From
Kindergarten through second grade, I attended Wilkes’ Academy in Little Rock,
Arkansas. Most days, transportation came via carpool. However, on occasion, I
rode the bus. To be fair, the bus was really a powder blue (with white
lettering and logo) 15-passenger van, but for all intents and purposes, it was
the bus. In fact, Mitch, the driver, got a touch upset if you called it a van.
And although I don’t recall many of our daily trips aboard the fun bus—most
days were nondescript—for some reason, I do remember you didn’t want to make
Mitch mad. He was, though, the adult, the one in charge, and therefore, the ultimate
word in what we were supposed to do...right?
He wore ratty t-shirts and jeans
every day, perhaps a jacket in the winter. An old-school green mesh ball cap
with a foam front with a faded logo, like one of those generic pieces of hud
they give you in little league molded his hair to his head, only a curly mullet
strung out the back. Mitch had absolute control over the radio (loud), too, and
he made sure everyone know it. And I remember that he was loud—louder than Van
Halen or the Oak Ridge Boys. His ultra-loud nature disquieted my shy, quiet
nature on a daily basis.
Two other kids in my class rode
the bus—Shawnna and Kira. The only other kid I remember by name was Stephanie,
who was a third grader, who coincidentally looked like my wife did when she was
in third grade. Somehow, Stephanie always got Mitch to crank up the volume when
“Abracadabra” by the Steve Miller Band came on. No one else could get him to
relent his music dominance. The rest of the bus riders were older. Due to my timidity
and my unfounded fear of big kids, I usually hunkered down in the back until my
stop came.
The mighty Mitch didn’t talk to
me much. He had too much fun yelling at (and with) the older kids. I do remember,
though, that every once in a while that he and/or one of the older boys would
say something that I wasn’t allowed to say. I remember being perplexed about
why an adult would let other kids use words like that or even use words like
that himself. Adults were supposed to correct inappropriate behavior, not
encourage it, right?
Another time Mitch had a shouting
debate with one of the older girls about whether taking the Lord’s name in vain
was really breaking a commandment. For a kid who was trying to learn to do what
was right, the time on the bus really confused me.
I
don’t remember much of the route, or how many stops we made, but I do remember one
distinct spot along a woodsy bend. This was where Mitch pulled over, leaving
the motor running. He scurried across the busy, two-lane road, almost becoming
a stain on the wood paneling of a white station wagon. Those of us in the bus
who hadn’t been paying attention were alerted by the blaring horns and the
one-fingered salute Mitch waved back with. He continued and ducked under a no
trespassing sign into a yard surrounded by barbed wire with no trespassing
signs. He came back with an armload of political campaign signs. He opened the
back door of the bus, directly behind me and shoved them in, muttering to no
one in particular about how the no good *expletive phrase* wasn’t going to win
anyway. A pit opened in my stomach. We stopped a few minutes later where Mitch stuffed them into a dumpster. I about swallowed myself. Was this an adult I was supposed
to trust?
However, the
event that completely messed over my malleable mind was one time when Mitch had
had an extremely hard day, I suppose, because the yelling started before we had
left the parking lot to go home. He quickly detoured to a 7-11, one of his
usual stops, and came back with two brown paper bags. The first, he shoved
under his seat. The second he held up as he pronounced, “Listen up. I’m going
to try something different today. If you are good, I’ll give you a piece of
this candy. If not, you get nothing.”
My
young brain kicked into gear. I was always good. I never caused any trouble. I
was going to score a Now-and-Later or a Tootsie Pop!
It was
one of the quietest bus rides I ever experienced. Even the normally rowdy crowd
settled down for the afternoon. I distinctly recall cute Kira getting dropped
off in front of her house, Mitch turning around, and giving her a treat as she
exited. Shawnna got one, too. And Stephanie. And a few others. When my stop
came, I reached for the door and paused, waiting for my candy. But when he didn’t
even acknowledge me (not that it was anything new), my candy-loving,
adult-trusting soul got crushed. Whether there was any blatant favoritism or
not is up for debate. Wasn’t the promise that if I were good, I would receive
candy? In my little mind, I didn’t get a piece of candy, so therefore….well, you
figure it out.
Why am
I sharing this story? That is a good question. It has been on my mind for a while, but I don't know where to take it from here. I have literally typed and
deleted eight different conclusions to this tale. Some were more didactic
than others. All just felt wrong, though. That said, I will leave you with your
own reader response. Whatever you get out of it is fine with me. I’ll just say
this, though:
Think
about the messages you send to others, especially the direct statements or
promises you make.
