By the time the last arrived, there were four of us shuffling around the bench. The old lady sat as best she could against the back of the bench, resting awkwardly because her feet in this position barely touched the ground. The support for her back caused a small satisfying smile to whisper across the lined features of her face. Her eyes remained shuttered, at peace. God only knows what she was thinking…

…while the rest of us, not wanting to join her on the bench, watched for signs of the bus in that summer heat with the sun rising.

The young man was fidgeting with his watch. His baseball cap came off, back on, off, on backwards, all unselfconscious, passing time awkwardly like he was unused to having to wait. Although he glanced at each of us from time to time, he was careful not to attract our attention and, indeed, seemed pretty content to wait, fidget, remove cap, look at watch, turn cap from back to front then back again, and every once in a while step down from the curb to see if the bus was in sight. We ignored him as much as he ignored us.

The bus stop was not something the older man was comfortable with because he took out a bus schedule from minute to minute, unfolded it, traced the route information with his finder, refolded the schedule and slipped it back into his shirt pocket. It became a little ritual of his; open, read, refold, put away. The others ignored his activity, but once I was tempted to offer help explaining the schedule, the timing, the procedure. But who was this guy? He had the bus schedule, he knew what he was looking for, and I had no business butting in anyway.

I sometimes take the bus to town. On this summer day my car broke down. I called to explain I couldn’t be in to work on time, and then I called the garage and had them come to tow my car to work on it. I didn’t wait for the guy from the garage because I had just enough time to make the bus stop, with maybe five or ten minutes to spare. I grabbed a liter bottle of water, locked the door on the way out, and placed the car keys under the passenger side visor for the mechanic.

Town, as I affectionately call it, is a metropolis of about 250,000 people. It has four high schools, a large hospital and a small clinic, several shopping malls (none of them really large), a rodeo arena in the fairgrounds, a race track with many stables nearby, a medium size airport, a meager fire department and a small police force. I work as a clerk in the customer service office of a small manufacturing company. We make tricycles and similar wheeled toys for kids. I deal mostly with issues relating to product failure, orders not completed properly, that sort of thing.

Now, I live about 13 miles out of town and we lack some amenities. We have no church, no school, no fire station, no large store, no sewer system or, for that matter, a civic water supply. I get my water from a well, and everyone in my area has their own septic tank. One neighbor is a good auto mechanic. Not far away there is a small convenience store with two gas pumps. I don’t have to go far for essential groceries, or gas – but these commodities are cheaper in town so it is always best to plan ahead.

So on this particular day I am rushing down the street, heading for the bus stop, and I see my neighbor mechanic leave his house and walk towards his car. I call to him, explain the situation quickly, tell him where the keys are (from experience he knew where I put them) and all the time I’m calling this to him I am fast walking to catch the bus. He waves, nods his understanding, and as I turn the corner I see him backing out of his driveway. “Good”, I think. “He’ll take care of that.” Life seemed simple, then.

As I pieced the situation together later, it would help to provide a perspective at this point in my narrative. I was about to meet three strangers who were going to board a bus with me. I have been on the bus several times, but am certainly not a regular. As it turns out, the others at the bus stop were also not accustomed to the ride. The old lady, the young man, the older man, myself, all of us gathered that morning for a very fateful ride, all of us strangers, but we had that shared ride in common.

Maybe now would be a good time to introduce myself. My name is John Agate. I am slightly over six feet tall, weigh a little more than two hundred pounds, and am about to enjoy my sixty-sixth birthday. I guess you would call me average looking, brown eyes, thinning brown hair, dressed comfortably in slacks and open collared short-sleeved plaid shirt. I am hatless, wear no glasses, but I am starting to appreciate reading glasses for some things with fine print. I have a ready smile but usually wear a serious expression. I carry a telephone pager on my belt.

I run up to the bus stop, glad to see the bus has not arrived yet as evidenced by the others I’ve described at the bench. Running is something I don’t do well, and it takes several minutes to adjust my breathing and straighten my composure. All the while I am observing two individuals at the bench, the older man folding and unfolding the bus schedule while he leaned against the bus sign and the old lady adjusting her posture against the back of the bench. Then the boy arrived, and we passed those last minutes as I described earlier.

Here comes the bus! I suppose it is right on time, but we’re all happy to see it coming and we share, for the first time, a smile and nod of approval as we gather in sequence ready to board. When it was apparent that the lady needed a hand getting to her feet and gathering her purse and walking stick, both the older man and myself were quick to assist her. We each held an elbow to get her to her feet, and after she steadied herself she thanked us kindly. The boy jumped on as the doors opened.

