“With just a bit of work,” he once told her, “you will rise well above the hopeless nobodies.”
Like Gene, the bus driver. God help her if his ilk was all her future held.
Anne considered Gene unskilled labor. However, his people skills were superb. He always complimented her style while extending warm greetings, which she routinely ignored yet secretly enjoyed. Nobody else complimented her carefully groomed hair, immaculate and stylish fashion, and understated array of half-moon jewelry. Her side of the moon was left; Daddy wore the right.
Gene was intent upon catching her attention. She thought he was flirting. But why would a 60-something guy do so with a 23-year-old? Disgusting. Still, his kindness was intriguing as her music muted his greetings.
This bus operator smiled, complimenting everyone. Greeting many by name. They responded warmly. A grandmotherly type kissed him on his cheek as he spread his arms in a loud and boisterous greeting. Her husband followed, smiling broadly. Anne watched these moments with disgust.
Smarmy and unbecoming a gentleman, she scoffed. Flirtatious, perhaps? After months of observation, she gradually doubted it. From her lofty perch, she wondered why Gene was so upbeat. Was that the only way he could reconcile himself to his monotonous career?
She exited the bus at 6th and Alder, this time using the front door.
“Thank you,” she said. Gene was briefly startled, but his smile remained. It was the first time she had spoken to him, and he had driven her ride for 10 years.
“No,” he replied, “thank you! And don’t forget to sing today, Annie. Hope you accomplish something memorable!” He winked at her and flashed his trademark grin.
Anne stopped in her tracks, staring at him, mouth open. She had planned to disarm his supposed faux charm. Instead, Anne nodded curtly and stepped off.
Dodging the homelessness smothering the bus stop, she nimbly stepped off in a daze. How could he know her nickname, or that she sang?
Since childhood, she had cultivated a lovely alto-soprano voice through thousands of hours of lessons and practice. Diligently working her way up through the St. Patrick’s Cathedral Youth Choir to become junior lead soprano at 14, she hoped to become an understudy to the Great Lupe Armas with the Portland Opera.
Anne didn’t realize anyone heard as she sang along to her tunes on the bus.
Gene heard everything on his bus. He politely asked people to silence the audio on their cellphones several times a shift. Harmoniously attuned to the mechanical sounds of his rolling office, he needed to hear street noises, escalating passenger drama and anything besides artificial nonsense. He loved hearing Anne sing. Gene’s father had been a gifted tenor; he instantly recognized talent.
* * * * *
This winsome lass who projected rudeness was the niece of Gene’s favorite passenger. Anne’s Uncle Dan was Gene's drinking partner at Kell's Pub, and regularly rode his relief trip. Dan always spoke highly of his spirited niece.
“She has always been a cute lil’ songbird,” Dan told him. “Since she was about, say, three or so, ’Lil Annie (that’s what I call her even though my sister hates it), has sung her way through life. It has always been hard for her because she’d rather sing to herself than talk to others.
“I don’t know how she stomachs those lawyers. Must drive her absolutely ratshit. Only person I know she actually talks to is her papa. They are inseparable, those two.” Dan shook his head, his wistful smile replacing a pained smirk.
Gene smiled at the connection. Dan's description confirmed the lovely songbird's identity.
From that point on, Gene worked diligently to crack Anne’s hard shell. Then, the pandemic intervened. It drew them close with a force neither could have ever imagined.
* * * * *
Gene walked into a mostly-silent garage. Station Agent Alvin was genuinely surprised to see him.
“Gene!” Alvin exclaimed. “You’re a welcome sight!”
He gratefully shook his friend’s hand. Gene and Alvin were classmates, having risen together through tumultuous decades of Corporata's assault upon transit.
“God, it’s good to see you, lad. How’s the family?”
Alvin bowed his head, gradually glancing back upward. “Better than most. Lost Mom and Dad a few weeks back, but the wife and kids are still healthy, thank God.”
“That’s wonderful news, regardless,” Gene said, ending it with a painful sigh both recognized.
“Both your parents were very dear to me,” Gene added. “They were my Line Trainers. Their lessons have guided me for decades in this job, buddy. My condolences to you, little brother.”
They shared a silence.
Alvin smiled in pain, his head drooping. A river of tears rushed down his cheeks. Another moment of silence. Neither wanted the other to see his face.
“Seems we fared better than most,” Gene said quietly, reaching for something good through his own pain.
Alvin sniffed, wiping his eyes with a shirt sleeve. His red eyes rose to meet Gene's.
“Yeah, but we’re not alone,” Alvin said, his voice choking on emotion. “Al Bones was in a while ago to drive his Dirty 3, and a few Extra Board ops are out there too. Other than that, I’ve had a couple hundred call-ins and the other garages are about the same.”
Alvin sobbed a snort. Fingers poised upon his desk, eyes dripping grief in a brief interlude, he continued.
