Call Me Martin

“Bus 28 to Chicago,” The voice crackled over a loud speaker. Seven passengers were waiting, the warm Louisville, Kentucky sun baking their backs. One of the seven stood apart, a man with a long black trench coat reaching down to his knees. He wore a gray fedora that drooped down over his forehead. Both hands were buried in his pockets.

The bus pulled up just as a groping, dark cloud swallowed up the sun. The man in the trench coat moved to the back of the line as the doors opened to reveal a large-bellied bus driver with mirrored sunglasses. He began to call out names. Wilson Petty? Tremor? Three black youths hurried onto the bus while a large, big-boned man with a blonde crew cut and a gym bag pulled himself up. “Wilson Petty, right here, dude.”

Three other passengers made their way onto the bus.

“Martin Dorian?” The bus driver asked.

The man in the trench coat slowly climbed up. He was thin and frail looking, no taller than 5’6”. He reached two gloved hands up to grab the rail. The bus driver narrowed his eyes as he watched the man in the trench coat walk to the back of the bus.

“Phillips. Amber Phillips?” The bus driver called out, looking at his manifest.

Just then, a young African American girl ran ahead of a much older woman who shouted after her to slow down. The girl wore a pink dress and had two pink ribbons in her dark hair.

“I’m Amber,” the girl said.

“Is that your mother?” the bus driver asked.

“No, she’s the child services lady.”

The woman caught up to the bus, panting and wiping her forehead.

“Sorry, Mister, this is Amber Phillips.” The woman handed the bus driver a small card. “She’s being turned over to her Aunt Yvonne in Chicago.” The woman paused. “Her Mama can’t take care of her no more.”

The bus driver looked down at the little girl.

“Okay, you are to stay in your seat and when we stop, you don’t leave the bus without me, okay, Amber?”

Amber nodded and gave everyone a big smile.

The door hissed shut and the bus pulled away. A clap of thunder rattled everyone’s teeth as the bus knifed into a curtain of rain. Little Amber crawled on her seat to look out the window. Lighting danced across her eyes as she turned to look at a small-framed man who sat at the back of the bus. He wore dark Gargoyle sunglasses over a fake nose and a fake chin. Little Amber glanced at the bus driver and carefully made her back to the stranger.

“What’s with your face?” She asked.

The stranger reached a gloved hand up to tap his artificial chin. “It’s a mask.”

“Why you wearing a mask?”

“Something happened,” the stranger answered.

“Something bad?” Amber asked.

The stranger nodded.

“What’s your name?” Amber asked.

“Call me Martin.”

“Hey,” one of the three black teens who had crammed into a seat near the emergency door said.

Everyone turned their heads.

“Not talking to you all,” the boy said. He leaned forward and pointed to Amber. “Little girl, why you talking to that strange man?”

“He’s not strange. His name is Martin.”

“Martin?” The boy laughed. “Hey, Martin, you a pervert that likes little black girls?”

The man named Martin didn’t answer.

“Tremor!” one of the other boys said. “Leave him alone. You want to get us busted.”

The boy named Tremor stood and glanced at the bus driver before making his way to the rear of the bus.

“Hey,” he said to Martin. “Are you white?”

Martin paused and slowly shook his head.

“Black?” Tremor asked.

“No,” Martin answered in a loud whisper.

“Shit, you’re Chinese. You guys are everywhere.” Tremor narrowed his eyes. “Why you wearing a mask? Are you that ugly?”

Martin nodded.

Tremor tilted his head, his hostile demeanor softening.

“What happened to you?”

“I had an incident at work.” Martin shook his head. “Really bad. You don’t want to see what I look like.”

“That bad?”

“Yes.”

Little Amber suddenly stood and looked Tremor in the eye.

“You leave Mr. Martin alone.”

Tremor narrowed his eyes.

“Girl, don’t tell me what…”

“The gentlemen in the back,” the bus driver’s voice blasted over a speaker. “Please return to your seat.”

“I thought we didn’t have assigned seats,” Tremor protested.

“We do now,” the bus driver countered.

“Shit,” Tremor said, glancing from Amber to Martin. He stood and headed back to his seat.

A bespectacled, middle aged man in the first row turned to look at Tremor as he sat back down and buckled his seat belt.

“What the fuck you looking at, you pasty-white geek?” Tremor asked.

The middle-aged man turned away.

“Excuse you,” the bus driver said, making eye contact with Tremor in the rearview mirror. “I have a panic button on my steering wheel. I press it and every highway patrolman in this region will be on us like white on rice. And your public pretender will not even know about it.”

“Defender,” the middle-aged man with the glasses corrected. “Public Defender.’”

“Really?” The bus driver asked.

The man nodded.

“I used to be one before I opened my practice.”

“You’re a lawyer?” A blonde woman with a long neck asked. She sat directly across from him.

The man turned to the woman.

“No longer.”

“What happened?”

“I made some mistakes, got disbarred.”

The woman nodded.

“You’re not the only one.”

“You’re an attorney?” The man asked.

“No, but I’ve made a lot of mistakes, like marrying a surgeon who loves examining young women a little too often.” She paused to look the man in the eye. “I normally take planes but...”

“You don’t want to be tracked.” The man said, rubbing his neck. “You’re running away, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

The man smiled and reached his hand across the aisle.

“Ari Roth.”

“Charlene Beck.”

A loud grumble emanated from the fourth row back.

“What is that?” Tremor asked.

“Shh,” the other boy said. “That’s that big guy that got on first.”

Tremor smirked.

“Ain’t nobody too big for me now.”

The other boy rolled his eyes.

“Tremor, there are five things about you that make me wish I was not your brother.”

“That’s nasty, Sherman. That hurts.”

“Good,” the boy named Sherman said. “We’re going to Chicago so we can be future Marines, not thugs. You’re stuck in that thug mode. I see what you’re carrying.”

Tremor looked in both directions.

“Shut up, Sherman. I only brought it to protect your black ass in case we break down in KKK town.”

Sherman laughed.

“You’re 9mm ain’t gonna do jack against 10 rednecks with shot guns.”

Tremor brushed Sherman off and looked back at Martin.

“I wonder what he looks like under that mask.”

“Probably ugly enough to give us nightmares,” Sherman said. “He might have a disease”

“A disease?”

“Yeah, like Leprosy. We might already have what he has. I wouldn’t get too close to him.”

Tremor looked at his hands.

“No shit.”