‘In case I ever get run over by a bus…’
By Burton W. Cole, Editor
I hated conversations my wife began with, “In case I ever get run over by a bus...,” because I knew whatever followed would be something very important I had absolutely no chance of remembering.
It meant that she was about to tell me where she filed insurance papers, what bills needed paid, my parents’ phone number, the names of our kids or other cluttery things like that.
I don’t know why she’s so intent on inflicting orderliness and regulation upon my life.
I survived just fine as a bachelor: I crammed important papers and basketball cards in shoe boxes under the bed; I ate well-balanced meals of Cap’n Crunch cereal, sometimes three and four times a day to ensure my minimum requirements of vitamins and minerals; and I never wore the same socks more than thrice before rinsing.
“I’ve given up worrying about you,” she finally told me, apparently admiring my finely-honed skills. “But I’m terrified for our kids. So, in case I ever get run over by a bus...”
While she prattled on about something or other, I wondered where lurked this bus that haunted my wife so.
In the little village where we lived, we don’t have school bus drivers like the legendary Smoky, who whisked me to and from school when I was a kid. Students not even on Smoky’s route rode her bus, then walked home for the privilege.
The big kids claimed she got her name back when they were babies like us and smoking was permitted on school buses as long as no one told the superintendent. You stood aside before boarding so as not to be hit by the butt Smoky flicked out the door.
Smoky had only one major rule: If you start a fight, you get off the bus until at least one participant draws blood. “And if you don’t, I’ll come out there and do it for you.”
I saw the rule tested only once. And two thoroughly embarrassed tough guys landed in a back roads ditch, tossing half-hearted punches at each other while stealing nervous glances at the bus door until one of them scratched himself enough to get a few trickles of red.
We all yelled that that wasn’t good enough to qualify, but Smoky let the two head-hangers back on the bus. There was never another fight.
But mainly Smoky’s legend was for speed. The superintendent even tailed her once to discourage her broaching certain sound barriers. He wimped out and turned his fancy car around once we hit the crater-pocked, dirt roads. Smoky put the hammer down, spun gravel at his retreating tail lights, and got us home even faster!
But even Smoky wouldn’t run someone over unless she meant to. And then, being a kind-hearted bus rodeo champion, she’d only wing ’em.
My adulthood search for the mystery bus finally ended on a visit to a doctor’s office. I had to sign a treatment form acknowledging possible side effects ranging from dizziness and headaches to death or even worse — pretty severe considering no vital organs were involved.
“If you suggest through your attorney that the reason you skinned your elbow when your dog tripped you at home is because the doctor said ‘hi’ to you three weeks ago, we have to by law list it as a possible side effect,” the nurse explained.
“There’s a bus garage next to us. Someday, someone’s going to walk out of here, get hit, and we’ll have to add, ‘And upon leaving this office, you may get run over by a bus.’”
Aha!
Don’t worry,” I told the nurse. “I’ll make sure my wife never comes here. It will save us both a lot of paperwork.”
Finally, I had caught the bus.
Send bus tales to Cole at burton.w.cole@gmailcom or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.