Bus 1031

I do not remember how I came to the bus stop, or even when I arrived. All I knew was one minute I was at my friend’s house and the next I was standing alone by a sign listing the weekly bus route schedule. I glanced left, then right—darkness. The lanes were completely vacated of streaming life. Even the solitary streetlamp that stood by the bus stop was dim. I decided to remain there, silently waiting for my ride home.

The bus would come soon, presuming it still ran at this time of night, but I was not entirely sure. I had only been out late a few times before with my studies and all. Come to think of it, I did not even know what time it was. I looked over at the faintly-lit digital clock above the sign with the bus schedules: 23:55. 11:55 pm. Funny, it did not seem close to the witching hour. What a night to be alone, in England no less, after the party I had just been to. Everyone I had met recently was there including several of my classmates from the Psych department. I’m glad I had thrown together a costume at some “fancy dress” shop in town. It showed off my creative side as the token American at the party.  

“So, who are you supposed to be Ezra?” Erica had asked me. She was my closest friend studying Psych along with me in our second year at Uni and was originally from Devon. Erica was dressed in a costume with a split personality—one half bright, fluffy white angel and one half scary, seductive red devil.

“I’m Hermes!” I told her. “You know, Greek messenger of the gods, psychopomp to the dead, son of Zeus?” I showed her my toga lined with the familiar bronze wave, the make-shift Caduceus I toted entwined with a rubber snake, the plastic knight’s helmet with two white paper wings taped on either side and the same fragile specimens stapled to my sneakers. “He was blue and wore sunglasses in Disney’s Hercules?”

“Right, I remember that film. That’s a bloody good get-up!” And she went on to talk about our upcoming paper due next week before circling around the room to join some of her girlfriends.

Scott and Trevor had struck up a conversation with me too. They were friends of my three flat mates who lived off campus like me. Both loved everything about football. It had taken me some time to learn about the local leagues since I had come to the UK for my year abroad. Everything here was so much more different than I had imagined, even the town I was living in was a far cry from my small beach community back in the States. A few others had joined in to discuss their favorite teams: it came down to whether they preferred Liverpool, Newcastle United or Manchester United. I had to constantly remind myself that British football and “American” football were two completely different animals. I had been drinking more than usual when suddenly I started staring. I kept staring past my friends and everybody talking around me. I felt light-headed, faint and slightly remembered falling, opening my mouth to say something as others gathered around me and then… I was there at the bus stop. Someone must have helped me here, dropped me off, then left. I thought I could never get this drunk before, I usually was more careful. Could be something in the air tonight, it was Halloween after all.

I wondered when the bus would arrive. Surprisingly, it was not too cold outside given the time of year. Fingering my toga, I realized I had left my winter coat back at Stephen’s house, probably still on the coat rack next to the front door where I had left it. I found it odd that I had left it behind and was standing outside only in my toga, helmet, pants and sneakers. Normally I did not forget something like my coat. Someone must have pushed me out the door in such a hurry to get me to the bus on time, but why didn’t anyone come with me? 

The road ahead brightened. Out of the gloom that stretched along the street, two solitary lights approached. Relief. Thank God the bus still ran tonight! I was so ready to get back home.

The vehicle plodded along the road as if it was taking its time getting to my bus stop. As it came nearer, I realized it was not my normal bus that took me to and from the campus and the city center where I lived. This was an alternate bus I had not seen before. Bus 1031 to be exact, peering at its glowing numbers from the top deck. I could not tell why exactly, but I was drawn like a moth to the creeping thing coming towards me that was full of people, probably coming back from parties like me. In the distance, the cathedral bells of St Dunstan’s started toiling the late hour. By the time the bus had rambled in front of me, it had reached midnight.   

The old double decker groaned, hissed, and shot open its doors. It was like an old man on his last stretch of life, stubborn enough to keep on going. I entered on the left side and the driver nodded in greeting. He was a rather pale-skinned fellow with sickly yellow eyes and a body as skinny as a stick, like a few people here in England who did not like to bake in the sun too long. When I reached for my wallet to retrieve my bus pass, he waved me aside and signaled for me to step forward.

“It’s on the house, young chap,” he said.

Trying to find my student ID, which I had misplaced as well, I found a whole busload of people taking note of me. They all paused in mid-conversation and a few heads popped over the tops of their seats to get a good look at me. They were all wearing the most elaborate costumes I had ever seen. I picked out several Victorian couples along with some women balancing powdered wigs on their heads and were confined in poufy brocaded dresses that stuck out of the aisles. Some wore nothing but long, white nighties while others sported pajamas covered in black cats, ghosts and pumpkins. Even though I had been in this country for some time, I felt out of place amongst this crowd of revelers. Even in my Hermes costume.

