Counting Down

Reanna Murthy 

Counting Down

I sit in my usual spot. Back row, right side, window seat.

I check my watch again, 7:30. I have the next ten minutes to myself, away from the talking and the laughing I’ll be required to do once I get on school campus.

My bus makes three usual spots. One to pick up the old lady, her weathered fingers glued to her yarn and crochet needles. One to pick up the little kid, his iconic Captain America lunchbox swinging loosely from his hand. And another to pick up the man in a sharp black business suit, who never stops talking on his phone. Out of respect for the elderly, I nod to old woman in greeting. This is the only interaction I make for the duration of the ride.

Today, the bus makes an extra stop. The doors open, and a man walks in with a massive backpack desperately hanging on to his shoulders. He walks to the very back of the bus, and sits down. Next to me.

“Hello,” he says, a bright smile on his face, putting his bag on the floor. “What’s your name?”

The initial shock of being acknowledged this early in the morning takes me by surprise. Eyes wide, I answer, “Olivia.”

“Olivia, well nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand then stares off into the distance. “I don’t have a name.” He says casually, putting his feet up on the seat in front of him. “Mine ties me down. So, to be free, I let mine go.”

I blink. Once. Then two times. “Don’t worry,” he says, “most people don’t get it either.” He looks at me with a calculating look. “What does the fifteen stand for? On your hand? ”

I look at my left hand. A bright blue fifteen that starkly contrasts the paleness of my skin stares back up at me. “The number of days I have to wait until my letter from Brown comes in. I’ve been counting down since I sent my application in.”

“I didn’t want to go to college. So once my senior year ended, passing with flying colors mind you, I took the money I had, and started backpacking across the world. I’ve been at it for two years now.”

This takes me by surprise, “I thought everyone needed to go to college?”

“I don’t need to go to college, I don’t need to go anywhere.” He says, his voice sharp and accusing, different from the cheerful voice I had heard before.

His sudden change in tone catches me off guard. “Um… what?”  

He puts his feet back down and stares me straight in the eye, “I see life in two categories. There’s the wants, then there’s the needs. That guy talking on his phone,” jutting his chin in the general direction of the obnoxious man, “he fits into the needs. He talks loudly because he wants to show off how what he is saying is more important than a person’s own thoughts. But if you really look at him, he stands tall and rigid. His hands gripping the handle so hard they’ll break underneath his fingers, his face contorted into a mask of stress and exhaustion. You can tell he doesn’t enjoy what he does, but in the face of company, he’ll say he has the best job in the world And why you may ask? Because he feels the need to be better than everyone else, that he is literally the depiction of perfection.

“For me,” he continued, with a hint of arrogance, “I’d fit into the want category. I choose how I should live my life. The way I want. Not how society tells me too. The way I see it is that we’re confined to the life we think we need, not the life we want.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, that people are more focused on how they need to live, then how they want to live. People, like that man in the suit, force themselves into lives they’ll hate living in, only for the sake of survival. People like me, see life as an opportunity to explore, and not be tied down to materialistic things like money and social class.

“What category are you in?” He demanded.

I sit there, unable to move. I feel my face begin to burn.“I… um -.”

He rudely cuts me off with a wave of his dirt encrusted hand. “Let me tell you what I think. I think that you forced yourself into sending that application to Brown. No matter how many times you convince yourself that this is the life you’ve grown up wanting, the life you dream about while sleeping, you’re kidding yourself. Everyone on this godforsaken planet is blind to what they want, they have what they need, and they need more.” He’s breathing hard now, his face flushed with barely controlled anger.

I shrink in upon myself, not able to answer. The bright blue of the fifteen hurts my eyes, as if I’m looking directly at the sun at midday. The blue surrounds me, suffocating me until I’m unable to breathe. All I feel is shame.

His features turned into a frown, his eyes shining with disappointment. Without saying goodbye, he walks up to the driver and asks him to stop.

He doesn’t look back. 
By the time the bus is moving again, he rounds a corner and disappears.