“Forty operators died over the past seven hours. We might salvage a few ops out of all this. But the calls… they’re so damn sad. Their husbands, wives, children... calling in...” At this, Alvin stopped. Unable to speak, his shoulders tremored. He turned away and walked back to snatch a tissue from a hidden alcove behind the counter.
Both men grieved. Over 750 of their co-workers had perished. The toll was too heavy for either to comprehend. Of the Portland metro population of 2.5 million souls, maybe 70,000 remained.
Stores were ransacked, food supplies virtually exhausted. Trash uncollected, the wind flitted it about the few vehicles venturing into a world punctuated with gunfire between factions of militia wannabes. Most survivors locked themselves in their homes, and neighborhoods consolidated whatever stores they had to form collectives.
There were no public services; the government had instantly dissolved into nothingness. Nobody knew how many were left to lead them through their viral hell.
Somehow, transit survived. It rolled mostly empty buses and trains through deserted streets. Humanity vainly attempting to justify itself against the odds.
Every city department was down to just a few souls. They didn’t even know if they would be paid, or what that would mean. Banks were closed. There was no longer an economy. Survivors believed they needed to go places, even if there was nobody to serve them at whatever destination. Any attempt at normalcy was all anyone could do.
* * * * *
“You have Bus 4055 for your 902,” Alvin told him, handing Gene a trip sheet and a roll of ticket paper. Gene shoved it back across the counter.
“Nobody needs to pay now,” Gene said. “I haven’t accepted fare in two weeks.”
“Yeah,” Alvin said, “I get it. But Norm insists we give it out anyway.” They both laughed at the absurdity of the lone upper-management guru.
“Fuck him,” Gene said, laughing. “What’s he gonna do, fire me?”
Alvin chuckled. “He might try, but I say we both kick his ass. I’ll go left and you hit him with an undercut.”
Gene smiled. He shook Alvin’s hand again.
“Hey bud, you all set?” Gene asked. “I just shot a deer on my street a few days ago, so my freezer’s stocked. Until the electricity goes away.”
Alvin sighed. “We may have to take you up on that. Thanks. Where you holed up?”
“I just took possession of an ancient Victorian three blocks away,” he replied. “Had to bury the former occupants in the schoolyard, but I don’t think they mind my being there. 1420 Center Street. Come over later, I’ll throw some steaks on the coals. Got some potatoes and veggies from their garden too. It’ll be good to have some sense of normalcy. Say, around 6?”
“We’re there, bro,” Alvin replied. “Hey I found a whole shelf of Scotch at a liquor store. Want me to bring a bottle?”
“Bring three,” Gene chuckled. “Slainte. We’ll put it to good use. We can always call in sick tomorrow.”
Both laughed.
“I don’t want a 4000-series bus,” Gene said. “Can’t I have a 3500? They’re a lot easier to drive and my back hurts like fuck.”
“There’s only fuel in a few and Norm dictates we drive the newest ones. A 3500 would likely leave you on the side of the road with nobody to rescue you. Sorry, man.”
“Oh well,” Gene said, “this may be the last time I have to do this anyway. I’ve gone from 230 in seniority to about 15 in a week. Guess I can suffer through another shift in those new bastards. I miss the 2600s... they had some zip!”
“Be safe out there man,” Alvin said. “Lots of gunshots out on Powell lately. We’re on 135th and I can’t sleep well at night because of the warfare out there. Even my 11-year-old sleeps with a loaded 12-gauge by his bed.”
“I hear ya, bud,” Gene replied. “Why don’t you move closer in? There’s a bunch of empty places here in the Brooklyn. Safety in numbers, and a few of us have taken over the area. It would be a lot closer commute anyway.”
They both laughed. Suddenly, each realized this might be their last time as interacting transit employees.
“You’d better get out to your bus,” Alvin said with mock authority. "It’s way past 902’s pullout time and you know how Norm loves optimum On-Time Performance stats.”
Gene laughed. “Fuck Norm and the bus he don’t know how to drive. But yeah, I’m outta here after I make the bladder gladder and grab a cup o’ joe from that pot I smell back in your domain.”
“Have a full Thermos to go,” Alvin said, swinging open the door separating the bullpen from his previously restricted area. “Just be sure to leave me a few cups. Stores running low here.”
“Gotcha brother,” Gene said, pausing to give his friend a bear hug when the door opened. Alvin hugged back, holding on just a moment longer than usual. They separated without looking at each other. Their love for one another thusly stated, nothing more was necessary.
Gene poured the entire pot’s content into his Thermos, but made sure to get another pot brewing. Sliding the steaming cauldron into his backpack, he strode out the door without looking back.
Ten minutes later, he guided his bus out of the yard, onto 17th Avenue and the Center Garage stop, where he paused to pray. Then, he pointed it northbound. He didn't even look for traffic. There was none.
