The 6:30AM Express

Joe Chellman

When I was in school back in New Hampshire, I rode the bus for almost an hour every morning to get to school. I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning and drag myself out of bed (an hour which slipped more and more as I reached high school), and go out to wait for the bus. Sometimes the sun wouldn't even be up at the beginning of our wait.

My school district was small. It took seven towns to fill up our one public high school of 600 or so. Because there weren't too many of us, the bus rides were shared among kids of all ages, from elementary up through high school. I tended to get along better with the older kids than those my own age, and the mixed age groups on the buses afforded me the chance to hang around my elders.

My first bus buddy that made a big impression on me was Adam, who was kind enough as a high-schooler to let me, a second-grader I think, to sit with him on the bus. I can't even imagine most high school age kids, especially not boys, letting some little seven-year-old sit with him. Adam didn't seem to mind, and we'd talk about things, mostly what he was reading, which was almost always Steven King novels. He told me about the car that crushed people with its seat belts, chased them around and ran them over; and the ferocious dog that terrorized and ate people. If I ever had nightmares, Adam's retellings of Stephen King must have helped. Still, he was always very nice to me, and we got along very well.

Then there was Doug, who wasn't what I would call a friend, but was a mostly harmless mischief maker. He liked to say sarcastic, sometimes mean things to people just to get a reaction, but he confined most of that to people his own age. To us younger, more innocent children, he liked to tell subtle little jokes:

Doug (grinning): "Hey Joe, you ever been caught dubbin' in the bathroom?"

Me (confused): "No."

Doug (grinning wider): "It's a good place to hide, isn't it?"

Of course, I had no idea what he was talking about. I still don't.

Another friend was Paul. Paul had Down's Syndrome, and always sat at the front of the bus. I used to like to sit with him sometimes, because although I had a hard time understanding him, he was very talkative and friendly. I think he probably just liked to talk, and didn't mind too much my occasional confusion.

One day at my elementary school, we had been given a talk in school about not talking to strangers, and always keeping your parents informed when someone does things that you don't like, harmless as it might seem. Be safe, kids.

Riding the bus home that day, I sat with Paul. We were having our unique brand of conversation, and at some point in the conversation, he put his hand on my knee. I was wearing shorts, and was a pretty squeamish kid, so that was getting to me a little bit, but I didn't say anything.

I was the sort of kid who always had "Unsatisfactory" marked on my report card next to "Exercises self control". In my case, it could have been remarked as an A+ in "Cries when you look at him cross-eyed, when he can't answer a question, or when he stubs his toe." I was a very sensitive child, my mother would always tell me. Still, while this little incident was going on, I kept my cool, but only with some effort.

When I got home, I couldn't stand it. I knew I needed to tell my mother what had happened, and thanks to the lecture we'd had at school that day, I knew just how to say it. At the brink of tears, I said:

"Mom, today on the bus, Paul... touched me inappropriately!"

Like every good mother does, my mom choked back the peels of laughter, and asked me to explain the situation. After she thanked me for bringing up my discomfort, she reassured me that everything was probably okay and I didn't have anything to worry about from Paul. I believe that, as soon as I was out of earshot, she walked out of the room and burst out laughing.

One of my favorite busing experience of all time involves my dear brother, Isaac. When I was in fifth grade my brother was in second, and we rode the bus at the same time (although not, God forbid, together) all the time. When we returned home one day, Isaac made it in the door first and told our mom, "Somebody got in trouble on the bus today!"

"Oh really? What happened?"

He then told her that one of kids had done something he shouldn't have done, and got in trouble, being forced to sit in the front of the bus near Mr. Hobbes. We were sure that Mr. Hobbes hated children, always telling us to "Sit down!", or he'd "Come on back there," and many times he did, dragging the children up to the front of the bus where he could keep an eye on them.

Isaac finished telling my mom this story, and then I walked in the door.

"Hey Mom, guess what? Isaac got in trouble on the bus today!"

We still laugh about that one. Mostly.