CHOICES

Buses have never been my favorite mode of travel. They're loud and dirty. They smell bad, as do many of the passengers. The seats are uncomfortable, the ride too bouncy, and the bathroom is always occupied by someone who gets sick riding buses.

In this instance though, it was my best choice. My car, never overly dependable, was sitting in my driveway coloring it green with antifreeze seeping from a 

cracked block. I was new in the city. Making friends was not one of my skills, so I had no one to borrow a car from. My destination was too far to take a taxi, 

too close to take a plane, and too far from any train station.

The bus was it.

Darkness was falling as I sat alone in the terminal. It was a shared terminal for both the train and the bus companies. I assume that at one time, passengers 

would debark from one and get on the other to complete there journey. The heyday of each was long past. My only companions were the janitor and the 

woman stationed at the counter, listlessly watching television on her laptop computer.

The bus pulled in, blowing dirt and food wrappers from underneath it as the air brakes engaged. I grabbed my worn leather satchel and was ready when the 

driver opened the door.

He took my ticket, nodded and said, "Have a seat, if you can find one." 
He laughed at his own joke. There were only three other passengers.

One was an older gent, dressed to the nines. Black top coat, with scarf. The coat was open to show what was obviously an expensive black suit, with slight 

white pinstripes. He held both gloves, and wonder of wonder, a cane in his hands. His black oxford shoes were so polished they reflected the overhead light 

from the bus's interior. I was slightly surprised not to see a top hat sitting on the seat next to him. Instead, a small black attaché case was there, gold claps 

matching the glimpse of cuff links I caught from the shirt sleeves peeking out from his jackets. He had taken a seat about mid-bus, on the side opposite the 

driver.

The other passengers sat a few seats in front of him, on the driver's side. They sat beside each other. I could guess that they were related, though a good 

many years separated them. Grandmother and grandson was my guess. She was bundled in a shapeless green jacket. A red scarf covered her hair. She 

clutched a paperback book in her hands. She wasn't reading it, since her eyes were closed and her head bobbed up and down. She was snoring.

The boy was snuggled against her like a cat. He too was asleep. A worn grey blanket with the bus company's logo on it covered all but his face. His eyes were also closed. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth to the sleeve of his grandmother's green jacket.

I lifted my bag to clear the seats and made my way to the extreme back of the bus. I nodded to the silver haired man in the the suit as I passed, gaining me a smile. Arriving at my chosen seat, I tossed the bag down in the seat by the aisle and sat by the window.

The driver closed the door and exited the terminal. He was better than most, not jerking the bus as he did so.

I settled into my seat, took my cue from the slumbering patrons and dozed off.

I awoke with a start. I could feel eyes on me. A throw back to our days in the caves, a person could still tell when they were being watched. I lifted my eyes and saw that the sharp dressed man had moved to the seat in front of me. He sat, turned in his aisle seat so he was facing me. a wry smile was on his face.

I cleared my throat.

"Can I help you?"

His smile widened, making him look ten years younger. He gestured to the seat which contained my over night bag.

"May I," he asked.

I hesitated. As I said, I don't make friends easily. That's because I honestly don't care for people. Small talk bores me. I'd much rather dig into my books (one of which was in the very bag the Fred Astaire want-to-be was gesturing at) than chit chat. On the other hand, the lighting in the bus was terrible, and I had neglected to pack my book light.

I nodded, taking my bag from the seat.

"I trust you won't mind," he said, rising elegantly and moving into the seat. He still held his gloves and cane, but the case remained beside his original seat.
"I do so enjoy talking to others. I like to hear their stories, their views on things."

"Well sir," I said to him. "I'm not much of a conversationalist, but it's a long ride from good old PA to New York."

He laughed, a sound like diamonds falling on crystal, clear and sweet.

"Indeed! Miles to go before we sleep, as it were." He paused. "So sir, are you from here?" he asked, gesturing outside the bus.

"My name is Glen," I told him. "And in a way, yes. I live in Harrisburg now, moved here from Canton."

"Ah. I am traveling from a small town in Virginia. My name is Luke, by the way."

He held out his hand. I noticed for the first time the exquisite ring on his right hand, the red of the ruby glinting in the meager light. I took his hand, and was surprised at how cold it was. He smiled, pumped my hand once and released his grip. My hand tingled a bit, like it had fallen asleep. It probably had, while I dozed.

"What brings to you Pennsylvania from Ohio, Master Glen? A woman, perhaps?"

Now it was my turn to laugh.

"Not hardly sir. Not hardly. I came for a job. The way the economy is these days, I had to take it where it came, you know?"

"I do indeed. Our current administration certainly is not bringing about the change they promised now, are they? But then, none of them ever do. Liars, the lot of them." He shook his head. "What line of work are you in?"

"I am a counselor at the psychiatric hospital. They had a job posted on one of the internet job boards. I applied, did my interview via Skype, and they hired me. Came out six months ago."

