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[During a break from blogging these past few months, I have focused more on writing poems and short stories, including the tale below that I submitted to a local arts magazine not too long ago. They ended up using another of my pieces, so I thought why not present it here. The timing couldn't be better. Lost and Found, while fiction, is based on an actual incident that took place fifty years ago. Copyright 2024.]
LOST AND FOUND
A Short Story
by Brooks Peters
The bus was nearly empty, and overwhelmingly hot. The air conditioner wasn’t working. Most of the windows were cracked open, but a few of them didn’t function properly and remained shut. I chose a seat in the second to last row. The window there was down and there was a hint of a breeze, something I was grateful for since the back of the bus smelled pretty awful. I looked across from me. An old lady with a baby, perhaps her grandson, sat with a handkerchief covering her nose. Two nuns had boarded and were struggling to place some items in the overhead rack. I was about to get up and help them but a sailor jumped up and got the job done.
It was late July, early afternoon. A Pointer Sisters song played nearby on a transistor radio. I gazed out my window and watched as the few remaining passengers waited to get on. The driver was stowing people’s bags into a compartment below. There was a young man standing there alone. Straw-like hair, a tank top, cut-off jeans that looked a size too small for his athletic build. He had on paint-stained construction boots without socks. I noticed the thickness of his calves, as if he’d spent his whole life hiking up hills. Suddenly he looked up at me and I quickly turned away. But not before I had a chance to see his face. It was hard-looking, kind of rough, maybe from a couple days’ stubble, or lack of sleep. I’d dealt with guys like him at school, the ones that never seem to go to class and hang out by the bleachers smoking or drinking. I hoped that he wouldn’t sit anywhere near me.
I felt restless. I’d left my friend's place outside Philadelphia earlier that morning in kind of a frenzy. He was a former cabin mate of mine from camp a few years back. He'd invited me down to Pennsylvania for a couple of weeks of fun and relaxation, and plenty of sunshine, since my activities involved helping out on the family's strawberry farm. I'd developed quite a tan and a few new muscles from all the hard work.
The family packed me up and drove to the bus depot for the trip to the Jersey Shore, but as usual we were running late. His mother always took her time putting on her face, as she put it. And his dad had trouble walking and wasn’t able to drive. It had been a nervous trip to the station. When we finally arrived, my buddy slipped something in my hand. “In case you get bored on the bus,” he said, with a wink. It was his copy of the bestseller Jaws by Peter Benchley which I had asked him about during my stay. He had inscribed it to me. I was touched and thanked him, giving him a hug. My friend's mother handed me a lunch bag with a chicken salad sandwich, a carton of apple juice, and a slice of her famous strawberry rhubarb pie. Everyone was playing his part, but I have to admit I was relieved I was going.
The gig in Cape May was a lucky break. An aunt of mine, a former actress, knew a director there, looking for someone 17 or 18 to play one of the Jets in a dinner theater staging of “West Side Story.” I couldn’t imagine how they’d pull that off. But I didn't hesitate to accept. I needed the money and a few weeks on the beach seemed ideal. I could have stayed with my Dad in Connecticut, but he was traveling so often for work, and Mom was off on one of her seasonal retreats. I looked at the novel I'd been given. Horror at a beach resort. Not very reassuring, I thought with a faint chuckle, for my trip to the Shore, but it would pass the time.
As the driver cried out, “All Aboard,” I noticed that muscular guy I'd seen earlier outside. He lazily made his way down the aisle. There were plenty of vacant seats, but he sidled right by them. Our eyes met and an odd look crossed his face. Was it a smirk? I was sure he would turn back and take one of the spots closer to the front, but he kept on coming. I turned and stared out the window. A moment later I heard the sound of his knapsack sliding into the rack above and he dropped into the seat next to mine. He hadn’t asked if it was taken, but why should he? It was obviously free.
My neck felt sore from leaning sideways toward the window, but I wasn’t about to turn around. “Smells like a sewer in here,” I heard him say. But I didn’t respond. I had noticed another smell. His sweat. Not exactly a bad odor, but it was offset by the faint residue of tobacco smoke.
The driver started the engine and we finally rolled out of the station. I clutched the book. I thought maybe I’d start reading it. But I didn’t want to encourage the guy next to me to start a conversation. I closed my eyes and thought about how long this ride was going to take.
No more than ten minutes had elapsed when I felt the guy’s leg pressing against mine. Maybe it was just the movement of the bus, but no, there was no mistake. He was deliberately pushing his knee against my leg. If I reacted, even slightly, he would think I was awake. Sweat beaded up on my neck and brow. I slowly shifted my weight to the right. I thought I heard him laugh. But he might have just been clearing his throat.
I feigned a yawn, adjusted my seat, and opened the novel: "The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail..." I had only read a few pages when I heard a strange, loud click -- a sharp snap, like something being popped open. I wanted to see what he was doing, but kept my eyes forward, rereading the lines I’d just finished. My eyes made little sense of them. Next I heard an odd scratching sound, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. I carefully looked down to my left. The guy was holding a sharp, shiny knife, the blade about three or four inches long. He was moving it back and forth across his denim shorts just above his knee.
