I was standing on a damp sidewalk less than two feet in front of a bus stop, fidgeting with a hangnail until I had the sense enough to yank it off. I was glad it didn’t bleed this time, especially since I was wearing my gray hoodie with EHS '13 printed on the front and back. Under my hoodie and on my head was a logo-free black hat with a flat bill, one that I wore since middle school; and deep in my right pocket was my iPod touch, fully charged and ready to rock and roll, wrapped in a cord from my Skullcandy earbuds. Over my shoulders was my Swiss Gear backpack, filled with topical binders, books, and other school supplies. I had an important piece of paper folded in my left pocket—more about that soon.
I was the only person here, waiting for the city bus to take me from my home in Veneta to the bus station in downtown Eugene, so I could transfer to another bus that would take me to Lane Community College.
I was a freshman in my first term, unsure how my college occupation would turn out, or even where I would take my education. I had four classes that term: Writing 101, Acting 1, Intro to Biology, and Tai Chi. I was scheduled for only two classes that afternoon—a light Tuesday. Tai Chi was the first class; it was the easier one of the two. It was as simple as mimicking the motions of the instructor as he moved his arms and legs on the dance floor. It was the acting class that had me troubled the most.
At the start of the term, the acting professor passed to each student a Shakespearian sonnet to memorize and perform in front of the class for a grade. We were given five weeks to prepare. This performance would supplement as our mid-term exam. Now that five weeks had surpassed, I had the sonnet memorized, discovered the beats, and practiced my actions to the best of my ability. I just had one problem. I wrestled with stage fright.
As I stood on the sidewalk in the teeth chattering breeze, I removed from my pocket the important piece of paper (Yes, that one). I unfolded it. On the paper were the words of William Shakespeare—the sonnet that I needed to perform that afternoon.
I read the highlighted words one at a time, making sure to review the actions and beats scribbled over the yellow highlighter ink. I still felt confident about them. I folded the paper along the familiar creases and returned it to my pocket. I practiced the sonnet out loud, uncaring how I would look to those inside the vehicles driving past me. My acting professor said something that will always linger with me. He said, "Make sure the lines, beats, and actions are engrained into your soul. You don't want to forget anything when it's showtime. And be sure to live in the moment."
After practicing the sonnet a couple of times, and confident that I had it all learned by rote, I saw to my left that the Lane Transit District bus was on its way to my stop. I slid my numb fingers inside my front pockets until the bus stopped in front of me, then I took out my right hand, reached behind my jeans and pulled out my black wallet.
The doors of the bus opened from the middle. The driver was the same one who drove me to the downtown station each day of the week. She had a similar hairstyle as Hillary Clinton, except it was longer, and she had more noticeable gray roots under her brown hair. She also wore pearl earrings, likely either a gift from her significant other or a reward to herself for all her work as a public bus driver. She wore a long sleeve black fleece sweater under her blue padded L.T.D. sleeveless vest and a nametag hanging on a clip on her front pocket. I couldn't catch her name as I ascended the three steps to the top. I could never catch her name. It was uncatchable.
"Bus pass?" she asked. She should have known me by now, especially since I had flashed her my student ID with a bus pass sticker on it every morning for the past five weeks.
I struggled with my cold fingers to remove my ID from the cloudy plastic compartment. Once I had it out, I flashed it to the driver, who I still didn't know by name because her name had to be printed in a size four font on her nametag. She gave me the nod. It was the same nod she had always given me. The doors of the bus closed behind me.
"Thank you," I said. Then I walked toward the back of the bus. I fought to insert the ID back into the plastic compartment, and by the time I had the entire billfold in my back pocket, I found myself standing in the back of the crowded bus, looking for a seat.
When the bus drove forward, I was still standing, so I hurried and turned around and found myself a seat near the back exit door. I was surprised to see that both seats were open, so I sat in the one closest to the window. I removed my backpack and sat it on the floor, careful not to knock out my Hydroflask water bottle from the outer pouch of the backpack.
When the bus was on highway 126 toward Eugene, I felt jittery, excited, and very anxious for my performance in acting class. I wiped the sweat off my forehead. Sweat had accumulated along my spine, under my armpits, my knees, and even around my ankles and between my toes. I wanted to stand, stretch, and release some tension.
I took out my Hydroflask and drank the water until I had enough. I wanted to save some for later.
"Don't panic," I whispered to myself, looking out the window. “Just breathe, Sam.”