* * * * *
Anne was dreaming a moment with her parents a few months earlier as she waited for the bus. It seemed years ago. Today, Gene was the only person she desperately needed to see. Everyone else was dead.
“Daddy! No, no no no… NO! Please let this be a fucking nightmare! I want to WAKE UP! PLEASE GOD, LET ME WAKE UP! DADDY? Why aren’t you answering me? FUCK FUCK FUCK!
“PLEASE GOD… make it ALL… just… go away.”
This disharmonic soliloquy sent her into spasms of grief. Grunting sobs, fist-clenching cries exploded outward. With nobody to notice, she allowed herself to mourn.
Anne needed somebody to lean on. After years of turning inward for solace, her soul screamed for acceptance. Gone was no longer her stubborn snobbery. It had been replaced by a sudden desperation for that once-scorned hug from humanity at-large.
She had depended solely upon her father for love and support. No boys in high school had his charm, his good looks or impeccable character. All they wanted was sex. No thanks, she told them. It wasn’t some quaint desire to protect her virginity. Just disinterest. None of the males she knew had the ability to engage in intelligent conversation. They also lacked interest in her thoughts or dreams. She found them all boorish, unworthy of her tempestuously artistic soul.
Now Anne wished one of those foolish boys had hit the mark, having survived to find her during this awful week. She was horrifyingly, completely… alone. In the span of five days, she lost all those who suffered her aloofness yet remained her closest confidantes.
Not only Dad, but Mom, Sis and her two brothers, Uncle Pete, Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Andy along with their newborn twins. Georgie, Hans, Moddit, Mary, Sam, Bird, Roger… all dead. Each of them and everyone on the fringes. Of her three closest friends, none of them answered her calls. It was paralytic; one short week when numbness replaced confidence.
* * * * *
The flu. A stupid little virus had killed nearly all the world’s population in less than three weeks. The bug hit Portland like a sledgehammer in the form of holy rollers. They lit up the Convention Center with devoted gyrations upon the unholy scepter of promised “redemption”, then sent forth missionaries who infected hundreds of unsuspecting Portlanders with their hidden assassin: the vastly lethal King Virus. Those infected returned home, and the bug infected entire locales. It ravaged Earth like a wildfire consuming a shriveled forest.
Only the strongest escaped King's deadly grip. Most perished within a few days of contracting the virus. Those who survived wished they had been taken away as well, for they faced the nightmare of survival.
Meanwhile, other animals began to flourish. Humanity’s deathly pollution quickly subsided. The Earth began to reclaim itself after 200 years of abuse by those who now perished without so much as a daylong whimper. As money lost value, humans became even more violent. People were murdered for a stash of Lay’s Potato Chips. Gunfire was a signal to find shelter.
Governments were castrated by humanity’s assassin. They initially downplayed the virus, their inaction vainly masking their inability to contain it. Within days, leaders became violently ill, then died. Only those unknowingly gifted a simple variation in human DNA were immune.
There was no news. No internet activity, radio, television or any other means of communication. In some areas, a few had communicated via ham radio. In some cases, they briefly united only to find each other stubbornly retaining political divides.
Mother Earth had long needed to cleanse itself of humanity’s poisonous grasp. Inevitably, the one species which should have saved itself, could not. This shining blue planet found its healing nirvana through humanity's near extinction.
The sounds via which humanity roared for millennia were forever silenced. The wind rose victorious to accompany the birdsong soaring to reclaim nature’s harmony.
* * * * *
It was hard for Anne to function with any semblance of sanity. She hoped it was just a lucid nightmare. Her dismissive behavior toward others had sustained her to that point. Now, everything she knew was horribly obsolete. She wasn’t ready to become responsible for those weaker than she.
* * * * *
So it was, that morning as Anne arrived at her bus stop. It was habit, comforting in its commonplace ritual. She rose at 6:00 as her cell phone alarm chimed. Allowing herself one blissful snooze setting, Anne’s dream continued. Dad tugging at her hand, urging her forward as she marveled the scent of yet another spring bloom at Washington Park’s International Rose Test Garden. Mommy laughing at his corny dad jokes. The sun bathing Tilikum Crossing’s glaringly-white cable stays. Puffy Tyrannosaurus-Rex clouds chasing Bugs Bunny into Mr. Rogers’ cardigan sweater. Her skin felt the warmth of the sun, turning pink in preparation of bronzing her into beauty.
Bleepity-ring-a-bitty-do. The phone implored Anne to rise into today’s new round of despair. Hands moved to her eyes, which immediately filled with tears. She writhed in anger and disbelief. She wasn't sure of which to be more afraid: nightmares of a comforting past, or the horrors of the now.
Anne blew her nose and sat up. Her senses clearing, she decided this strange new world demanded calm resolve. Daddy would have insisted.