A Tudor man in a feathered cap whispered to a 1950s air stewardess while a couple of old biddies in shawls giggled coquettishly. As the bottom deck was full, I proceeded up the twisting narrow staircase. On the top deck, there were a few seats remaining in the back and the people here also stopped and looked at me as well. From the soldiers dragged out of No Man’s Land having a word with the RAF pilots, to the Gibson Girls gossiping with their dapper men, to the 80s skinheads making out with well-dressed teens from the 50s, everyone was gawking. The hippies also halted in mid-debate with gentlefolk fresh out of a Jane Austen novel. In the last row, a group of young street urchins eyed me nervously. I sat down on an empty seat on the left side of the aisle, fourth row from the back. The flow of conversations began again.

Then a rather hearty gentleman from the seat behind patted me on my back and asked, “You alright, mate?” Turning around, I noticed he had on a simple white cotton shirt, suspenders and a brown-trousered leg poking out into the aisle. An early 20th century working-class man.

“Yes, thank you,” I heard myself say. “Enjoying your night?”

“Yes, and still am lad, still am. In fact, all of us ‘r, but you probably knew that already.” I looked puzzled as he shouted down the aisle. “Hey lads and lasses, we got r’selves an American here!” And everyone greeted me each in their turn.

“How do you do?” “Jolly good!” “Pleased to make your acquaintance!” “Funny thing, a Yank in England!” “Lovely evening it is, sir!” “Blessed Hallowstide to ye young Master, God be willing!”  “We are so honored!”

“You must have met dozens of Americans before; it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise,” I said.

“Nonsense,” answered a stout Tudor man in his finery. “Tis but a rare occasion to beare witness to those who have traversed over the seas from the New World, be it All Hallow’s Evening or no All Hallow’s Evening in faire England.”

“Where are you off to, kind sir?” asked an eighteenth-century woman wrapped in a shoulder shawl. She had taken out her fan and proceeded to attract my attention, waving it beguilingly.

“I’m just going back home from a party I was at.”

“So are we!” “And us!” “Me too!” All around the soldiers, the knights and the waifs on the top deck chimed in. “We’re all going back home now. We just have to make a few quick stops along the way.”

“You are clothed in the likeness of Hermes the Roman Mercury, are you not?” asked an eighteenth-century gentleman holding up a monocle to his painted white face.

“Yes, I am.” I was stunned anyone knew who I was.

“I recall learning how to paint the Greco-Roman gods of antiquity in my youth. My headmaster was such a nuisance, he would even give my hands a good thrashing with a switch whenever I took too long to finish a single stroke.”

“Those art tutors were the worse,” his companion concurred, waving her fan towards me again. “Even my governess, who was supposed to have been trained by the masters in London, was just abominable, absolutely abominable! The poor dear could not tell the difference between a Turner or a Gainsborough to save her life, bless her!”

“Man, you can’t blame them, they was just doing their thing like we all were, doing our thing. You know, keeping it real, you dig?”, a mop-top young teen in a 1960s pin-striped suit and purple glasses extolled. “It’s all about peace, man.”

“Well, tis a blessing upon thee all to have had the great fortune to take part in such a luxury as dyeing and applying paints. My profession dictated that I spun wool for my living,” a rather rotund woman in a large white head veil and long woolen blue skirts said. “And that was far before thy time on this earth as God is my witness.”

The 50s and 90s teens rolled their eyes, along with people fresh from the 70s and 80s. “Everything was far beyond your time, far out really,” and they all started laughing together.

“Hav’ you taken the 1031 before? Don’t seem to know your face,” the man in the cotton shirt and suspenders asked me.

“This is my first time; do you know if it goes to the city center?”

“That it does, lad. But you won’t be needing to go there just yet.”

“Why is that?” my words stumbled out.

“Well, you’re going to the same place as we all are, right? So no need. The night is almost over. Time for us to be getting back home to bed.”

“But I want to go…”

“Hush, child, you’re making such a terrible racket,” said an old Victorian widow in her long, black mourning veils. “You’ll be quite alright. We shall look after you. There’s a good boy.”

The bus stopped and I stood up ready to go but the man in the suspenders calmly kept me in my seat.

“Don’t worry, lad. I’ll see you safely back home; I swear it.”

“Thanks.” I was starting to get nervous. I did not know what everyone was talking about. Where were we all going to? And why now couldn’t I remember much about the party and my friends from a short while ago? Was this what a hangover felt like?  

Bus 1031 jolted forward and this time we were joined by a squadron of redcoats who found a seat upstairs, halfway down from where I was sitting.

“Better not let them knows you’re a Yank, mate. They may bayonet you for sure.” The man in the suspenders said. I gulped and looked at him wide-eyed. He started chuckling. “Just taking the mickey out of ye, lad!” and he slapped my back again. “They won’t cause you any ‘arm!” and he laughed his hearty laugh that shook over every inch of his being.

