The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

“Yup,” I replied, not bothering to look up at him in the rear-view. “Long trip.”

“You must get sick of driving so much, right? I mean…” his voice rose as he sat forward in his seat, leaning close to my ear. I could smell his breath, a cloud of dead fish stench wafting over my shoulder. “I mean, don’t you ever get tired of it all? Always on the road, never at home, never having the time to stop and take in the sights?”

“Sure,” I said. “But it’s a living.” I rolled an eye up to mirror. He was grinning. I grinned back, blatantly humoring him. “And I see plenty of sights, believe me.”

“You must see a lot of people, too, right? I mean, heck, lotsa people ride the bus. Lots, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Lotsa psychos like you, I thought.

He paused to peer through the windshield. “Ever had someone ride twice? Like… someone who rode the bus two years ago, and then rides back two years later? Ever seen that? Ever recognized that sort of person?” He returned his eyes to mine in the mirror.

It was as if every sentence he uttered was a question. I couldn’t tell if he had let all these dumb questions build up during the whole ride, or if he was just naturally inquisitive in his shy, slightly-paranoid way. Whichever, it was definitely irritating. “Nope,” I said apathetically. “Never happened.” It was a lie, and not a very tactful one, but I didn’t feel like getting into a conversation with The Watcher—an answer would no doubt only lead to more stupid questions. I’m a bus driver, not a friggin’ tour guide.

He leaned back in his seat—the red vinyl squeaked beneath his chubby weight. Before I took my eyes away from the mirror, I saw him cross his arms and pout and look down at the floor of the bus. And he was nodding, a large disbelieving smirk on his face. He knew I had lied.

I stepped down harder on the pedal. The guy was giving me the creeps. I did not look in the mirror again, not even when I pulled into the depot. I just parked, opened the door and exited, happy to be on my way to a bed and a drink and to not have some weirdo looking over my shoulder. But I knew he was still watching me, even as I quickly walked away from the bus. I could still feel his eyes on my back, like a heavy wet rucksack.

We’d arrived in St. Louis early, with plenty of time to spare. I had a ten a.m. trip the next morning (back to good old Denver), and while I’d normally just crash in the Holiday Inn right away, I decided to take my time about getting the room and taking a shower. And instead of hitting the sack, I hit the bar.

It was midnight—a Sunday night—which meant that the place was crowded with tourists and even locals who were there because the liquor stores were all closed for the weekend. I managed to get a table, one of those candlelit two-seaters that are meant for lovers and not lonely old bus drivers like myself. The waitress rushed me three beers, and I chugged the first one down in mere seconds. The second beer was for slurping. The third for nursing.

I was fairly tipsy by the time I noticed him. The Watcher. He was sitting at the bar with his back to me, right in front of the neon beer-bottle clock above the dangling bar glasses. At first it looked like he was giving the barkeep the same routine that he gave me on the bus—watching his every move like a curious child—but then I realized that he was actually staring at me in the mirrored wall behind the bar. Unfortunately, we made eye contact. I nodded and smiled at him—to merely affirm our acquaintance—and then diverted my attention.

And the next thing I knew, he was sitting down in the chair opposite mine. He cocked his head to one side, and just stared at me, as if expecting me to start a conversation. I pulled on my beer instead.

After a minute, he set fire to the end of a thick cigarette, and asked: “Do bus drivers often drink alcohol?”

Weird question. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink and drive, if that’s what you mean…” The liquor, I realized, had loosened my tongue. I was now trapped in yet another conversation with The Watcher.

The Watcher nodded, then smiled. “Did you know that it’s the end of Daylight Savings Time today? That we set the clocks back an hour tonight at precisely two a.m.?”

“Sure…” I lied—I had forgotten. “Of course I know. It’s part of my job.”

He wrinkled his face. “Since last call is at two, do you think that the bar will stay open an extra hour?”

I rolled my eyes. “Hell if I know,” I said, finishing off a beer. “Doubt it.”

“Me, too. And how would I know anyway? As always, I’ll be much too busy setting my clocks.”

This, I thought, is a very strange man. It was my turn to ask a few questions. To give him a taste of his own habit. “Why wait till two? Why not just set them before you go to sleep?”

His face turned serious, too serious for such lighthearted small talk: “Because, Mr. Bus Driver. Time is of the essence.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I see,” I replied awkwardly, making a mental note not to ask this weirdo any more questions.

The waitress—thank God—appeared then, and I ordered three more beers. I would have just gone to my room and had them room serviced, but that would cost too much. And what the hell? Since it was time to change the clocks back, I was due an extra hour of sleep. At least I had learned something talking with the bastard.

The Watcher ordered a tequila sunrise. He sipped it; I slammed my beer.

And then I noticed his arms—The Watcher, aptly, was wearing two watches, identical wristbands, one on each arm. At first I thought he was some sort of mooch on the make, a sidewalk salesman. The typical bus station con man. But he was too inquisitive for that—he asked too many questions. Most cons dominate a discussion; the only questions they might ask are, “Ya interested?” or, “How much you got?” Not this guy.

“Staying at the hotel here?” he asked, waving an arm at the surrounding bar.

I nodded, noticing that the watches he wore were set at different times. He couldn’t be that hung up on the time change, could he? No… he was probably wearing them because of the interstate travel, so he could know what time it was in both places. He had a weird way of keeping track of it, but that was surely the reason, I thought.

“Me, too,” he grinned. “I was lucky. This hotel had only one vacancy, and I got it. Pretty lucky, right?”

“I guess.”

“But I think it was much more than luck,” he said, sipping on his sunrise. “It was more a matter of perfect timing. I’m very punctual, you see.”

I smirked, repeating myself: “I guess.”

“In fact,” he continued, wrapped up in his own little world, “I think I would make a good bus driver, don’t you? I time everything, with the utmost precision. Just as you must, I’m sure. It wouldn’t do to be late, now would it? No… a bus must reach its destination precisely on time. Society depends on it.”

I shrugged.

“And society depends on you. Your job is very important. Certainly.” He sipped. “I envy you.”

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Now that he was actually beginning to use sentences instead of questions, his tone had changed. He sounded almost like a college professor, throwing around his notions about society and precision. Perhaps he was a scientist on vacation.

“So tell me,” he said, his eyes squinting at me. “How do you become a bus driver?”

“Well, you apply just like any other job. But you have to be lucky, too—it’s an easy job, so lots of people apply. I just happened to apply,” I said, wincing at my own words, “at the right time.”

He grinned. “Naturally. So there was a vacancy and you filled it. Perfect! Time and space, working together.” He nodded his head, and then quickly checked both of his watches. Then he glanced back at the beer bottle clock, to check its accuracy. “Well, it’s time—ha ha!—for me to run. I’ll be seeing you.”

He left, rolls of fat jiggling over his belt as he walked away. He had a bouncy spring in his step, purposeful, rushed, as if he had a mission to accomplish.

What an oddball, I thought, and returned to yet another beer. In a way, he reminded me of the man Julie had left me for two years ago. “Till death do us part” was the biggest joke of our marriage… it had only lasted two months, and Julie had already begun the affair some time before that. She blamed my job for it all—the way I was never home, always on a route—as if it were my fault. But she was a liar; she just fell into the arms of another man, I knew, because there had been a “vacancy” in her life. Too much free time on her own, I guess. She filled my absence with the body of some fat slob, and blamed me for it all. Bitch.

I was getting groggy—the drive had been a killer, and the booze wasn’t helping matters—so I downed the