I stopped breathing. A cold drop of sweat fell from my armpit and slid down my rib cage. I inched over, creating a gap between us. Should I pull the cord above the window and get the driver’s attention? My book fell to the floor under the seat. The dust jacket had come off partway. I leaned forward, and reached down for it. My hand was shaking. My neighbor chuckled and I heard him close the knife with a snap and slip it in his pocket. I didn’t make a sound. Although I could feel my heart pounding.
“You a big reader,” he said, after a long pause. His voice was deep, raspy. I didn’t respond. My face felt hot. My pulse raced. I stared at the country views outside. He jabbed me in the ribs with his thumb. “Hey, I asked you a question.”
I turned back abruptly, and faced him. “Maybe. What of it?”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
“So am I.” I managed to catch my breath. “Do you always play with knives on buses?”
He grinned. “I wasn’t playing. I was cleaning it. I use it sometimes in my work.”
“And what kind of work requires a switchblade?”
“Sometimes I need protection. I sell stuff -- crystals, leather goods, pipes, and jewelry. You’d be surprised how often people try to steal it. But I’m ready for ‘em.” He grinned. “Wanna see some?”
“No that’s fine. I’ve got a bit of reading to do.”
“Don’t be like that,” he said. “You got all the time later to read that dumb book. Here let me show you.” He lifted himself halfway up and reached above with his left arm for his bag. His shirt pulled up, revealing a taut, flat stomach, tan and smooth. He slid back down and opened the knapsack. Inside were tiny plastic sleeves filled with brass bangles and small glass beads, polished stones. He pulled one out containing a ring made of dull metal. Nickel or silver, I couldn’t tell which.
“You don’t look like the type to wear a ring,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but it came across as snotty. He noticed.
“It’s not for me, man. It’s for the buyers. People like you.”
“I can’t afford stuff like that,” I said. “I’m still in school. And besides I can’t wear jewelry. My fingers swell up.”
“Not a big deal,” he said, with a hoarse laugh. “It’s not all jewelry. Wait, maybe this one.” He dug into the bottom of his bag and pulled out a copper bracelet. “A lot of kids are wearing these now. It releases metals your body needs. Try it on. It’s only seven bucks.”
“That's a bit steep.”
He threw it back in his bag and shoved it under his seat. “No problem, man." After a pause, he said, "I’m on my way to Atlantic City. You going there too?”
I shook my head. “Not far from there.” He didn’t need to know my exact destination.
“Oh yeah? One of those beach towns? Stone Harbor, or maybe Wildwood? The boardwalk at Wildwood can be fun.” He punched me lightly in the ribs. “Very wild nights, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled to himself. “So where you going then?”
“I’m working at a theater company. In a dinner show. We're doing 'West Side Story.’”
He laughed, and pointed at my clothes, my khakis and short sleeve shirt. “You don’t look like the kinda kid to be in a gang. So you a dancer?”
I didn’t like the way he said the word dancer. “Not really. More of an actor. It’s a summer job.” Frankly it was none of his business. Better to change the subject. “What about you? You live in Philadelphia?”
“Nah. I’m from Chester. I’m meeting some buddies of mine at a concert near the boardwalk. Maybe sell some of my stuff. There's gonna be a couple of metal bands. You a fan?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Okay, I see.” He laughed, then combed a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “Look, I better grab some shuteye. I had a crazy night last night.” He winked, and jabbed me in the chest again. “Kinda spent, you know what I mean?” He spread his legs wide and leaned back. His thigh pressed up hard against mine again. This time I didn’t slide over even though I could feel the handle of his switchblade rubbing against my thigh.
After a few minutes, I dug out the bag of sandwiches and opened it quietly so as not to awaken my neighbor. I was about to open the carton of juice when the driver made a sharp swing to pass a car and jerked the bus hard to the left. My head fell over onto the guy’s shoulder. It was exposed due to his tank top. His skin felt hot and slightly damp. I immediately pulled back. He seemed to be asleep but when the bus straightened itself, he moved closer to me and now leaned his head onto my shoulder. I felt pinned to the wall. My right cheek was practically flat against the window. But if I pushed him away, I thought, he might get stirred up. I let him stay there. I was too tired to make a scene. The hum of the bus created a relaxing rhythm. I opened the novel and read a few more chapters. Gradually I nodded off too.
It must have been about forty minutes later when I woke with a start as we lurched into a large city station. I looked to my left. The seat next to mine was empty. I checked the aisle. Passengers were getting off. I could just make out the pair of nuns and the sailor disembarking. The old lady with the kid had disappeared. The driver cried out: “Last call for Atlantic City. Next stop Ocean City.”
I studied the crowd by the bus getting their things. The blond was there, his knapsack on his back, clutching his duffel bag under his right arm. He saw me then raised his left arm and made a gesture. It wasn’t a wave. He was pointing at me, or something next to me. I couldn’t grasp what he meant. He smiled, pointed again, his voice rising. “On the seat! Next to you!”
I glanced over, looking for one of his bags, thinking he’d left it behind. I didn’t notice anything. But then in the corner of the seat something caught the light, one of his pieces of jewelry. I reached down and tried to grab it. But to my surprise it was attached to the cushion. I swung around, looking for the guy to tell him that I found it. But he was gone.
The bus roared into gear and we began to move. I turned back to his seat, unfastened the pin and held it in my hand. It was my turn to chuckle. My traveling companion had left me a souvenir — a swirl of rhinestones in the shape of a question mark.
* * * * *
