Dear Mr. Bus Driver Man:

Let me preface this by saying that you’re probably a really great guy. You probably have two and a half very nice blonde children, go to church every Sunday without your wife having to ask, and give to a number of respectable local charities.  None of this is particularly relevant to me right now, however, because your 4F bus was supposed to stop at the corner of Franklin and Lyndale at 9:30 p.m. on Tuesday night, and it didn’t.

In an exercise of self-restraint, I am going to refrain from cursing at you. When I curse it usually comes across as absurd and and a little off-putting, like a squirrel in a top hat performing an exorcism, and that’s not what I’m going for here. I’m going to try to convey to you the sincere disappointment I felt as you zoomed right past my bus stop, leaving me atop a snow mound, sad and confused. This one singular event in your life and mine, despite all your best attempts to be a good person, has forever sullied my opinion of you as a human being.

The 115 dropped me off fifteen minutes before you were scheduled to arrive.  I’m not wrong here. I checked Metro Transit. There I stood, the cold seeping through my jeans and stinging my thighs with needle pricks that would eventually render them numb. It was fudging cold. Your shining beacon rounded the bend so I gathered myself and mentally prepared to bid a not-so-fond adieu to the cold.  Your bus looked so welcoming. Warm, bright, happy. The ten to twelve people already on the bus were passing around bottles of champagne, pulling party poppers, dancing the Charleston in the bend of the bus. Two people were making out in the back. Britney Spears was celebrating the release of her new single by holding herself against pretty much everybody on the bus, including you, and somebody was passing out free advance copies of the new Clive Cussler book, after which there would likely have been a group reading. Oh, to have been a part of that reading. I really wanted to be on that bus. I know that sounds kind of like I’m just using you, but, well, you’re a bus driver.

Was it the way I was dressed? I mean, I know I was just in jeans and a zip up hoodie and you guys were throwing the gala of the century, but all I wanted to do was get to Galactic Pizza and enjoy some garlic bread. Is that not hip enough for you? You were a frozen Leo DiCaprio to my helpless Kate Winslet, and I had to let you go and watch you drift down into the cold depths of the Atlantic ocean of my hopes and dreams. “I’ll never let go!” I cried, reaching a frozen hand out as you left me. Alas, I had no distress whistle. I immediately considered sitting outside Rudolph’s across the street begging for scraps of rib meat for sustenance, but I realized quickly that just because you apparently did not want me, it does not mean I am not a worthy person. Some bus drivers would kill to have me on their bus. You can leave me, but you cannot break my spirit.

But the next one was in another fifteen minutes, and I was so motherlovin’ cold I thought I might collapse. Lucky for you, Mr. Bus Driver Man, I have friends. Or, at least, a friend I could call for a ride. I would not cry. I would not shed a tear, even though you left me so unceremoniously. As I watched your tail lights leave my field of vision, I felt like my soul was trailing along behind you, tied to the back bumper and stretching out from my chest, on the brink of snapping. I might never be whole again.

What I’m trying to say is, it was totally uncool of you not to make your scheduled stop, and it was super inconvenient for about half an hour. Come on, dude.

Sincerely,

Katie Sue Sisneros