She rose and showered, applying light makeup (a dash of blush and dawn’s touch of lipstick). She chose a bright-yellow blouse to accent a sky-blue skirt, with a green tartan Scottish cashmere scarf (purchased on her 18th birthday trip to Edinburgh with her father). Perhaps hysteria-induced eccentricity led helped her pick the red Converse high-tops with bright-orange laces.
Anne exited and locked the door. Eyes glued to the sidewalk, the quarter-mile trek to the bus stop seemed longer than usual. She realized her headphones still hung upon the bedside lamppost and dismissed the urge to turn back. This accessory's absence was negligible in light of a reunification with normalcy she hoped awaited her.
Each step echoing between the mostly-empty homes along Rhine Street, she trudged toward Milwaukie Avenue and turned right. The early-morning sunshine felt good. All she could hear were birds, a weird departure from the din of motorists honking angrily while racing to the next red light.
Silence assaulted her senses. No conversations from hordes of coffee-sippers dreading another workday.
An empty Line 66 bus roared past as Anne waited to cross Powell. It was the only vehicle in either direction, so she crossed the street against the light. A block ahead, the rail crossing blared a MAX train’s approach. A few moments later, she reached her stop at Powell/Milwaukie. Eight minutes ahead of schedule.
The normally busy intersection was silent; no traffic awaited the timed signals.
None a week prior realized they would be dead in a few days, headed to their non-existent funerals. No traffic, except a Coca-Cola delivery truck, its driver with nothing to deliver except his own grief.
Comfortably numbed by her headphone symphonics, she previously avoided noise. Today’s soda truck was the only semblance of normalcy in her new reality.
Where the hell was it going? Its very presence was disturbing. Anne wondered if the driver would trade Diet Coke in return for her companionship. She nodded at him as he drove by, and he returned the gesture in solidarity of their survivorship.
Anne stood, hands clenched tightly at her waist, her lithe body stooped like someone 40 years older. Hoping, even praying, to hear the familiar hum of rush hour traffic. Instead, only birds. Millions, singing more happily than normal. Amply celebrating humanity’s reckless self-destruction.
Two blocks away, the railroad crossing alarms once again blared through the eerie calm, startling her from aggrieved numbness. Normally, traffic would dull that noise, but in today’s silence it was piercing.
At least the MAX is still running. Each clickety-clack of the empty light rail car’s wheels was amplified a thousandfold.
Anne collapsed to her knees and began to laugh. Then just as suddenly, tears flowed down her cheeks and she spiraled into hysterics.
“Where’s Gene? You’re FUCKING LATE YOU BASTARD!”
He wasn’t. Still, she beat her fists on the sidewalk. Anne prayed he was still alive, still driving the bus she needed to come. It was now 7:20:45, almost a full minute prior to his normal arrival time. Anne’s watch was two minutes behind her phone, because she rarely synched them.
Was Gene gone, like most of the city? She sobbed, begging any cursed entity to deliver her last hope of normalcy to that lonely street corner.
After a few moments, she heard the hum of a diesel engine accelerating up the incline from the rail underpass at 17th Avenue. It was entirely too loud to be true. Anne glanced eastward to make sure her ears and eyes connected. Sure enough, a bus approached, its overhead sign read “9 to Portland/Masks Required”. As it drew close, she saw the route sign in the right corner of the windshield declaring it was indeed “902”.
Anne stared, hoping to see Gene in the seat. She couldn’t tell… the operator was obscured by early morning sunshine. Anne waved frantically. Shading her eyes, she squinted in desperation.
Is it Gene? Lord, PLEASE let it be him!
The light turned green, and Anne raced toward the pole, waving both arms. She was intent on making sure the bus stopped. It didn’t matter if anyone occupied her office. She had to ride this bus at least one more time. Whoever drove it, she needed to greet them. To thank them for being there even though they had also lost those dearest them. To have another human to talk to after a weekend from hell, watching everyone she had ever loved fall into oblivion.
The previous silence was dimmed by the diesel engine’s slowing, air brakes assisting the 20-ton Gillig easing into the stop.
Bus No. 3505 stopped, but the doors didn’t open. Anne stared, but the operator was looking down, facing left, his back to her. Finally, the bus door eased open. To Anne’s ecstatic surprise, Gene swung his barrier open and walked out, enveloping her in a deep, fatherly hug.
Tears dripped from his eyes. Never having had any meaningful conversation, operator and passenger were equally overjoyed to see one another. While one week ago she sneered at him, now she eagerly returned his hug. A full minute passed as they poured out their collective grief in a mutual embrace. He swung her through the air, jubilantly celebrating their reunion.
Gene had lost not only his beloved wife, but also his entire family, numbering 22 loved ones and scores of friends, coworkers and passengers. He boarded only two passengers since the transit center. Empty again at the 82nd time point, he stopped for 10 minutes. There, he simply cried. He missed the early-morning grumps, sullen teenagers enroute to high school, the sullen drunks not ready to awaken. Hoping to see at least one of his regulars, he was rewarded when Al boarded at 52nd Street. Both were relieved each other survived.
