The Bus Trip

The Old Town bus from Orono to Bangor is a genuine enigma. To this day, I’ve only rode the

bus once, but it was a time I doubt I will ever forget.

Nearly every weekend since arriving at the campus, I made it a personal goal to ride the bus into town. I downloaded the map of all the bus routes on my phone and took note of the times I would have to pay attention to. Despite my work trying to create a thorough schedule for a bus trip, the bus failed to commit to it. Whenever I arrived at the bus stop, I would usually wait for around a half an hour to an hour, and then walk back to the campus in defeat. Once in September I saw the bus travel down the road—right past the stop I sat at. I wanted to give up on multiple occasions. I couldn’t comprehend how a supposed bus had an assigned schedule, and yet it was a coin toss if it ever showed up. I asked a few people in town about the bus, but they knew less about the system than I did. Yet, despite all the setbacks of this seemingly mythological bus, I never gave up.

Finally, one weekend in early October, my efforts paid off.

I woke up that morning at around 6am, wanting to get a head start on the supposed bus I’d grown used to never seeing. The bus would arrive at around 9:30, but I couldn’t guarantee that. I quickly dressed myself, trying in vain not to wake my roommate.

“Are you going to try to flag down the bus again?” She asked quietly.

“You bet, this time’s the charm,” I replied.

I held no certainty in tone as I grabbed my backpack. My plan was simple: I would go to Target for the first few hours of the day to get all the items I needed, then I would ride to the mall to see just how far the bus would take me. I thought of it as an adventure of sorts, if I ever found the bus to take me on it. I needed running shoes and another towel, but other than that I mostly planned on riding the bus for the experience of it. I decided to get breakfast at the dining hall, just in case I couldn’t find somewhere to stop and eat. When I finished getting ready, I stepped out into the hall. After that, I quickly rushed back to the dorm, realizing I had forgotten my earbuds. I wanted to listen to music on the bus to pass time, just in case it was a long and quiet ride. Once I got those, I returned to the hallway. I began to walk once again, then turned back around and grabbed my coat. My roommate greeted me with a smug grin at that point and I lost hope that this day would be a good one. Once I was absolutely sure I had everything I needed, I turned around and took one last step out into the hall, shutting the door behind me. I frowned, sighed, then knocked on the door.

My roommate handed me my keycard with a laugh.

I made my way to the dorm entrance, heading for the field behind the residence hall. It was faster to cut through the field, and I did so frequently on my trips to the town. The field connected to a path that split off to College Ave, where all the frat houses are. Sometimes I passed the houses to find frat members playing small games on the lawn, or there was absolutely no one in sight. That morning it was the latter. The walk into town was fairly quiet for the most part, and the town itself wasn’t particularly bustling with people either. I passed a man jogging, but he did so in a strange fashion, with his arms swinging wildly about. I didn’t know what to think of it, but who was I to judge? I didn’t often go on jogs.

I stopped for a moment when I reached what I call “Spider Bridge” to update my location to my friends. “Spider Bridge” connects UMaine to the center of Orono, and the name explains itself. The first time I walked along that bridge, it made me contemplate how many people didn’t traverse the stretch of road simply for the presence of all the eight-legged creatures of various sizes. One gust of wind in the right direction and you could get a face full of spider webs, and possibly their residents too.

When I finally got to the stop, I sat and waited across the street from the stop on a bench and continued to text. I did this often, and I still don’t have a full explanation for it. If I could sum it up between two possible reasons, the first is that I hate sitting still for long periods of time. The instant I arrived on campus, I wanted to see everything it offered. I tried to take walks to pass time when I wasn’t busy with schoolwork, or to go to whatever event happened outside of the residence hall. Since the beginning of the pandemic, I grew partially used to a more solitary lifestyle. Still, it has yet to sit right with me. The second reason would be that I didn’t want to look like I was loitering. I arrived at the bus stop far earlier than I was supposed to in an attempt to compensate for the twenty-minute walk into town.

Eventually, I crossed the street to the bus stop and took a seat on the bench. I put on some soft music and allowed my mind to wander. The anticipation brewed and boiled in my stomach with every passing minute. Would I have to walk back? Would I have to give up? Another day stuck at the University, fated to only escape for brief moments with the help of a friend with a car. I could have asked one of my friends to drive me to the store, but where was the fun in that? While driving cut the length and time of the journey in half, there was little exploration in it. There was no dread for whether the bus would arrive or not, or excitement when it finally did. No risk existed in driving, because you could roam wherever you pleased. When I came to UMaine, I wanted independence and adventure, even if it was merely urban exploration.

