“Why did you choose to publish your first book at the age of 30?” Danny imagined a journalist asking him.
There were still six months until his birthday, enough time to edit and release his stories.
He ran the interview in his mind and pictured himself saying,“Well, David, can I call you David, Mr. Jones? I tried other things and, you know…”
Danny paused, he had no idea how to answer. The thought of speaking publicly about himself made him so embarrassed and confused that he deleted all his stories and returned to his job as a bus driver.
His father was also a bus driver. Danny remembered how as a child he was so proud of his father – everybody knew him, greeted him, listened to his advice. There was something simple and optimistic about him that drew everyone like a magnet.
Bus driving seemed like the best job in the world.
You’re like the king of the road, His father used to say.
The bus is like a whale in the ocean. You move with patience and wisdom.
Danny took the message to heart, and his father’s words were etched in his mind.
From the age of 23 he drove buses but the beauty of this great mammal faded with time.
Technology had a part in it. You don’t take money anymore, you don’t give change.
People rely on their apps and rarely approach for guidance.
Loneliness and boredom caused him to drive in an impatient way. He was not a whale anymore but a shark. Don’t mess with me! Clear the road! I’m bigger and stronger than you!
When he approached a bus stop, he stopped no longer near the curb because he feared that other drivers wouldn’t let him merge back into traffic afterward. So he stopped in the middle of the road, and instead of signaling right, he kept the signal on the left, to intimidate the other drivers. From time to time, honks could be heard from drivers trying to teach him a lesson, and here and there someone would gesture for him to open a window so they could shout a curse at him.
He hated the smells on the bus. Sometimes passengers left behind trash. The small trash bin always filled up, and fruit peels and food scraps spilled around. The smell was sour, mixed with the sour sweat and dust from the seats. The bus cleaners usually used a rag that smelled musty.
Therefore, Danny hung an air freshener on the mirror and had a strong fragrance diffuser that he placed on the dashboard. Before going on break, he always sprayed perfume, which only covered up odors that clung to the bus like a malignant and chronic disease.
He surrounded himself with loud music, ignoring the passengers’ remarks. “Elvis is the king”, he would reply to passengers who asked him to change the music.
His father liked Elvis too, but unlike him, his father was acknowledged for the songs and for sharing random trivia about the singer.
One day, Danny was told not to come to work via a text message, at seven in the morning. He was already dressed in his uniform, a blue shirt, black pants, and a blank expression on his face. He put down his black coffee cup and wondered what to do.
He called the office, but there was no answer. Half an hour later, he received another message: “We saw your call. To remove any doubt and avoid ambiguity, unfortunately, you are fired”.
Furious, he went to the office to find out why. It wasn’t that a passenger had complained or that there had been an accident. They didn’t even provide an excuse or explanation. The station manager emerged drowsily from his office, recognized Danny by his name tag, and said: “We ran the AI for an efficiency test, and it recommended letting you go”.
“Why?” asked Danny, who was shocked by the decision.
“We didn’t ask her why, so goodbye, and let us know if you want us to tell the AI to write a dismissal letter”.
The door closed. Danny unfastened a few buttons on his shirt, loosened the small tie that had once been a source of pride and belonging, and now made him feel suffocated. He took off the collared shirt, leaving himself in a plain white T-shirt. He put the shirt on one of the chairs, threw the tie in the trash, and walked out.
Danny couldn’t fall asleep at night. The mattress seemed to have hardened, and he felt like he was lying on concrete. He tossed from side to side. Suddenly, he couldn’t find a comfortable position for his arms. In every posture, they felt twisted, as if a violent police officer were dragging him off to jail. He lay on his back, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine a calming beach with white sand and cloudless skies, but instead he heard the roaring engines of trucks, buses, and motorcycles.
He got up from the bedroom and walked into the tiny living room, staring through the narrow window at a streetlamp flickering in a dull orange light.
The light from the computer screen blinded him as if a lightning bolt had burst forth.
Danny waited for the computer to turn on. It seemed like an eternity. The computer was old. He opened a file in the word processor and waited again. With its outdated slowness, the computer made no effort to cooperate with him.
Danny filled a glass of water from the tap; it tasted of chlorine mixed with the old aroma of black coffee. He spat it out and cursed himself for not washing the glasses more thoroughly.