Now, Gene’s grief was etched into his smiling soul. His sobs shook Anne’s slight frame. Her own attempted to match his. Anne felt genuinely sorry for him despite her own grief.
Anne began to feel empathy for the first time in her life. At first, his hug had been a great shock. No other male other than her father or a rare uncle had bestowed such affection upon her. Gene’s sobs echoed off the piano store walls across Powell. Rocking to and fro, holding her tighter with each sway, he murmured into her ear how ecstatic he was to see her. Alive.
Anne began to sob with him. Each heave of her chest brought them closer together. Time stood still while Anne patted Gene’s back, soothing him. Her formerly icy resolve weakened as their combined sadness consumed the moment.
He began to calm, but still held her close. He felt like he was hugging the ghost of his beloved daughter. He realized Anne had likely lost many of her own family. Their tears mingled, becoming a shared river of grief.
Finally. For two days, she had hidden within a shroud of denial. Now, she was no longer alone. Her unlikely rescuer reigned from the operator’s seat of a 20-ton city bus.
* * * * *
Seated inside the bus, Al watched Gene cradle the young lady, each begging solace. Their embrace reaffirmed his belief that love reigned supreme through that which had devastated humanity.
Al chose the back door to exit. He had nowhere else to go, and feared the unbridled violence Downtown Portland offered. Preferring the serenity of strolling through a peaceful yet ghostly neighborhood to the unknown terrors ahead, Al eased his walker to the sidewalk. He paused, watching Gene and the equally-aggrieved lass. He smiled at the sight, remembering his reunion with his Flora when he returned safely from World War II. This reunion was different, but weirdly the same, a few days divided by years.
The morning sun was brightly upon them. Looking down, Al felt lucky to have nobody left to grieve. He was 92, childless, an only son of parents gone six decades earlier. He accepted loneliness. Surprised the pandemic had spared him, he was sad for those left behind. He believed his survival must have purpose. Not knowing what it was, he would accept whatever happened.
Al shuffled up to Gene and Anne. Murmuring words of consolation, placing both his hands upon them. Both wrapped their free arm around Al, forming a triumvirate of comfort. Their tears ended as he drew them close. Massaging their shoulders, he helped them grieve. Al was all too familiar with that emotion. He knew too many who failed to feel, then later perished from prolonged heartbreak.
Anne broke the group hug to reach into her purse. She offered them tissues before taking one for herself. Each used theirs, backs turned to one another in practiced embarrassment. As they turned toward each other, each chuckled.
“I guess we needn’t feel shame for shedding tears,” Al said. “Nobody but us to see them.”
“We are here,” Anne said, “and I’m glad. At least we can share our grief. I’ve been so alone the past three days! I showed up hoping Gene would bring some normalcy to this nightmare. You and your damn cheery goodwill shit.”
“There you are,” Gene said softly. “I’m so glad to see you again, lass.”
“I missed me too,” Anne said, smiling.
“Oh,” Gene sighed, “how I have longed to hear your voice, Annie girl.”
Anne was shocked. “What? That’s what Uncle Dan called me!”
She stared dumbstruck up at Gene, not understanding how he could possibly know her uncle’s pet name for her.
Al’s ears perked up at this point. He knew Dan too, having had many fascinating conversations with a fellow WWII veteran. He had also learned to love Anne without being introduced. He sat, refreshing his pipe with a bulge of what his sons once called “Barnyard No. 9”. Lighting the pile, he settled back to absorb the unfolding love story.
Gene stepped closer to the fragile girl who desperately grappled for strength through her indescribable grief, gently cupping her downturned chin in his left hand to meet his gaze.
He wiped her tears with his thumbs. He kissed her forehead and drew her close as only a father knew how, nestling her chin into his shoulder. Gene patted her back as he would burp an infant, his other hand palming her head, keeping her close. He rested his chin atop her head, swaying with her gently. When he spoke, it was in a calm tone, each word carefully considered.
“Dan was my dear friend for many years,” he said. “He bragged about you, lass. Your uncle marveled at your pitch-perfect vocals, your fierce determination. For years, sweetheart, Dan spent his daily 20 minutes on my bus describing, in utter awe of his one, beloved niece. I grew to know you long before you stepped upon my ride.
“When I first saw you, I knew you to be the niece he so lovingly described. Especially now, I am so truly grateful. Annie, my dear lass, I now offer myself where he left off. I am so damn sorry everyone has left you. I, too, miss your uncle more than I could ever describe.”
Gene stepped back, shading his tears with his hands with a bow worthy of Scottish nobility. Anne cupped her mouth with both hands, touched by the gesture. Remembering etiquette training from her travels to Scotland, she curtsied in return.
“I am truly honored, kind sir,” she replied. Her tears continually flooded her vision, but it was a sight she would never forget.