I caught a glimpse of red at the end of the quiet street and instantly felt my heart leap. The soft glow of orange letters above the windshield spelled out “Old Town” and the vehicle pulled to a stop before me as I visibly rejoiced. I stepped onto the bus with a grin on my face, showing the driver my Maine card. The card allowed me to go on the bus for free—a perk I started to see as useless up until that point. I took a seat on the rough felt bench and updated my location with glee, taking a few pictures of the bus as proof to my friends. As the bus wheels turned, I found myself kicking my legs. I carried an almost childish glee about me, something I otherwise would have been ashamed of. I earned the right to celebrate this moment. I deserved to be childish once in a while.

The bus took a few brief stops on the way to Bangor, where it rolled to a stop in a circular plaza. I hopped off the bus, taking a seat on a bench to watch the pigeons. There were a few people standing around, huddled in small groups and trying to keep warm. A small string of buses already curved around the plaza, all sporting different advertisements on the side and the same glowing orange letters that flashed between the bus name, “Indigenous People’s Day”, and “open”. Some of the pigeons around me started to crowd, obviously seeking food I didn’t have on me. I heard a voice beside me, brushing me out of my thoughts.

“Careful now, they might never leave you alone.”

To my left, an old man stood over me. He wore a longer plastic face shield as opposed to the medical masks I became used to seeing on everyone. He must have been in his early to mid-sixties; he had white hair and a bushy beard, overall reminding me of Santa Claus. He asked me if he could take a seat beside me. I shrugged and scooted over. The man sat down and looked at me, but I didn’t make eye contact. He folded his hands in his lap, turning toward the pigeons.

“You from around here?” He asked.

“Nope. I go to UMaine. I rode the bus to Bangor for the very first time today. I’m looking for Stillwater next.”

“Really? I’m from around Old Town! You know the bus route you took just a few minutes ago? I lived in that general area.” He chuckled to himself. “Yeah, there’s pretty much nothing there for a good long while.” He fiddled with his bag, and I glanced back toward the pigeons. I’ve never been one for small talk. I wouldn’t call myself the best at keeping conversations with others. But I’d be damned if I sat there in awkward silence. So, I decided to humor the man.

“I don’t know anything about Old Town really,” I started. “I came from Massachusetts. I’m

studying English so I can try and teach English as a Second Language to people like my dad did. He tells me all these funny stories about the people he runs into.” I seemed to pique his interest, so I continued. “He told me about how he once had to teach a Japanese man. The man didn’t really understand slang all that well. When he was in an airport, a woman told him to ‘give her a hand’. The poor guy didn’t know what she meant by that, so he just went like this!” I stuck my hands up, as if surrendering. The man chuckled again, nodding his head.

“That job might get you to a bunch of places. I know a few people from Japan. Got some Japanese pen pals, you know? I write back and forth with them often. Their English is pretty good. We talk about plenty of different things. The state of the world, you know.” He took out a small bag, fishing through it. “You like butterflies?”

I didn’t reply at first. The question registered in my head as I debated what to say. Initially, I

thought this man collected bugs. It reminded me of going to the museum and seeing all the little insects spiked on boards, with their names written underneath them followed by the scientific name in Latin. I doubted this man actually collected bugs, but I couldn’t be too sure of it. I hesitated, then simply said “sure”.

To my surprise, the man pulled out a small square sheet of pink paper. He began to fold it while we talked.

“You said you were from Mass? I have a cousin there. He writes a lot of poetry.” I heard him

briefly mention a name, but I felt bad that I couldn’t fully understand him. I told him I’d never

heard of him, much to the man’s dismay.

“A lot of poets from New England write about nature and stuff,” I said. “It’s almost like a

stereotype. I don’t know what it is about the landscape. My dad writes poetry too. I mainly write lyrics for songs. There’s a lot to write about in Massachusetts. We lived not too far from the Lizzie Borden house. You ever heard of her?”

The man shook his head.

“Well, she’s famous for this little nursery rhyme supposed to scare people. ‘Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done she gave her father forty-one’. I don’t think she really did it but that’s what people say for fun.” I watched the man roll his eyes with a hint of amusement, then return to folding the small piece of paper.

“People say the weirdest things. I think it’s just a conspiracy.” He huffed as he focused on his work, holding it up briefly for me to look at. “You’d be surprised by how many people call this a jet plane.” I shrugged. It didn’t look like much more than paper to me so far. He kicked out his leg, making himself comfortable as he finished the final folds and handed me the finished product. I couldn’t help but smile once I saw the small pink butterfly sitting in my palm.