The bus driver was someone I’d seen on previous trips, and we nodded to each other as I deposited my fare. I was last to get on, and as I turned to find a seat was surprised that there were only the five of us on the bus; the driver, a woman perhaps in her forties, and the four of us. Usually, there were several others on the bus but not today. I slid into a seat across the aisle from the young man, and saw that he was still fidgeting with his watch and turning his baseball cap around.

After a few cars flew past the bus pulled away from the stop smoothly and we were on our way. I saw from my wristwatch that I would be on time for work, since it was only five to eight and I didn’t have to be there until nine. Plenty of time, I thought. The bus stops were scattered along the road from here to town, and the bus passes right by work so I won’t have any trouble making it before nine. I sat back and relaxed as we passed the next stop on the route with nobody waiting.

In my relaxed state I observed the driver. She wheeled the bus easily with practiced hand and eye, and it was while simply watching her that I noticed a wince, a squeezing of the eyes, and then she was OK again. Curious, I watched for several moments and saw it again, the closing of the eyes, a quick frown, and then she was engaged again in watching traffic and all seemed OK. I eased myself out of my seat and slid a few seats closer, where I was across the aisle from her and sat down just inside the door.

The driver saw me out of the corner of her eye and turned to me. “Stay seated while the bus is in motion”, she warned. “Sure thing. Sorry,” I replied. “Is the something wrong?” The driver glanced at me, shook her head and said “No, why?” “Just wondered,” I said, “seemed like you were thinking or feeling something painful.” “Nope,” she rejoined, “there’s nothing wrong.” She seemed a bit uncertain of herself, but her words belied my impression. We passed a few cars and I continued to watch her. The road ahead was fairly straight and we sped smoothly along.

I was pretty sure I had seen something in her expression, but as I glanced back at the other passengers I saw they were each in their own world. They weren’t paying attention to either the driver or myself, and so I resumed watching the driver’s expression for a sign that she was NOT OK. But no more winces, and we passed another stop where nobody was waiting to board. There was perhaps eight miles to go before we hit town proper, with evenly spaced streets and bus stops on every corner. The time was just a minute after eight.

Traffic continued to be light, the road straight. I was just appraising this fact when suddenly the driver winced and her left arm contracted violently. The bus swerved, straightened, and although it seemed like a minor glitch I saw the driver exerting a lot of strength to keep the bus going straight in our lane. I jumped to her side, grabbing the pole behind her seat for support, and told her to pull over. “I can’t”, she gasped, “I can’t move my left arm.” Her face was wreathed in sweat and pain. I saw immediately that we had a problem!

Who knows how these things happen? I am no hero, capable of amazing feats of strength or possessing inordinate amounts of courage. I could see the status quo was one of extreme peril, and that something had to be done immediately. The driver was unable to focus on anything more than holding on to the wheel and yet we needed to brake and pull over to the shoulder somehow. Nowhere in my experience have I driven a bus or anything like one, and yet somehow this bus had to be stopped! Looking back quickly I saw the other passengers’ expressions.

Startled, questioning, they were, and I knew there was no support there. Whatever happened now had to come from me. “Dear God,” I prayed, “now is the time. I need you NOW!” I leaned over as close as I could get, placing my hands on the steering wheel and overlapping her grip. “Let go!” I shouted, “I’ve got the wheel. You hit the brake!” “Ugh,” she said, and I saw that she had trouble comprehending what I was trying to do. “I’ll steer,” I shouted in her ear, “hit the brakes!” Somehow the road didn’t seem so very straight.

My body was contorted trying to balance myself above and behind her as I leaned over the steering wheel. I became aware of frightened noises behind me, but I had to now stay focused on steering an unfamiliar vehicle while encouraging the driver to get it stopped. The back of the driver’s head jerked into my mouth and I could taste the blood from biting my lips. “Brakes!” I screamed, “hit the brakes!” “Ugh,” I heard again. Then suddenly the nose of the bus dove as apparently the driver put a lot of force on the brakes. I held on.

The bus shuddered to a stop. Three things struck me at once: we were still in traffic lanes, the driver was slumped in the seat, and the passengers had been lofted out of their seats willy-nilly as we screeched to a halt. We weren’t out of trouble yet, not at all. “Help me!” I called back over my shoulder, and to my surprise it was the young kid who touched my shoulder. “Pull that handle,” he pointed to the door handle at the driver’s right side. “Great,” I grunted as I got the door open. The motor was still running.

