School Bus Absurdities

"You just get off the struggle bus?" my best friend in high school used to bark at anyone who made a mistake, including me.

She loathed stupidity.

Uglies rolled off her splitting tongue, magnifying when

strangers, friends, family members

stuttered, stumbled, fell.

A keen eye for others errors she had.

A twitch in her lip that always unfurled when she had an opportunity to make one's embarrassment and pain more visible in public. 

"What are you; a window licker?" she cackled to the sister who didn't answer her call, to the friend who drove too slow, to the basketball player who missed the shot. 

Absurd was the anger and pride in her laughter.

You were grateful that these split seconds--calling you to dart your eyes and nervously sneak "she's just-being-an-ass" expressions toward her targets--were fleeting.

In college, you discovered friends that didn't require darting or sneaking.

Fifteen years later, in a meeting, your son's case manager tells you your son qualifies for the school bus.

"No," you reply as though she's just injured your son.

A beat later, you notice there is no absurdity in her voice though.

You catch yourself.

Absurdity has stored itself in you--in your own fearful throat.

You watched your old best friend, who you have since retired, who has never met your son, insult your son in your own make-believe playground.

Just a few hours after, you pick your son up from his class. 

He lays his head on your shoulder, babbling away, as you carry him out to your car.

Big sturdy, yellow, vessels shine up the schools' curbside.

Your son lifts his head off of your shoulder.

You equalize your hips, leveling out his weight and lean into his sudden body shift.

Your son, who has a very limited vocabulary utters not one syllable, but two:

"school bus."

Dublin loves school busses.