One late passenger

Medvedev Dmitriy: http://www.proza.ru/2004/09/06-135


Slavik worked as a bus driver for many years. He decided who he wanted to grow up to be in the early childhood. And now, in his 30-something years- he’s an experienced driver doing an inter-city run. But he can’t be named a simple driver. He was precise… very precise, and he demanded the same from others. Sharp on the second, he’d close the door and drive away, paying no attention to the yells and insistent pounding on the door of the bus from those who came late.
 
But one day, while leaving precisely on schedule as usual, he saw a man running with his last strength to the bus. He wasn’t even running as much as barely breathing, while moving his legs erratically, one hand pressed to his chest and the other holding a ticket. After driving several meters, Slavic stopped the bus on a junction before a traffic light. He saw in the rear-view mirror the late man, struggling to walk, but not giving up. The red light was still on when the man touched the bus, and holding it for support made it to the front door. It seemed like nothing existed in the universe, save for him and the desired door. Slavik was surprised by such insistence, but inside he remained unwavering in his principles- he just waited for the green light. The man made it to the door, but had no strength left and he fell to his knees, head bowed, and showed his ticket through the glass door. The other hand he removed from his chest and placed on the ground. On his neck a crucifix dangled weakly. The yellow light came on.

Slavik always wanted to be a bus driver. But more than that, while still being a kid, he wished to become a God. Sometimes, as he fell asleep, he imagined people believing in him and wishing for his help. And he, being the most powerful and kind God, always helped them, especially those who needed him the most. And he’d deny no one his aid. The green light turned on.

And then something happened, that never occurred before- Slavik opened the door and reached with his hand, as if he could touch the exhausted man. He waited for the other to come in and took the ticket without a hurry, ignoring the claxons of the cars behind him. The quite crumpled return ticket was for the same date, and judging by the printed time- for the last bus. The man smiled tiredly, having no strength for even expressing his gratitude. Slavic punched the ticket in and didn’t move from his spot until the passenger found his seat.

The same evening, Slavik sat behind the wheel of the bus of the last returning run. Behind his back grew the voices of the discontent passengers. The minute hand on the watch had long since passed the time of departure, but the bus stood still. The late passenger was yet to arrive.