The kid went to exit the bus and I yelled “Stop the traffic!” as he leaped down the stairs. I turned my attention to the driver, who was lying slumped under my weight as I leaned over her back. “Can you hear me?” I shouted in her ear. No response. I reached around trying to find her seat belt buckle, unsnapped it, and she was like wet sand in trying to get my arms under hers and lift her out. Her legs were under the dash, the exit was an awkward thing to do, pulling her up and sideways.

It seemed the driver’s feet were hung up somehow when I tugged, and by now the other fellow was at my side. He had recovered from falling from his seat, and asked “What can I do?” “I’m not sure how to do this, but her feet are caught somehow and I need to get down there and see why. If you can, take her arms while I see what I can do.” The older man grasped the driver’s arms while I pushed myself upside down over her body, reaching for her booted feet. They seemed so far away, so far...

The left foot had become wedged behind the brake pedal. I was lucky, and pulled it free on my first attempt. “Pull!” I shouted, and the older man tried to do so. The problem was, I was on top of the driver! I tried to scoot back and up, while he pulled sideways, and I suppose if she had been awake all of this tugging and pulling would be painful. We managed, the two of us, to extricate ourselves and the driver. As I helped ease the driver down the stairs and outside, I looked back for the old woman.

She was outside already, having slipped out some time after the kid and before the older man and I had struggled to get the driver out. The kid was back down the road several hundred yards, waving motorists down, and the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. I was trying to give CPR to the driver, and couldn’t pay too much attention to the others. She was very pale, almost without color, and she didn’t seem to be breathing. I don’t know much about this stuff, but I know to keep going. Press Press Press Press Breathe.

The ambulance and the sheriff got there about the same time. Seemed like forever, probably less than five minutes. Amazing! We all told the police what happened, and the ambulance driver said the bus driver was breathing and had had a heart attack. I think he said she’d make it, and I plan to check on her some time soon. But this story isn’t over, yet. What happened next is so strange! I looked up, and pulling to the side of the road was my mechanic, in my car! He jumped out, ran up to me, and said “What happened?”

I explained what had just taken place, then asked him “How is it you’re here?” My mechanic is a conscientious person, and after quickly determining I didn’t really have a serious problem, he had taken the car out to shake it down. He wanted to make sure there wasn’t something more serious than what he’d found. While we are discussing this, the sheriff is finishing up his accident report and talking to the old woman, who asks “How am I going to get to town?” I ask the mechanic how the car is (“Fine!”) and I call out “Come with me!”

I look at the mechanic questioningly, and after he nods I called to the other three passengers “We can all go in my car. I’ll drop you where you want to go.” The three of them rush over to me, while the sheriff watches. I explain the situation, and after getting approval from the sheriff I used my telephone pager to call work and tell them I’d not be able to make it, and why. “No problem,” was the response, and so the stage was set for me to be the alternative bus driver for the remainder of the trip.

Before we went any further, I introduced myself and met each of my passengers by name. The old lady is Beth Wallace. She is on her way to the clinic for an eye exam. The young kid is Joe Bingham, and his bus trip was to get him to a job interview at the race track. The older fellow, Robert Robertson, said to call him Bobby and wants me to drop him off at the National Guard Armory. I introduced everyone to Bill Cruikshank, my mechanic, and with Beth in the passenger seat, the back seat held three snug riders.

The drive promised to be very pleasant, getting to know my passengers a little and exchanging names and phone numbers and bits and pieces of our lives. We all hoped the bus driver would be OK, and we agreed that the response time had been unbelievable! And then, while we were in this jolly relieved frame of mind, we turned a corner to go down the boulevard that led to the race track to drop Joe off. We happened upon another accident scene. There before us a bus had been rammed broadside by a car! A tow truck was active...

I stopped and talked to the tow truck driver. It seems everyone involved was OK, there were no serious injuries. But he mentioned that when the accident occurred an ambulance had been dispatched. Somehow the driver had been given the wrong directions and the emergency vehicles had been sent out of town on the wrong road. The driver didn’t seem to understand when I sat down on the ground and cried “Thank you, God! Thank you!”

I made some very special friends that day, you know? Now, I need to get to the hospital to check on the bus driver.