Bus gods

Buses in Casablanca have a strange, mythological aspect to them. With no fixed schedule, they come and go as they please, indifferent to your wishes and prayers. Like cold, bored gods, their only entertainment is your torment.  

As you’ve finished your ten-hour shift, you join the rest of the faceless people on the bus stop, find an adequate looking wall to lean on, and pray to the cruel bus gods. I’m tired, I’d like to go home. Would you please have a working AC today? Could I please have a square meter for myself and my very tired feet?

But the sun is blazing and the gods are laughing at your misery.

A few buses pull by and away, but none of them have the magic number you’re looking for. The adequate wall you were leaning on was, in fact, not as adequate as you first thought, judging by the paint marks left on the back of your sweaty shirt. You groan in disgust, and the bus gods raise their cups with a thundering laugh, enjoying the show.

Half an hour comes and goes, then an hour, and in the distance, you watch the 107 bus coming at full speed. Finally, an end to all suffering. You think about finally arriving home, collapsing on your bed with your work clothes on and immediately drifting to a dreamless sleep. The thought brings you peace. You prepare the change in your left hand as you join the queue already forming, then you groan as the fat lady behind you decides that queues are social constructs, and ungently pushes you out of the way to take your spot. You’re too tired to say anything. But it’s all okay. The 107 is finally here. Now you can rest. The gods aren’t as cruel as you thought.

But strange thing, the 107 is not decelerating. Quite the opposite in fact. You watch in dazed surprise as a gush of wind blows on your face, and the 107 is gone.

The faceless people sharing your misery are shouting insults at the driver, a couple of brave souls are chasing the bus, but it’s no use. You don’t bargain with the bus gods.

As you’re standing there behind the fat lady, contemplating your life choices, you hear a booming laugh. A shirtless man is passing by, half-jogging. His hair, a long brown mess, is cascading over his broad shoulders. He is wearing ragged shorts, torn on the knees, and you can hear the faint sound of drums and an electric guitar coming from the huge set of headphones he had on his ears. His clear blue eyes have this strange, mad expression on them. You look at him, half scared and half intrigued, and the image that comes to mind is that of an angry ocean. He points at you and laughs harder. The fat lady mumbles something under her breath.

This goes on for a little while, the shirtless man evidently having a wonderful time, and then he jogs away into the setting sun, leaving you to marinate on your misery, at the mercy of the indifferent gods.

You go back to your stupor. The heat of the day is slowly dissipating as the stars come out. You search your brain for pleasant memories to hold on to. Staying up late playing cards with your cousins as a kid. You think briefly of them and realize you haven’t talked to them in more than a decade. You think to yourself: When did I get so old?

And just then, when you’re least expecting it, the 107 appears in a puff of smoke, like a summoned genie. It stops, and the crowd goes wild. The fat lady is now on the front of the “queue”. The spectacle looks like a free for all on a wrestling event. You patiently wait at the end of the line, and absurdly, you think of the shirtless man.

Once on the bus, you have just enough space to lean on the door without touching anyone around you. The sudden heat reminds you that humans are powerful energy sources, and the AC cannot possibly compete with them. You struggle to breathe.

Amidst this spectacle of sweat and tears, you vaguely hear someone on the back shouting. They are in urgent need, and only you can save them. Their wife is pregnant with triplets. Their mother has diabetes and insulin is not cheap. Their father needs a heart surgery that they can’t afford. Their brother has lost their mind and is running on the streets screaming and laughing at honest hardworking people. And so on.

It’s not the best half-hour of your life. But all things must come to an end. Eventually, as the bus reaches your stop, you eject yourself from the pile of bodies and exit it slowly, too tired to feel relief. You hear the gods saying “See you tomorrow.”

The bus suddenly drives away, leaving you inhaling their smoke.

You pause for a minute, eyes half closed. The sky is a gorgeous shade of blue and pale orange. You look at it, then at your clothes, ruined by sweat and humidity. You’ll need to do laundry before you go to sleep, you think to yourself. You’re out of laundry detergent, so you’ll have to make a run to the supermarket. But you have no money on you. First, a stop to the ATM then. The one close to the supermarket isn’t working, but you know there is another one a couple of blocks away. It’s an ATM from a different bank of course, so you’ll need to pay a fee for that. And the supermarket is going to be packed. Will the AC be working?

You stare at the sky, then you take a seat on the bench. You feel, oh, so very tired.

You stay like that for a little while, and eventually, gather enough strength to sigh loudly, but not enough to get back on your feet.

And in the horizon, suddenly, the sounds of an electric guitar preaching the end of the worlds, accompanied by a shadow, coming at you at an alarmingly fast pace.

The shirtless man stops to take a look at you, all pathetic like on your little bench, points his index finger at you and laughs and laughs.

You think about showing him your middle finger, but you’re too tired. Besides, you do kind of see his point. He winks at you and continues his journey, chasing the setting sun.

“Tomorrow, I’m walking”. You think to yourself.