I drive in a circle. Again. And again. And again.

All day. Every day.

At least every day that I work, five days a week, fifty weeks a year.

Including holidays. And some nights, when needed.

I complete the circle, but you don’t. Unless you lose your car and ask to stay aboard for another go-round. You might see it this time, remember the section (B-2? D-1?), or see lights blink when pressing “UNLOCK.”

Whatever your situation, after letting you out or finding you seated the whole way back to the start, I will keep going, complete the trip, return to the entrance.

That is where you and others, if I am not there, wait. You look forward to see me coming. You know it could take forever for me to get back, emotionally speaking. When you see my bus your expressions reveal a transformation from angst to peace, reflect a shift from the loneliness of loss to the joy of salvation.

Your emotions are not contingent on who I am, what I look like, or how I drive. I bring the bus, that’s what matters. You heft suitcases on, store them under or on the luggage rack, peel off backpacks or saddle-bag strap purses, sit down, and wait for me to deliver you.

Some of you walk. Some who think you remember your cars are parked nearby. You don’t need me, you think. The weather is pleasant: sunny, but not bright; cool, but not cold; cloudy, but not rainy. You have pull-along suitcases with wheels. You flag me down when you need sunglasses packed away, feel the chill when sweaters weren’t needed in Florida, or a scarf of cold mist wraps around your faces. I open the door and you drag yourselves on, your looks sheepish, your hubris shamed. “Welcome aboard Flight Zero Zero Zero,” I say. “The route to nowhere, destination delivery.”

“There it is!” I hear all day. “There’s my ride.” Or “car.” Or “vehicle.” Or “baby.” Or “piece of shit.” You say it as though surprised to see it still parked where you left it, like I might have taken off with it or allowed someone else to come in and steal it. You’re overjoyed you still have transportation home or even—hear me out—that it is home.

Leaving the bus, you smile and thank me, misdirecting your gratitude at arrival. I’ve dropped you off, sure, but you had to walk to my bus, remember your section number, and spot the only vehicle willing to be unlocked when you inserted a key or pressed UNLOCK.

In other words, it’s on you.

I let you out, I go on, continue the circuit.

To be accurate, the route is oval, not circular. I make two turns, not one continuous turn.

I don’t want to give the impression my job is easy. Completing the loop, however irregular, takes, above all, patience. You never know who will get on and what their needs might be. Also, I never see anything but vehicles and people, and the vehicles never say anything.

I work, I live, for you, the people who board.

I’m trained in CPR. “No one dies on my bus,” I’m tempted to tell you.

Planes thunder overhead, either landing or taking off, close enough to see the intricacies of the landing gear. Are they bringing their passengers home or setting them down miles away? I only carry travelers returning to where they flew from.

Climbing aboard, you seem happy to see me. Or, at least, you don’t look unhappy. You’ve made it this far. One more ride to one more ride, and you’re back where you started. You’ve boarded with expectations only I can fulfill. Does that worry you? No, never. You trust me. You put your faith in a bus driver who knows where he’s going and will drop you off when you will it.

“There it is,” you tell me.

There it is, indeed.

Richard Holinger’s

work has appeared in Chicago Quarterly Review, Hobart, Iowa Review, and KYSO Flash, and has garnered four Pushcart Prize nominations. Books include North of Crivitz (poetry, Kelsay Books) and Kangaroo Rabbits and Galvanized Fences (essays, Dreaming Big Press). He holds a doctorate from UIC and lives far enough northwest of Chicago to see fox, deer, turkeys, herons, and eagles cross the field and lake out his windows.

Author’s website: https://www.richardholinger.net/

More on the Web: By, About, and Beyond

⚡ The Foreign Zoo: Tour(s)ing in Place, nonfiction by Richard Holinger in HOBART (21 May 2021)

⚡ Bluebells in the Time of Coronavirus read by Holinger for Northern Public Radio: Poetically Yours (4 December 2020)

⚡ Normandy, flash fiction in KYSO Flash (Issue 8, August 2017)