"A counselor," Luke stated. "An admirable position. I trust you went to college to get such a job?"

I nodded. "Yes sir. Majored in psychology, with a minor in ethics study."

He smiled again, revealing even white teeth. I wondered if they were capped? They were so white, they almost glowed.

"Ethics? Wonderful. I always enjoyed ethics. Human beings are often put into situations that require the use of ethics, but rarely do they think about it. Do you agree Glen?"

"My professor would agree, but I'm not sure what your point is?" I was still a bit woozy from sleeping, you see.

"Why, for instance, if you put a man in a solitary office, with no boss monitoring him, what is to prevent him from, how do they say it? 'Crusing the internet'? Yes, that. What is to stop him from doing that instead of working? Looking at that porn stuff instead of tallying his rows and columns? Ethics, that's what."

"Well, yes. That's one way to look at it," I replied.

"Or the age old quote from the generals in war time," he continued. "Better that one die so many can live, or some such drivel. Do you agree with that, after your studies Glen?"

He moved a bit closer to me.

I blinked. His eyes were the deepest gray I had ever seen, clear and bright, wide and staring into mine.

"I guess so Luke. Ethics was my minor," I said lamely.

He turned suddenly and pointed to the sleeping family members across the way.

"Like those two. One so young, his whole future in front of him. The other old, near the end of her life. What if you had to choose, Glen? Between them?"

Confused, I looked at him, then at the slumbering two.

"What? I don't follow."

"What if you had to choose one of them to die Glen? Which would you choose, after studying ethics? What do your books and professor's teaching tell you to do?"

I was beginning not to like Luke. His breath smelled a bit when he spoke.

"I don't think I like this conversation Luke. I'd like to go back to sleep, if you don't mind."

"Oh, but I DO mind Glen. I do, indeed. Tell you though, you tell me which one you would choose, and I'll leave you. I'll let you sleep."

He smiled again, but his teeth didn't look as white this time. Stained, too much coffee and tobacco maybe.

"Why? What kind of question is this, anyway?"

"An ethical one. If one had to die, so that others may live? Which would you choose?"

I answered, just to get him to leave. "The old lady."

"Why Glen? Why her? Don't you like her Glen? She reminds you of your mother, maybe? The one that beat you and touched you where she wasn't supposed to?"

I flinched. The description of dear old mom was a bit too close to home. 
"No. My mother wasn't like that. It's just.." I trailed off.

"She wasn't, eh? Sure Glen. We're ALL liars, in the end. Why then? She's so close to dying anyway?"

"Yeah, that's it. She's old. The boy has his whole life before him."

"Life? What kind of life? What if the old lady is his only family? They'll put him in a foster home. He'll go from home to home, no love anywhere. Just people who want him for the money the state gives them. Just adults who want him to be their little plaything. Ones that come into his room at night, whiskey on their breath and bad deeds on their mind. He'll grow up unable to make friends. He'll hate women, thanks to his mother and all the other 'mommies'. His scars will be on the inside, sure, but he'll have them on the outside, too. Scars where they used him for an ashtray, where they beat him with the belt, where they tied him to the bed till he did what they wanted. Yeah Glen, he'll have a life alright. What about HIM?"

I rubbed by wrists, feeling the burn of the ropes that were not there. I looked from the boy to the woman as sweat poured from my brow. I knuckled it from my eyes. I flicked the damp hair out of my face and looked at Luke. His eyes had grown wider while he gave his little rant. They looked odd, yellow almost, like dull flames were burning behind them. His overcoat looked different, too, shabbier, threadbare and dirty. His shirt didn't have cuff-links, but twisted paper clips holding the sleeves shut. His shoes were in reality plastic Subway bags, tied with twine at his ankles. He stank. He scared me. He was so close to me now that I could see the rot of his teeth.

I moved away, against the window, the cold of the outside seeping into the sweat soaked back of my jacket. I could feel the cold, but the cold in front of me was deeper. I think I sobbed a bit.

"I don't want to live, mommy," I whimpered. I blinked.

And all was as it was. Luke looked as he had when I boarded the bus. Suave, dapper even. Ready for the ballroom.

He smiled. "The boy then?"

I just nodded.

He rose and returned to his seat. I continued to cower while the bus plodded on it's merry way to New York. Sleep overtook me once again.

Forty-five minutes later, the bus pulled into a Turnpike service plaza. I woke up, groggy. I looked about for Luke, and did not see him. I assumed he was sleeping, hunched down in his seat. The old woman sat up and shook the child. The boy did not stir. She shook him harder.

"Leon, wake up. It's time to eat."

Leon was white, and cold, and would not stir again. The woman screamed and the bus driver rushed to her aid. I stood up and scanned the rest of the empty bus. There was no Luke. There were just we four, the driver, the woman and myself.

And the cold body of a child.