“Thank you!” I chimed. “It’s so cute!” I tried to find a place to put it where it wouldn’t get damaged, deciding on the side pocket of my backpack.

The man took out another piece of paper. I tried to guess what he was folding while he made it, but I couldn't be certain.

“Where did you learn how to fold origami?” I asked, swinging my legs. I started getting more anxious to move, but I wouldn’t do so just yet.

“I learned it back in middle school,” he began. “I went to the library a lot and looked at books on how to do it. I consider myself a bit of an expert at it. It’s probably been around forty years now and I still got it.” He hummed. I nodded in thought.

“When I was in elementary school I used to rent this one particular book on origami.” The man stopped me briefly.

“See what’s with you young people saying “rent” books? You don’t have to pay money for them, do you?”

I shook my head. “Well, I mean, not unless you don’t bring it back on time. There’s a fee for

that.”

“Well yeah, but other than that you don’t rent. You borrow.”

I hummed in agreement, then continued what I had been saying. “I never really got good at

it—origami—but I learned how to do one or two things. You know those boxes? Like the

balloon ones you blow into?” He shook his head. “Well... I used to make those all the time. I’d fill them with water. If they held, I could throw them at people, like my brother.”

I rubbed my wrist with a hint of guilt.

“I actually still have that book. I took it and forgot to return it. I’m pretty sure I brought that book to college too. It’s sitting in my dorm on the shelf I think.” I couldn’t remember exactly when I decided to take the book, but it must have been many years ago. “I was a little kid and made a mistake. No one else really read the book anyway. Just me and my brother, really.”

The man held out his second creation to me: a pink flamingo. I took it and thanked him quietly once again. “People make mistakes,” he stated. “If no one read it either then it shouldn’t be any big deal.” I didn’t feel better, but I didn’t have much time to think about that before the man moved on to his third origami piece.

At that point the next bus on my list, “Stillwater”, pulled into the plaza. I fidgeted in my seat as the man folded a piece of green paper, turning it over and back again. He handed it to me quickly.

“Here hold this for right now.”

I took it without a second thought. My eyes trained on the bus, as if looking away would cause it to disappear forever. The man seemed to notice without even looking at me.

“Sit back. You’ve got ten minutes.” He glanced at his watch. I blinked in surprise, taken aback by his comment. He continued to fold as I fidgeted with the green paper in my hand. At first glance, it looked like a “V”, but one side was shorter than the other. The paper the man worked on beside me was, once again, pink. I found myself torn between watching the bus anxiously and staring at the green paper cradled in my hands. I almost debated the importance of this final project the man sat beside me making. Was it worth missing the bus for? I felt guilt well up within me once again. I couldn’t be like that. He wanted to give me a gift. If I stood up and walked away, I’d be throwing away that effort. As impatient as I could be, I couldn’t cast aside someone like that. So, I relaxed and decided to trust him.

When he finished the pink segment, he took out a pair of tiny scissors and cut off the bottom of it. He held his hand out for the green piece, which I handed to him faster than I would have liked to admit. He placed the pink piece on one of the sides of the V, then handed the final product to me.

A tulip.

The man zipped up his bag as I thanked him once again.

“What’s your name?” I asked, putting the flower in my backpack.

“Steven. You?”

“I’m Sarah! It was nice talking to you!” I waved him goodbye as I got up from my seat rather quickly.

“Good luck on the bus!” He called back, getting up from the bench himself.

I gave him one final wave as I stepped onto the bus, showing the driver my card and taking a seat.

A few people loaded onto the bus, and I found myself between a taller man and a quiet woman. Across from me sat a man with a peering stare and a sharp nose. He sported a rose tattoo on his neck, which I decided to name him after in my head. Rose Tattoo eyed most of the people in the bus, before his gaze settled on the backpack of the tall man beside me. The bus started to roll as he spoke up.

“Heya, I like your backpack,” Rose Tattoo piped. The taller man glanced at him, then smiled and looked down at it. Curiously, I turned more to see the object of their attention. The man cradled a reddish-brown backpack between his legs. Small straps and ropes covered the backpack, with more buckles and clasps than I could count. I then decided to dub the man beside me “Military Backpack”.