We traveled through the silent dark streets of the city. Some of the roads and lanes we passed looked familiar and I soon realized that we were going on a more circuitous route, seemingly going around the city center and not towards it. But I was not completely sure. In fact, I was not worried at all after a time. I was shocked to find at one point that I had stopped worrying altogether with everyone constantly reassuring me that everything would be alright.

“So, what did you do while you were here?” asked a few of the women from the Regency and Victorian periods. The redcoats turned their heads, all smiles, towards me.

“I’m studying Psychology at the university,” I said. “It has one of the best departments in the UK. I also wanted to see England as some of my ancestors came from here. They even lived here in this city. I was accepted into my program for the school year and plan on going back to the States next Summer.”

Some of the passengers fell silent, as if they wanted to say something but shook it away.

“You have been very fortunate, young man, to have sojourned in our faire country for such a brief time. What have you delighted in the most?” inquired an Elizabethan woman with a large white ruff around her neck sitting next to a medieval Maid Marian.

“I have been on a few trips to some of the towns and villages around Warwickshire. I like listening to all of the people and especially visiting the historic churches and pubs. With my English Heritage student membership I’ve also seen a couple of manor homes and castles like the famous ones in Kenilworth and Warwick. It’s been quite fascinating living here in England, I love it!”

“Bravo old chap, I say, bravo!” hurrahed a tall man in a red hunting shirt and black helmet. He looked like had a taken a beating from his last fox hunt with a big scar across his pristine face.

“I look forward to seeing more while I’m still here!” And everyone then stopped and stared at me again. Almost in disbelief this time. 

“Of course you do lad, of course you do,” returned the man with the suspenders, waving everyone aside. “I’m sure you do.”

Bus 1031 came to a halt and then continued on. It seemed near to capacity as we acquired more people along the way. Several more stops going by in this fashion with no one getting off and too many people crowding the center aisle. We were all riding together heading for the same destination that everyone knew about but me.

“Look there!” someone shouted, and we all turned our gaze towards the left side of the bus. All I could make out was a tall fence that wrapped around what seemed like an immensely, large open field. Except for the lights that floated around everywhere. They were mainly in groups and clusters and moved about as if they possessed minds of their own. I thought maybe there was some kind of paranormal investigation underway with everyone toting flashlights around a haunted place I did not about. Or maybe it was a group of modern-day witches celebrating Samhain to remember their departed loved ones. Awfully late to be doing so though.

Bus 1031 slowed and finally stopped outside what looked like the entrance to this field. A stately gateway made of wrought iron stood in front of us. The bus driver’s microphone soon echoed throughout the top and bottom decks of the bus. His voice matched the grim countenance I had seen before. “Good Evening Everyone, this terminates our route. Everybody off! Hope you had a pleasant All Hallows Eve. Thank you for riding the 1031. Until next year, farewell!”

We all stood up in one massive clump. Without bumping into each other, we all walked single file down the aisle, taking the twisting steps down to the first floor and stepped outside into the cool night air. I was led by the man in suspenders yet felt compelled at the same time to follow him, as if it were my choice in the matter. When I turned back to thank the driver, the bus had already vanished.

The gate opened wide before us. To my amazement, I saw the lights were not lights at all. They were people. A large assortment of people. Glowing people. And they were shouting, cavorting, jigging and waltzing together as we all rushed in and scattered ourselves among the stones protruding out of the earth. I had found myself in the city’s most prominent cemetery.

Wow! I had never imagined I would be in a cemetery on Halloween night or on any night of the year for that matter. What luck! It was just like being in a movie or watching the animatronic specters in the graveyard of The Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland. But why was I here? Why didn’t I let the 1031 take me back to the bus stop on the street where my flat was? 

“Well, see you later, lad!” the man in the suspenders shouted back to me as he joined some of his mates huddled around a group of gravestones. They toasted his arrival. Everyone was smiling, moving about, leaning on tall obelisks, sipping tea on the tops of grave stones and having a grand old time, similar to how the Mexican Day of the Dead was described to me in my high school Spanish classes. This party sure beat anything I had ever seen! And yet, what about the party I had just come from? Why couldn’t I remember how long I had stayed there, or whom I had even talked with? I had the sudden sinking feeling that there was something I should be remembering.

As I walked along the dirt and pebble-strewn path, past three marbleized Graces and a group of lively grey school children in uniform playing “Ring Around the Rosie”, more of the party came back to me. My stomach caved in and I bent forward, almost slumping over on the ground. I found my bearing and stood up again. Something was in the cookies. Yes, there was something in the cookies I had eaten a few hours ago that did not sit well. And then I remembered.

My head spinning. My throat closing up. The compulsive shaking of my body. Itching all over. Falling down. Gasping for breath.

