City Bus Driver

It started, as these things often do, with something small. A mark. A smell. A hesitation no louder than a breath. The kind of moment you barely register, until it turns into something else entirely.  By the time the bus pulled away, the story had already begun to write itself. Just not the one anyone meant to tell. Three seconds. One shadow. A hundred headlines. There are moments on this job that last no longer than a blink, but echo for weeks. A pensioner's awkward glance. A hesitation at the step. A mark on the seat that might be nothing, or might be something. You weigh it. In real time. With forty people behind you. No script. No time to consult the manual (because there isn’t one). Just a quiet flicker of dread and the question no driver wants to ask:  If I’m wrong, what happens next? I wasn’t there. But I’ve been there. I’ve seen shadows that looked like stains, and stains that looked like shadows. I’ve had the smell of spilled cider haunt a bus for a whole shift, only ...

It was the last run of the shift, the sun was setting, and the air inside the bus was thick with the scent of teenage rebellion and something far worse. Between the Bluetooth beats, fruity fog and an unidentified chemical weapon left behind by a pensioner, I found myself refereeing a strange kind of peace treaty, with vape clouds as our only line of defence. School’s out, vapes are in, and one mystery stinker nearly derailed the lot. A tale of teamwork, tolerance, and a tactical haze. There’s a certain breed of chaos that only arrives when school’s out and the sun can’t decide if it’s setting or just sulking. You know the kind, restless energy, hormonal banter, and that dangerous combination of boredom and Bluetooth. I’d clocked the group as soon as they boarded. Usual weekend suspects. Faces I could sketch from memory, fair dodging routines rehearsed like a school play. One of them tried the classic "left my pass in my cousin’s car" routine. I gave him a look that said, “So...