Running (A Short Story)

One week ago I boarded a bus at the Anaheim station, and with every mile driven, I was taken further and further from being a man.
Six televisions hanging from the roof and spacious seats with footrests made this bus seem like a pristine home that a lawyer would retire to. I was undeserving of it all.
I spotted two seats in the back corner immediately. I could sit there in silence for the entirety of the ride, but seconds after I slouched down into the corner seat, a tall man approached me.
“Excuse me, would it be all right with you if my son and I sat in those seats? It’s just that they’re the only two empty seats together,” he asked.
I craved the silence that these back seats promised, but when I saw the boy, I couldn’t refuse. His nervousness prevented him from making eye contact with me, so he stared at the floor while he squeezed his father’s hand tightly. It was clear to me that all

the boy wanted was the security of his father. I was familiar with that yearning. I complied.
I chose a seat right next to a man resembling Jesus. The stench of stale cigarette smoke surrounded him, and it was clear that he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He shuffled cards and I sat there thinking about the time I had taught myself to shave before my first real date.
Soon my mind wandered and was handcuffed by thoughts of Kelly. I was consumed with the thought of her giving birth to our child with no one’s hand to squeeze tightly. No husband or boyfriend to provide security, just an overwhelming sensation of loneliness she didn’t deserve. What bothered me the most was that no one would be there to tell her she didn’t deserve it.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the photograph that was etched in my mind from hundreds of looks. It was a picture of Kelly and me at the beach, and I was instantly drawn to her jet black hair. I remember how her face lit up when she said “You’re going to be a father.” The words paralyzed me. And there I was one week later, running from the responsibility that was her womb.
“Pretty girl,” said the man sitting next to me. I was so involved with Kelly’s beauty that I hadn’t noticed him staring at the very same thing. “That your girlfriend?”
His voice was much smoother than his appearance would predict, but I was still reluctant to speak.
“She was,” I responded.

“Ya don’t get too many like that in your life, boy,” he said.
I peeled my eyes from the photograph and stared into his. They had a glowing hazel tint, and they were inviting and protective at the same time. He extended his hand and introduced himself as Richard.
“What happened?” he asked.
Participating in a conversation about Kelly was the last thing I wanted, but I had taught myself to be polite.
“It got complicated,” I muttered.
He laughed and continued shuffling his cards.
“Well, that’s a typical response. It’s not complicated, boy. You two in love or not?” he asked.
I felt an anger boil inside of me, not so much because of his simplistic view of my situation, but because that was the second time he called me boy. I’m twenty-three years old, and I’m not anyone’s boy. I’ve never been anyone’s boy.
“You sure love questions, Richie. “What about you? What are you doing on this bus?” I asked.
“My daughter graduated and doesn’t know what to do now, so I’m going to try and teach her a little bit about making decisions,” he responded with concern. At this point, my anger was replaced with jealousy.
“Well, I’ve never had anyone teach me about life and I turned out just fine,” I said. He stopped shuffling his cards, and as we stared at each other for several seconds, he knew not to question that.
When I was seven, my dad joined the Army and never came back, so I never got to ask him how to kiss a girl. In the tenth grade when beautiful Julie McVernon kissed me at a party, I pulled away and stared at her while a few people laughed at us. The tear streaming down her cheek told me that she thought I had rejected her. Frustrated and drunk, I ran to my house, grabbed a baseball bat, and smashed rear view mirrors off a few cars in my neighborhood. I also never got a chance to ask him how to fight. When a thief approached Kelly and me on our way home from our fourth date, I just stood there and let him take her purse. No matter how many times she told me that she didn’t care about the purse, that she was just glad we were safe, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the purse.
Fifteen minutes passed while I stared at the seat in front of me. As the last hint of sunlight was swallowed by darkness, silence fell over the bus. Just as I closed my eyes in hopes of some rest, I heard Richard clear his throat.
“Since you can’t answer my question, why don’t we let the cards decide?” he asked without a trace of a smile.
I turned to him and laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He continued to shuffle his cards and stare at me. “I asked you if you two are in love and you said it was complicated. Well, let’s simplify it. Let’s flip one card. If it’s red, you call that girl and see if you two can’t work out whatever the problem is. If it’s black, you burn that picture and never think twice about her. If you can’t make your own decisions, the cards can do it for you.”
I smiled and shook my head, wondering if he was joking. When I looked back at him, he gave me the same look I had given him when I told him that no one had taught me about life. I didn’t question him.
“Flip the card,” I said in a low voice.
He shuffled the cards slowly, and I thought of how I should have placed my hands on Julie McVernon’s waist. I should have run my hands through her lacey brown hair, leaned in confidently, and felt what it would been like to place my lips on hers. I thought about how I should have thrown everything I had at that thief, regardless of the beating I would surely have gotten. At least Kelly would have known that I can be her strength when she needs it.
Richard stopped shuffling. I watched him cut the deck in half, and place his index and middle finger, which had a scar right next to the nail, on a card. I felt my temperature rise as I turned my head. He withdrew it from the deck and flipped it over. I slowly turned my head back and stared at it. Black eight of clubs.
As the bus pulled into the Los Angeles bus station, I thanked Richard for his help. I gathered my things and pushed past a few people to the front of the bus. Just before opening the door of the station, I glanced to my left and saw the young boy and his father who I had given my seat up to. The bitter three a.m. cold prevented me from watching them for any longer than a second. I walked up to a woman working at the station and smiled at her.
“I need the next available bus going to Anaheim,” I said with more confidence than I’d ever had.