He drank directly from the tap; the water still tasted of chlorine. He endured the taste, feeling he deserved the suffering.
After a few more exhausting minutes, the file finally opened, and Danny began to write a short story.
His boss was a monster and a whale fell from the sky and smashed him. The story was full of hatred. Danny was ashamed of those violent impulses, but continued writing short stories.
Some of them were even optimistic, funny and wise.
“Why did you choose to publish your first book at the age of 40?”
“Well, David, can I call you David Mr. Jones? Ahhh I tried other stuff and you know…”
Danny stopped imagining the interview. He still couldn't find a decent answer so he deleted all his stories except one.
It was a story about him as a child, sitting in one of the seats of his father’s bus. An awkward boy stepped in. His classmates mocked him and his father gave the boy an orange segment.
“Was it the vitamin C, or the warm smile of the bus driver that brought this poor boy back to life?”
That was the end of the story. He read it to his father. His father said that the story is nice but there is no future in writing. “Authors are people with a kind of genius that we in the family don’t possess. It’s nice as a hobby, but I recommend something more physical. We drivers sit all day long and when you’re in your forties, unless you strengthen your core muscles, problems begin. Go to the gym, maybe find a good-looking wife there. Writing is not human. It’s only you and a machine”.
Danny looked for work. He even suggested himself as a reporter to newspapers but they didn’t even respond.
He found a job as a driver of a light rail. Going back and forth in a straight line. A glass separated him from the passengers.
This time he held the joystick and felt like a prisoner in a spaceship or an elevator. The cabin was small, and the air conditioning was efficient. The same temperature at every hour, in every season – always 22 degrees. Every so often, he glanced at the buildings and fences, or at the people walking on the sidewalks going about their business, and he envied them. Occasionally he saw a beautiful woman and regretted not knowing her. But he immediately dismissed the thought, what would he say to her? What could he offer?
Many of the buildings were covered with stones that looked like imitations of ancient rocks. Suddenly it seemed silly to him to glue stones onto buildings, but what does he know?
He’s just passing by, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Every time, the building ages a little, and gets dirtier. The work depresses him. Especially the recorded messages that repeat endlessly, announcing the station’s name. He always presses the same buttons and sounds the same warning bell as he approaches the station.
The only deviations from the routine ride came from electric bike riders going the wrong way, or teenagers shoving each other onto the tracks. They found it hilarious, but Danny didn’t think it was funny. His isolation made him think of stories. Sometimes, he recorded ideas on his cellphone.
He knew it’s not safe but he couldn’t help it. He was afraid to forget the ideas that popped into his mind.
When he came back to his small rented apartment, he wrote them down.
He arranged 40 stories into a book and sent it to publishing companies.
One of them agreed to publish his book, but it had to be at his own expense.
Ten thousand dollars. He shared with his father who said it was not logical and that “nobody is interested in reading stories of common people like us, it’s not like you are an Olympic champion or a famous singer. You are only a driver, so drive. It helps people to get from place to place. How does a book nobody wants to read help anyone, except for the workers in the publishing company who take your money?”
Danny was sorry to see how tired his father’s eyes looked. The whites of his eyes had taken on a pinkish-yellow tint. Danny couldn’t help wondering whether, if his father had a different son, his eyes would still shine and keep their green and white color.
“Why did you choose to publish your first book at the age of 60?” asked the journalist.
“Well", Danny answered, "I just stopped stopping myself. It’s like when you drive uphill, you need to step on the gas pedal in order to get to the destination, but if you’re afraid to get there you press the brakes. It’s not logical but that’s what I did”.
“What were you afraid of?” inquired the journalist.
“Exposure, being ignored, coming out pretentious or childish, being pathetic or over-concentrated on myself, the list goes on”.
The reporter smiled and asked: “So you’re 60 and finally an author?”
Danny hesitated, bowed his head, took a deep breath, then raised it and looked straight at the journalist.
“Well, I don’t care anymore about titles or approvals, if I find my stories of value and that they express me in a way that I find worthy I publish. It’s not logical and some say it’s a waste of money, but the aim is to give service to people.
It’s like giving a lonely child an orange segment on a winter day. Sweet and sour – like life”.