“Thanks! You know people talk about my backpack all the time. I carry it around with me wherever I go pretty much.” Military Backpack scanned the bus, seeming to note my interest in it as well. “It’s really secure. It’s got almost a harness on it to keep it fitting snug to your body, almost like a hug. It’s safe and I put a lot of trust into it.” Rose Tattoo and I continued to listen intently while he spoke. “Most places sell this bag for like $100 dollars or so. You know how much I paid for this?”

“Got no clue,” Rose Tattoo replied.

“$79.99,” Military Backpack stated. I didn’t understand the price range for normal backpacks. I fail to consider myself a backpack connoisseur in any sense of the word. However, judging by the smug nature of the man’s tone and Rose Tattoo’s reaction, it must have been quite the deal. I mocked my surprise, nodding my head with interest.

Rose Tattoo turned to me, noting how I became a part of their small conversation. “I like your boots,” he noted.

At that moment, I figured I needed to think about a story for them. Maybe I needed to tell him they were supposedly expensive like Military Backpack. The leather boots I wore that day were a Christmas gift from my mother’s boyfriend, so I had no real idea what they

cost. I decided to be honest. It didn’t make sense to lie, did it?

“Thanks!” I beamed. “I don’t actually know how much they were. I got them as a gift.” I had no real story behind them, but they took me far. I wore them when working on my friend’s farm, when driving around my hometown and the general countryside, and when walking through the streets of Boston on the weekends sometimes with my dad.

Rose Tattoo seemed to approve of my answer, sitting back with an idle head nod. He crossed his arms, clutching his jacket close to himself. Scratches and bleached spots littered the old coat, but it seemed almost welcoming in a way. They were meant to be there, even if not created like that. It completed the rugged aesthetic Rose Tattoo created for himself with his ripped jeans, dark brown boots, and mud-colored hoodie.

“I like your jacket,” I murmured. Rose Tattoo perked up, his eyes flicking from the dirtied coat in his arms to me.

“Oh this old thing?” He asked. “Thanks, I guess! I found it, you know? I was outside when I

found it. Just stumbled across it.” I tipped my head. Military Backpack shared my confusion.

Rose Tattoo continued. “Yeah! Uh- I had to fight a guy for it actually. Real mean guy.”

I let out a faint huff of air—a ghost of a laugh. I had my doubts this man “found” anything. I

decided not to touch on such a topic now, however. Military Backpack tensed up, kicking his back closer to himself. Rose Tattoo noted the change in atmosphere, leaning back in his seat.

“It has no lining! See?” He showed us the inside of the coat. I saw torn fabric, with small threads sticking out in multiple areas. “I found it like that, you know.” I pursed my lips, staring at it for a while. What caused that to happen? Why did it not have any lining?

Military Backpack spoke up beside me.

“Can’t keep you too warm then, can it?” He raised a brow, scooting over to lean on a bar. Rose Tattoo shrugged and stared at me.

“Nah. Not really.”

We all went silent for a minute or two. I still wanted to ask more questions, but what questions were appropriate to ask? Was it worth knowing where the jacket came from? Would calling the man’s bluff cause trouble? I stared at the floor of the bus, lost in my own mind for a little while.

“What are your names?” Rose Tattoo suddenly asked.

I didn’t catch Military Backpack’s name, nor did I register the question until a few seconds later.

“And you?”

I looked up to find Rose Tattoo staring straight at me.

“Oh! Sarah,” I replied.

The man nodded, toying with his mask. “I’m Jeff,” he stated simply.

After two stops, “Jeff” got off the bus. He stumbled past a few people minding their own business, rushing off once he left the stop. Military Backpack visibly relaxed more, then leaned over to speak to me again.

“So where are you from?”

“Massachusetts. I’m going to UMaine to study English.”

“College student, huh? What year are you in?”

“I’m a freshman! But I also have a ton of credits from high school AP classes.” I explained the dorm life to him, discussing how we didn’t have many in-person classes due to the pandemic. He seemed to take great interest in it. When we arrived at his stop, he stood up slowly.

“Well, I guess this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other,” he yawned.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Hope you have a nice day!”

Military Backpack seemed to stumble over what to say, then started for the bus exit. He stepped off and started to walk away, but the bus driver honked at him. I watched with curiosity as Military Backpack rushed to the front of the bus, grabbing his bicycle from the front rack and riding off toward the mall plaza. I chuckled to myself, updating my location once again.

Finally, the bus pulled into a large parking lot and I could see the bright red letters of the Target sign. It rolled to a stop by the curb, opening its doors. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, hauled my bag up over my shoulder, and started for the entrance.