Waiting for the bus

Waiting for the bus

This was the night of all nights. The ultimate night. I had chosen it well as the setting for my errand. It was as if the stars were aware of what was about to transpire and so had hidden behind the clouds. The result was a pitch black atmosphere colored only by my white breath which billowed out in the cold air.

There was a silhouette waiting for the bus before me. At first I just thought that the darkness of the night was playing tricks on my eyes. I approached the bus stop sign, a blurry image that would have been invisible to me had I not known exactly where it should be, and peered at the silhouette.

He would vanish for a few seconds, and I would forget where he was, then he would reappear so I could continue to wonder if what I was seeing were real. I looked at the edges of the silhouette, and either that helped, or my eyes had adjusted to the darkness.
“Hello,” I said, taking a step closer to the silhouette. I jumped a little upon hearing his reply,
“Hello,” he said back, instantly materializing before me. The silhouette’s name was Thomas; I told the silhouette my name.

I wondered what he could possibly be doing at a bus stop at forty-five minutes past midnight. He probably wondered what I could possibly be doing there as well. One of us would find out, anyway. I was glad to have a companion waiting for the bus with me on such a night.

We did not talk to each other for the first hour. He stood beside me in silence, as still as I was, much like a shadow. I had a lot to think about—in hindsight he had just as much to think about—so I did not mind the quite that fell upon us. It departed at about one—I had a watch, but I did not bother to look at it; he had a watch too, but he did not bother to look at it either—
“You know,” he said, “I don’t believe the bus arrives until six o’clock this morning.”
“I know,” I said, surprised, for I had not known of the fact which he so bluntly stated, “I do not mind waiting that long for the bus to get here. In fact, I wish it would take longer.” That was true.
“I don’t mind either,” he said, “I wish it would take longer also.” I believe what he said was true as well.

“How is school?” he asked me, now that our period of reflection had officially ended. He asked me that question with a very genuine tone to his voice. Usually when adults ask me that question, they ask it to me in a very perfunctory, impersonal way. I usually reply in a very perfunctory, impersonal way. But tonight I answered sincerely, maybe because he asked me sincerely.

It is not going very well, I told him, every day I sit through class, impatiently. Then I sit at home and sulk because I cannot wait to go back to school. It is all very strange. My concentration has diminished, and so has my motivation, my will. It is all very strange, I repeated.

He understood my exasperation. I did not walk my painful path alone.
“I suppose it is all because of some girl,” he said.
Yes, I told him, it was all because of some girl. Monica was her name. She was the most beautiful girl in the entire world, a title I do not hand out freely. I have had crushes before, I told him, she is not one of them.

Every day I look forward to seeing her; she is in my seventh period class: history. During every class period until seventh, I restlessly bounce my knee up and down in impatient anticipation for seeing her face. Then, during history, I avoid eye contact at all cost because she does not like me, and life is hopeless.

When I am at home, I cannot wait for the next day, so that I can see her. Weekends, which serve as respite from my stressful, self-conscious days at school, are the worst because I have to wait till Monday to suffer again.

I spend my free time at home in one of two extreme modes: miserable depression, or manic euphoria. When I am euphoric, I believe that she likes me and that the very next day we will unite—ending my torturous vacillations over what I should do about my feelings for her. When I am depressed, I realize that my state of euphoria was the result of delusion and that I haven’t a single chance.

I have already asked her out, so I don’t understand why I have any hope left anyway. It was during an extensive period of manic euphoria. We were walking out of the school, casually conversing, an activity quite average for her but quite exhilarating for me. I blurted out a proposition that we see a movie together. ‘uhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I don’t think I can,’ was her reply.

I have spent hours upon useless hours attempting to analyze her response. The optimistic part of me declares that she was nervous, hence the long period of hesitation and the reply that did not match her true wishes. The pessimistic part of me points out that she was just pausing to try and think of an excuse.

Surprisingly, as I walked away in a different direction after being rejected, I did not feel quite sad. In fact, I took it extremely well. The next day, however, was quite depressing. The day after that was even more depressing. The fourth day all the worse. And now every day is progressively more terrible as the pain wells up in side of me, flooding into pool of sorrow that only gets heavier and heavier.

Tears dripped out of my eyes, but I did not bother to wipe them away. How kind this man was for allowing me to share my pain with him. Luckily, little did he know, I would be free from the burden of carrying my sorrow soon enough. I was planning to jump in front of the bus when it came that night.

“It’s just as well,” said the man. If she had said yes, you would have suffered more, he said.

Imagine if she had agreed to see the movie with you. Then, imagine if she had agreed to go on another date with you. Imagine if she kept agreeing and agreeing to spend time with you, until one day, you found yourself proposing to her, and she found herself agreeing to spend the rest of her life with you.

Imagine if she agreed to buy a house with you. Imagine if she agreed to have children with you. Imagine if after years of agreeing with you, you had built a life with her.

Now imagine if you found out she had not really found you so agreeable. Imagine that, on a fateful night like tonight, you came home early from work to discover that she was having an affair.

Imagine the anguish, the agony, of being betrayed by the person you trusted more than anybody in the entire world. Imagine having your heart wrenched out by the person who should have been responsible for guarding it and watching it being tossed aside nonchalantly as indication of your pathetic worthlessness. Imagine that after all this time, the person with whom you had shared a bed was not the person you thought she was. In reality, you had been sharing a bed with a monster that would not hesitate to slip a knife through your ribs but instead had opted for a slow painful murder by poisoning you little by little every night with lies.

“Imagine that!” he said intensely, then his voice broke off. After a few seconds, he whispered quietly, “imagine that.”

I looked at his face, which was quivering. I was able to see his face because the sun was rising. I was about to make a very important decision. To be or not to be, as the question was put by Hamlet. What is it to suffer? I asked myself, for suffering was clearly what my life was destined to be centered around if I did not end it today. There was no disputing that, but the question was, would I rather suffer or cease to exist. If the purpose of life is to experience happiness, then clearly my life has lost purpose, but what if life has some other meaning, where suffering has its place?

Perhaps the mind enjoys suffering, after all, how can emotions be deciphered? Obviously suffering is an obstacle, or even an opposite, to happiness, but who says happiness should be strived for? Ultimately, the aspects of life can only be split up into individual characteristics with intrinsic properties that transcend logic and reason. Didn’t Nietzsche say that you should be who you are? If you are a murderer, then you should be true to yourself and commit homicide, as that is the only possible course of action you can make considering the purpose of your existence; if you are insane, you should embrace your insanity as that is the mental state that has been designed for you. Perhaps I should be true to myself and be miserable for the rest of my life. Then again, I never quite aligned myself with the cynicism of Nietzsche’s philosophy. After all, I believe in God.

Does that mean that I am destined to be eternally punished for a committing suicide? Where exactly in the bible is such behavior condemned though? What was God’s purpose for sending me on earth? If my purpose has already passed me by, is it not simply efficient that I end my fruitless life?

The bus approached the stop. Decide! Decide! Decide! I screamed in my thoughts. Hurry up and decide! My mind raced as I fiercely debated whether or not I should leap in front of the bus when I heard a loud smack, followed by the screeching of tires.

I opened my eyes—did I have my eyes closed?!—and saw the lifeless body of Thomas lying on the road, crippled by the bus.

The bus driver scrambled out of the bus, panicked, and called 911. I guessed it would be a while before the bus left for its next stop. It’s just as well, I thought as I started walking home, I don’t have any money anyway.