“You must accept you’re forever stuck with me,” Gene said. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Once bonded, I’m hopelessly devoted to my child-… er, I mean, younger friends. But yes, you are young enough to be my grandchild. Still,” brushing off another memory, “I hope we can find solace in each other, given...”
Anne sighed, breaking away from him to light a cigarette. She had tried to quit smoking several times but walking into a deserted Plaid Pantry a day earlier, she grabbed every carton of American Spirits she could cram into her backpack.
What the fuck? I have no reason to quit now. Whazzit gonna do, kill me?
Puffing a furious first hit, she absorbed the moment as her exhale clouded their shared stare.
No wonder he reached out to me all these years! He already knew me!
Suddenly angry, “How long have you known who I am and failed to address me by name?”
Startled, Gene felt assaulted. Turning his back to Anne and Al, he boarded the bus to gain some composure. He turned off the motor. Transit can wait, he told himself. This was a moment he figured would come, albeit under different circumstances.
He blew his nose, wiping his eyes with a dry corner. After a few deep breaths, he turned and exited the bus, stopping toe-to-toe with Anne. He felt accused, somewhat defensive given the hundreds of times he had complimented the lass in vain attempts to engage her.
“I tried to connect,” he explained, “but you wouldn’t even look at me. I refrained from calling you by name because I simply wanted to see you. Without using my sleeved ace.
“Still, you treated me with disdain, like many others I greeted cheerfully every morning.” He gestured aimlessly, with both palms turned upward, unable to continue. He shrugged. Fresh tears poured down his cheeks with the memory of being shunned so many times.
Anne listened, arms crossed, left hand dangling her smoke, right index finger crooked against her mouth in silent respect of an elder addressing her.
“I wasn’t going to push you,” Gene continued, “knowing my position required tact. Years ago, I decided my one goal in this job was to simply acknowledge people. They go from place to place, finding little or no kindness. I just needed them to know I do care. Every once in a while, a regular passenger would recognize my feeble attempts at making their day just a bit brighter, to know that not only did I want to drive them safely to their destination, but to also afford them an opportunity to make a connection with a fellow citizen of this world we all share. Because, dear lass, if nobody else you encounter during the day gives a damn, why not accept the one who does?”
Gene paused, sadly remembering all those with whom he had made a connection, and how they expressed their gratitude for his attempts to brighten their gloom. He stared toward the Ross Island Bridge, totally deserted. Instead of the emptiness which assaulted his vision, his mind replaced it with a memory of the bustling metropolis destroyed by this damned pandemic. It took every ounce of strength he could muster to return to their shared moment.
Taking her hands into his, but without meeting her gaze, he continued. To look at her would make his next words impossible.
“I watched you grow from a gangly pre-teen into the beautiful young woman I now behold. Alone yet lovely, now tortured by the grief we all feel. What was I supposed to do with someone plugged in and tuned out like the rest of her generation? Beg? Sorry kid, I stop short of sacrificing my pride for callousness.”
Al sighed from 10 feet away. He knew all too well how Gene had suffered Anne’s callous indifference, having witnessed each attempt to connect.
Anne stepped back from Gene, staring at her shoes. Al thought she felt shameful. Gene feared he had shown too much anger, ashamed for his outburst.
The two new friends sighed. Al meanwhile, marveled at humanity’s downfall. A lone Honda sped through the red light at Powell, zipping past them at 70mph, amplified muffler overcompensating for a severe lack of combustive muscle.
Anne and Gene faced each other, identically stubborn. Arms crossed, both dealing with internal pain yet trying to recognize newfound common ground. It was up to her, Anne realized, to make things right. She dropped her cigarette and twisted it dead under her Converse heel. Gene had made daily attempts to engage her over the years, and she had consistently ignored him. Until this moment, when she needed him most. She felt childish, selfish and embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry,” she sighed.
Gene lit a cigarette of his own. “Maybe we should step aboard and toke up a joint.” He laughed.
Anne laughed in surprise. “I’ll pass on the pot, but I could sure use a wee dram about now.”
Gene chuckled. “I’ve got several bottles stolen from a liquor store at home, but never will you catch me nipping on the job. We beat the hell outta that virus, didn’t we? What’s a toke gonna do us now?”
Anne laughed, fishing in her jacket for a tube containing her “go to roll” she would have sneaked on her lunch hour. It felt liberating to smoke pot with someone 40 years her senior without being admonished.
She held it high to the sky, then brought it to her lips with lighter in opposite hand. Al, who had never partaken in his long life, saw and heard the moment, jumping up to join them again. Anne ceremoniously lit the doobie with her Homer Simpson lighter. She drew deeply, offering it to Gene. He paused, still feeling “transit responsible”, then then realizing their combined reality, pinched the joint into his reluctant but welcoming fingers. For years he had abstained in fear of being caught “dirty” in a random piss theft.