I returned my water bottle to the outside pouch of my backpack and looked to my right and out the window. We were passing Fern Ridge Lake. Fog hovered over the surface. The sight did nothing to avail my trepidation. I was thirsty again, so I took another drink, then I held the bottle in my hands. I thought if I opened and closed my lid over and over that it would give me something to do, rather than worry about my impending grade. I fiddled with the lid for five minutes, perhaps longer; I wasn't sure how much time had gone by. When the bus entered the city limits of Eugene, I decided that I had enough and returned my water bottle to the outer pouch of my backpack.
When I saw the Space Age gas station in front of the Walmart Supercenter, I knew I had about fifteen minutes until I would be let off at the bus station in downtown Eugene.
I decided to pull out the sonnet and practice some lines. I unfolded the paper and without saying a word, I mouthed the lines several times, feeling more assured that I would succeed. When there was about five minutes left until the bus reached our destination, I folded the paper and returned it to my pocket.
The fog was gone, and the cloudy gray sky was gone; now there was only a blue sky, one that illuminated the city and my outlook. My anxiety seemed to abate some.
I looked toward the bus driver and saw her staring at me in the mirror. She had a look of apprehension on her face. It was almost an uncomfortable stare, so I looked away, back out the window where I saw a man in baggy clothes holding a dog's leash, and a young pit bull on the other end of it.
I looked at the bus driver again. She looked at me in the mirror, but this time, she shook her head at me, then she looked at the road in front of her. My eyes diverted to the window. A woman was pushing a grocery cart filled with blankets, tarps, cardboard, and I wasn’t sure what else, but it was overflowing, and she struggled to get it over the cracks in the sidewalk.
I looked at the bus driver a third time. She had a phone in her hand, one that was corded and connected to the control center. I wasn’t the best with reading lips, but she spoke in an emphatic enough way that I could tell, without any failure, that she said, "Someone on my bus is high." She was staring in the mirror at me. Then she said, in a much louder voice, "He's wearing a black hat and a gray hoodie." Her voice was loud enough that I could hear her. She slammed the phone back on the receiver, still staring at me, then she refocused her eyes back onto the road.
I observed the other people on the bus. Nobody seemed to care about her frantic phone call to headquarters or wherever it went. I noticed one other man in a gray sweater who sat near the front of the bus, but he wasn't wearing a black hat, nor did he have a backpack that the driver failed to mention while she was on the phone.
When the bus turned into the station in downtown Eugene, I saw three transit officers at the spot where the bus offloaded passengers. All three of them wore bulletproof vests and black and blue L.T.D. trucker caps. They were taller and bulkier than me, and two of the three wore dark sunglasses. Each wore a utility belt with all sorts of items clipped onto it, including walkie-talkies, and another item that could’ve been pepper spray, but I wasn’t sure.
As quickly as I could, I took off my hat and stuffed it in my backpack. I took off my gray sweater and stuffed that in my backpack as well. I struggled to zip up my backpack, especially with all my school supplies inside of it. By the time the bus was parked, I had it zipped up and on my back. My concentration toward escape availed all my anxiety.
The front doors and back door opened. I was the second person to leave the rear exit of the bus (the man before me wore a notable dirty black Stetson). I kept my composure. One of the officers looked at me. He didn't look at me for very long. All three officers walked into the front of the bus one at a time and stopped the passenger in the gray sweater from leaving. The man in the gray sweater tossed his hands up into the air. He looked disorientated and frustrated.
The bus driver shouted at the transit officers and pointed in my direction. All of them looked at me, but the transit officers seemed confused and agitated.
I power walked across the bus station without looking too suspicious. I boarded the L.C.C. bus. The bus needed to leave the downtown station in two minutes. Since this next driver recognized me, he waved me to the back, along with other students that were behind me. I didn’t need to struggle with my wallet this time for my bus pass.
When the bus departed the station, I saw out the window the transit officers dash toward the L.C.C. bus. The man in the gray sweater watched from a distance, standing next to the Veneta bus. The driver of the Veneta bus was standing outside of her bus, holding the back of her neck, and shaking her head some more. Her face was the color of red coral.
After our bus turned right onto Willamette Street, I looked out the back right window. I saw the officers run at full speed to the edge of the station and stand there, looking rather forlorn, watching the L.C.C. bus drive away. One of the transit officers scuffed the bottom of his boot on the sidewalk in a dramatic gesture. Nobody on the packed bus seemed to notice. Then, with a smile on my face, I took out my iPod from my pocket, unwrapped the earbuds, placed the earbuds into my ears, and cranked my Skillet playlist just two clicks under maximum volume.
