The first soft snowflakes of early
December dusted the streets and vehicles in Mineola, New York. By 5:30 the
skies had already been dark for an hour. A NICE (Nassau Inter-County Express)
bus pulled to the curb on Old Country Road for a passenger. John A. Brush
stomped his snowy shoes as he boarded. He fed $2.75 in singles and coins into
the fee collector saying nothing to the driver, David Conklin, though he had
known him as the driver of his bus home for four years. The driver gazed
straight ahead, his usual attitude. Less chance of having to engage with the
riders.
Brush took his seat toward the front
of the bus. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes as the
groan of the accelerating motor drowned out all sound. He crossed his arms over
his coat ineffective against the chill as the temperatures dropped.
Conklin drove the bus steady to all
stops knowing that Brush would finally disembark in Glen Cove. He saw him enter
an apartment building that had seen better days while idling at a light. A few
times he had noticed children rush to greet him as he approached. They would
hold his hands as they went inside.
The snow thickened on the
windshield, heavy and wet. The wipers packed it on either side of Conklin’s
range of vision. He eased the bus to Brush’s stop and heard him walk up behind
him, waiting.
“Sir,” said Conklin as Brush hurried
to climb down the steps. Brush turned not sure he had been summoned.
“A passenger turned this in the
other day. Said he found it near where you usually sit. Yours, isn’t it?”
Brush looked and saw a khaki green
bomber hat with faux fur ear flaps. What luck. Just as he was to get off the
bus into a small blizzard his lost hat comes back to him.
“Oh, yeah. S’mine. Thanks, glad to
have it back.” He nodded at Conklin and pulled it onto his head. As he exited
the bus he registered that the hat crunched around his ears instead of molding
to his head as it usually would.
In his small, warm apartment as his
sons helped pull off his coat Brush searched the inside of the hat. A business
size envelope was stapled to the lining. The note inside read, “Can’t buy
happiness, but you can give some away. Once, I was the recipient. Now it’s you,
with my compliments.”
Brush spread ten fifties in front of the
surprised eyes of his wife at the kitchen table.
The bus rocked and rolled on the slushy
turnpike as Conklin whistled his way home.
(450 words)
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