In defiance of a decades-long ridiculousness regarding cannabis, Gene took his first hit of pot in decades. Unlike his filtered tobacco cigarettes full of carcinogenic chemicals, the smoke was at once exhilarating yet simultaneously harsh. He held it as long as he could, snarking, choking, allowing the pungent smoke to overtake years of resistance before coughing it off. He leaned back into his bus, his eyes rolling skyward. Anne laughed in celebration of Gene’s “breaking the rules” nobody would ever care about.
Al ambled up. “Hey Gene, you gonna hold that thing untl it dies, or you gonna pass it?”
Startled, both Anne and Gene burst out laughing at the octogenarian’s willingness to join them in something his generation had long believed “devilish”, certainly frowned upon. In defiance to this, the 92-year-old pinched the joint and held it to his lips as he drew deeply. Without coughing, he held the hit a full five seconds before exhaling.
“Damn, kids,” he chuckled, “that beats the hell out of the 70s weed!”
The pot-induced seriousness exhaled into a trio of THC-induced silliness. All three found anything and everything suddenly hilarious, their laughter lighting up a previously-silent streetcorner with unexpected glee.
Just as suddenly, the scene turned serious, as pot can do. It also loosened their emotions, giving them freedom to express what each needed.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Gene said, passing Anne the joint. “I shouldn’t have come down so hard on you. I found out from your neighbor how your whole family…” He stopped abruptly, seeing his words' immediate impact on her.
Anne nodded, her tears flowing. “They’re… all…” Unable to finish, she leaned her forehead into Gene’s shoulder. Joint smoldering, she quietly sobbed. She had not allowed herself to grieve. Until now.
Gene wrapped his arms around her.
“I’m so… very… sorry for all your loved ones,” Gene said. “But Annie girl, you’re not alone. I’m here, so is Al over there, and we’re part of this shit show together. For better or worse, as they say.”
Anne sniffed, and Gene handed her his clean handkerchief.
“How fucking noble you are,” Anne snorted into it.
“Yeah whatever,” Gene replied. “Just make sure you wash it before I get it back.”
Anne alternately laughed and sobbed, burying her head into his chest, gently pounding her fists into him. She sobbed there for several minutes. In that time, a pack of teenaged survivors racing each other blasted through the red light, jealously staring as Gene embraced an exquisitely beautiful young lady.
* * * * *
Gene’s watch reminded him he was now 27 minutes late. He didn’t care. He would likely arrive downtown in five minutes with an empty bus. Dispatch would likely roll him back to the garage after another round trip.
“Hey Annie,” he said softly, turning her head up so as to look into her eyes, “you want to stay over at my place? I have spare bedrooms galore, and I would truly savor your company. Nothing but grandfatherly intentions, of course.”
Anne chuckled, snuggling even closer into his embrace. She felt loved again, no longer alone. It was a feeling in which her grief was tenderly abated. She nodded silently into his chest, seeking comfort in one she had previously abhorred. Now she felt safe in this kind bus driver’s embrace.
“Got room for another?” Al chimed in, rolling his walker up to them.
Gene smiled. “Of course, Al! I’ll even give you the ground floor master bedroom, complete with your own full bath! Dinner every night at six, unless I have to work over.”
“I can cook,” Anne said, feeling relieved at not having to remain alone the rest of her unmarried life. “If you don’t mind burger-mac and spaghetti.”
Gene laughed. “Um, only when I’m too lazy to cook. My buddy Alvin is coming over at six for a barbecue. You’ll love him, and he’s bringing his wife and cute little buggers. It’s gonna be an even more fun party with you guys there too!”
“It’s a deal,” Al said, holding his hand toward the trio’s center. He was elated at the offer, as he had nowhere else to go. The thought of a bed's comfort after a week’s living on the violent streets sounded luxurious.
“Deal,” Anne added, extending her hands. “I’ll stop by my place and bring whatever I can fit into my suitcase. I’m there. Believe me, that’s the best offer I’ve had… ever!”
With that, Anne collapsed to the sidewalk in fresh sobs. Both Al and Gene knelt down to join into her grieving embrace. They huddled close, each finding that human embrace an immediate comfort. It lasted several minutes as each mourned what had once been. As they heaved a final agonized sigh, they squeezed adjoining shoulders and broke apart, finally finding a tinge of comfort through what had been an unimaginable week.
* * * * *
Gene left his bus right there, quitting his now-nowhere job on the spot. Out of formality, he called Dispatch to inform them. Dispatcher Liza, sounding resigned yet understanding in her sweet way, sadly accepted his resignation. Gene invited her to that evening’s barbecue, and she accepted.
* * * * *
Alvin appeared with family in tow as promised. This reunion was met with enthusiastic approval from Anne and Al, Gene the most boisterous in greeting. He raised both Alvin’s boys high into the air and swung them around as they laughed in excitement at the thrill. Alvin’s wife Freddi broke into tears as she laughed, thinking of her boys’ grandfather freshly buried in their back yard.