“Nuts!” I had shouted. “The cookies…have…nuts!” Why did I eat them? So stupid of me. I knew I had an allergy but I guess I wasn’t being too careful. Had too much to drink. I bent over clutching my stomach and tried to throw up. But nothing came out. I felt hollow inside and out. And I couldn’t find my Epi-Pen anywhere.  

“No, that can’t be! That didn’t happen! I’m not…”

But I could not finish the sentence. I started crying and slunk to the ground. A few of the spirited partygoers approached me and stood in a circle around me. Everyone was talking at once. Amidst worried whispers, one voice rose above the rest. “Let me through, I know him.”

I looked up through my tears to see the kindly face of an older woman. She looked familiar, as if she had stepped out of a photograph from my maternal grandparents’ house.

“Let me handle this everyone. I’ll take him from here. Come along, Ezra.”

Reaching out a veined hand, she helped me back up. Gently taking my arm in hers, we strolled through the still crowded land of the dead.

“How do you know my name?” I asked her.

“Because we are of the same lineage, Ezra. I’m Sarah Browning, your VERY great-grandmother.”

My jaw dropped.

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances. But we will not worry about that now, dear. Please don’t dottle, I want you to meet your kin.”

I followed Sarah all the way back to a plot near one of the far-flung corners of this immense necropolis. She pointed to the stones that rose out of the earth. 

“I want to welcome you to your family’s resting place, the family that originally came from here I mean. We were all brought up in this city, called the Midlands our home. I even remember riding my father’s horse and buggy along the unpaved dirt streets on market day. My sister and brother-in-law, dear Bonnie and Malcom, left for Canada and eventually made their way to the States after the War of 1812. Oh, they wrote to us often, from burgeoning cities with names like New York, Chicago and Los Angeles, but after a time I knew I would not see them again: in this lifetime at least. But I never imagined we would meet one of our own back here again.” She turned to face the stones. “It’s alright everyone, come out and meet our Ezra!”

In one breath, the plot filled up with the rest of my late family lighting up the dull headstones below which their bodies reposed. Everyone embraced me, acting just as warm and friendly as they must have been when they were alive. I could not believe I was with them, in the flesh so to speak, and they were equally thrilled about seeing me for the first time. Yet somehow they all seemed to know me. Perhaps the dead knew far more about life than even the living.   

Then I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Thunk thunk. My heart felt like it was exploding, trying to rip itself out of my ribs and through my flesh. Thunk thunk.

My family all turned to Sarah. She nodded her head and addressed them solemnly. “It’s not his time yet, I suppose. We must bid him goodbye. So long my dear boy, till we meet again.”

The family reunion was over. The whole plot blew out like a massive candle. With another thunk, thunk, I fell through a gaping hole in the earth and landed on a bed convulsing forward.

“Clear!” And I was awake. “It’s alright doctor, the patient’s back.”

A curtain portioned me off from the rest of the room I was lying in. I heard the beep-beeping of machines, smelled sickness in the air. Was I still dead? Or in Limbo? My mind could not grasp what was happening. And I was the Psych major.

“Where am I?”

“You’re at St. Michael’s Street Hospital, young man,” a middle-aged nurse said beside me. “Ezra Collins, right? You’re from the States, studying at Uni here, yes? You just suffered from a severe allergic reaction from ingesting walnuts and went into anaphylactic shock. Your friends phoned the emergency services and you were taken here straight away, given a dose of epinephrine, and then you came to. We thought we had lost you, love. Just keeping you here over night, that’s all, protocol and all. You’ll be out and about soon enough.”

I looked down and saw I was dressed in blue scrubs with a warm blanket over me. My Hermes robe was neatly folded on a nearby bedtable.

“Are my friends outside? What time is it?”

“Yes, they’re outside waiting to hear about you. A girl and a couple of chaps sat with her. It’s almost one in the morning. I’ll go get them for you in a bit. Best rest now, love.”

My head fell back onto the pillow as I heard a few familiar voices whispering to me.

“Fare thee well, young man!” “It was a pleasure meeting you, good sir!” “Take care, lad!” “See ya, Yank!” “Happy Hallowe’en, mate!” “Try to be careful next time, dear!”

The last came from Sarah. I knew that she was sitting unseen in the chair by my bed, watching over me. Her presence had a calming effect. Soon I felt the heavy weight of sleep overtake me. As she stood up to leave, I mouthed my “thanks” to her and slumped back.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she said and then was gone.

As I drifted off, I knew I would see her again someday. One distant late-night hour in the future on All Hallows Eve I would meet her, in this city no doubt. The night would be dark with a waning moon visible in the sky. I would be standing by a bus stop, back here in my ancestral England, waiting for the 1031 to arrive and take us both away to join the rest of my departed family for eternity.

And it would not be because I had eaten nuts by accident at some party. That, if I could help it, I would make quite certain of.