You think you've got problems. . .

I looked out the window as the bus pulled away from the curb, but of course there was no one there to see me off except for the expressionless officers who stood on either side of the terminal doors.

The cloying smell of cheap fabric cleaner was fighting a losing battle against the damp. I sighed and rested my forehead against the cool glass, watching as the lights of the city – my city – became a steady blur and then disappeared altogether when we hit the highway. Then there was nothing but grey: the grey of the road, the grey of the tall protective barriers that lined the highways, and the ever oppressive grey of the light-polluted night sky.

I wondered if I’d ever see the house I grew up in again, or feel comfort from the fragile embrace of my mother, or go on another whirlwind date in one of the tree-lined avenues I’d grown to love. It was unlikely. I was just one economic refugee amongst thousands being forced west in search of work and there was no guarantee I’d be able to make enough for the return journey. And I had big bills to pay. If only the cancer that was consuming my mother from the inside out wasn’t so damn expensive to treat. . .

I was so wrapped in a blanket of despondency that I didn’t notice the teenage girl next to me had been crying until we stopped three hours later for a toilet break. She blushed and turned away when she saw me looking so I squeezed past without saying anything. By the time I’d come back, she’d buried herself in a book.

“Some people,” I ventured as the bus shuddered to a start, “think that book was a warning about the future.”

“What?” She looked startled.

“That book you’re reading. 1984.”

“I just found it at the bus station,” she said. “Someone left it on a bench.”

“Well, it’s a good book.” I said as I settled back into my seat. “I hope you enjoy it.”

The landscape flashed past like an ugly impressionist medley of parched browns and gloomy greens. I shifted uncomfortably in my narrow seat; the damn thing felt like it had been stuffed with rocks.

“Here,” said the girl. “Have the book.”

“You’ve finished?”

She shrugged. “I can’t read.”

I digested this in silence.

“It’s okay, you know,” she said conversationally. “Not being able to read is not really my biggest problem.”

There was no sound except for the laborious wheeze of an ancient air-conditioning unit. A handful of passengers had nodded off - their heads lolled drunkenly with the smallest motion of the bus – but most people were upright and awake and, I imagined, listening with idle curiosity.

“What’s your biggest problem then?”

“My parents. They’re sending me out to live on my Aunt’s farm because I can’t read. The extra classes were getting too expensive, I guess. “ Her eyes welled up as she went on to detail the many deficiencies of her parents, ending with “and so they think they can keep me busy milking cows and collecting eggs while they try to marry me off.”

Given the state of modern agriculture, I thought this highly unlikely, but didn’t like to say so. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So you seem kind of blue. What’s your problem?”

And so I told her; I told her about my mother’s health, and about how the cancer had been in remission but suddenly spread so fast and so furiously that even the best doctors in the city were left scratching their heads. I told her about how I’d lost my job after the bills had already begun to pile up. I told her how my on-again off-again boyfriend had fled for greener pastures as soon as he’d seen which way the wind was blowing, and how desperately worried I was that I wouldn’t be able to find a job out west.

And after I’d unleashed this great, rushing torrent of words – sometimes jumbled, sometimes rambling, but always cathartic – I felt just a little better. And what’s more, my words and those of the teenage girl seemed to come together and spark something truly extraordinary.

People were gingerly emerging from behind their walls and sharing their problems. The elderly couple in front of us talked about how they were going to take care of their grandchildren after their daughter had been arrested; the young man behind us spoke of how he had been unemployed for three years after graduating with honors from college. There was an unhappy divorcee to our right and an even unhappier married man to our rear. The words came, reluctantly at first but then with increasing vigor, until the air was alive with stories from a dozen different roads.

We all fell quiet when the bus ground to a sudden halt and two burly security officers boarded. Hands fumbled in bags and pockets until everyone was holding their passes awkwardly above their heads. The officers took their time; they carefully surveyed each passenger before they scanned the pass.

When they reached a young, dark-skinned man, they yanked him out of his seat and into the aisle before they even scanned his pass.

“Spot search,” one said. “Step outside, please sir.”

“You can get the next bus,” the other said.

“Why? I’ve done nothing! I can’t be late. My girls will be waiting for me at the terminal,” the man wailed, but the men were impassive. He turned to the rest of us. “Damn, you think you’ve got problems? This should be everyone’s problem.”

No one moved as he was lead down the steps. After a few moments, the bus shuddered and roared and jerkily resumed its long journey westward. I stared out the window and wondered for the thousandth time if I’d be able to find a job.



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