Five other bus operators, Sam, Tre, Amy, Chuck and Lance, surprised them all, having heard from Liza over the radio of the party. Liza herself arrived with a case of Scotch and a rack of steaks she found in her freezer. Each transit worker gathered for a group prayer and hug of solidarity, silently thanking their own deity for finding others to share their collective pain.
Anne shyly offered her lovely voice to their combined music that first evening, and it filled a renewed Brooklyn neighborhood with relief. The joy of their music was borne by a brisk breeze off the Columbia Gorge, and about 150 people from nearby areas followed the music to join in solidarity for their combined survival.
* * * * *
Anne was soon swept off her feet by Roger Green, cellist/pianist/vocalist who ambled into the neighborhood that first night’s magical celebration. They moved next door to Gene and Al, and their joy resulted in a baby boy they named Albert Gene.
Lost children were drawn to the Brooklyn Neighborhood, enthusiastically welcomed by all who lived there. They found joy in the new homes of all who found themselves abandoned by death. Only love was acceptable; the hundreds of children drawn there found themselves part of a family larger than they had ever known. Within months, the local school was reopened by adults with no experience in teaching. All they knew was a need to help the young find a path back to normalcy after losing everything they had once been comforted by. Together, they found a way to teach one another, and tests became a challenge to become better humans. Classrooms were populated by those of all ages, each finding a way to teach one another in ways never imagined.
* * * * *
Al’s life was extended another 10 years, enjoying his new role as great grandfather to an expanding orphanage. He taught woodworking skills and baking to children eager to leave grief behind. His tenderness was fondly remembered by a rejuvenated city.
Gene lived his remaining 37 years as a writer documenting the plague and what transpired in its wake. He rambled about, shooting deer and rabbits for meat, occasionally venturing east via horseback, past the Cascades to find wild beef. He turned part of the local schoolyard into a community herb and vegetable garden.
On his 101st birthday, Gene enjoyed a rowdy drunk with hundreds, sharing several fat joints of the weed he grew in his back yard. Two weeks later, he took a nap to awaken in his surprised final moments. Holding Anne's hand while tenderly consoling her, he said, "I'm finally gonna join my beloved Stacey Lynn. All is well, dear lass. Just… keep... singing." With that, he died.
Gene’s funeral was broadcast to the world over the re-vamped internet, Anne sang Gene's favorite tunes: James Taylor's "You Can Close Your Eyes” and Jimmy Buffet's "Banana Republic", ending the service with his favorite Lowell George tune, "Willin' ". Each was recorded by her husband, and they earned acclaim across the world. Her voice became widely-regarded as the finest of their time, and she toured the globe as New America's premier vocalist.
Gene’s hundreds of friends recalled how he cared for many who had lost their way after “King ’20”. His infectious joviality resonated with all he met. They missed his ability to create fun, his art of distilling fine whiskey and the block parties he hosted. These gatherings became a constant tradition in the jovial celebrations defining 2030’s Stumptown.
* * * * *
Portland emerged momentarily stronger than before, its leftover population forging a spirit of cooperation and goodwill foreign to the previous world. The Portland Phenomenon became a positive infection. It spread quickly as the planet slowly healed itself from human-induced poisons.
It all stemmed from one bus operator who refused to kneel down to negativity. No matter the disposition of others, Gene treated all with respect and love.
New Portland built a memorial to Gene the Friendly Bus Operator in the middle of Pioneer Courthouse Square: his uniformed 12-foot sculpture with arms spread outward, embracing a beautiful passenger named Anne.
Thirty years later, an even more deadly virus struck. Humans finally became extinct.
* * * * *
In 2517, a spacecraft alighted upon 6th Avenue at Pioneer Square. Towering pines had sprouted through the weaknesses in the pavement. Except for the breeze from the Columbia River, all the visitors could hear was birdsong. Tens of thousands of them, singing, chittering, calling to one another in pure joy. Symphonic nature had replaced humanity’s poisonous din.
The human-like beings landed on the moss-encrusted, heavily-vined street. They marveled at the crumbling towers hovering over the landscape where animals roamed freely.
They came upon a relatively-untouched monument of sorts, statues of humans, male and female.
“What beings dwelled here?” one of them asked. “Surely, they created this monument, these structural canyons. It seems to have been inhabited by many, several octens ago.”
Another replied, “A species which obviously valued something other than its own survival.”
“Truly,” another replied.
Just then, an owl graced her shoulder. She extended an arm, and it hopped down to her hand. They admired one another.
“Whatever species dominated here,” she said, closely examining the bird. “I hope it appreciated these winged creatures. They are spectacular! Look how they rise!”
“Evidently,” the latter said, “those who built this, failed to rise.”
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