Shalom's bus

 

“There is nothing more incongruous in the world than you and your name,” – Shalom’s ex-wife used to say to him often enough for him to remember those words even three years after she packed up her and their two daughters’ belongings and moved back to live with her parents, leaving him in a skeleton of a home, an empty house without a soul. The furniture remained, of course, nut no smells of food drifted in from the kitchen, and no child giggled behind his back as he shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. Gone were the annoying kindergarten projects made of toilet paper rolls, plastic cups and bottle tops. The plastic potty from the bathroom, over which he used to trip over least once a day, and then yell at his wife if it was full, was gone, too. A thick layer of grease grew on the hob, plastic plates built up in the bin for months, and old beer bottles sat everywhere, including under his bed. Even the pink unicorn in a tutu, which his ex-wife painted over the front door, was peeling off, too. He had left his daughter’s old winter coat hanging on the rack, because it created an impression of the kids still being there. An illusion, nothing more and nothing less. The bean plants his ex-wife had stuck into the mud by the kitchen window first attracted a swarm of flies, then dried out and crumbled to dust, and now the flower pot became a resting place for stray cats. His weekly visits with the kids did nothing to dispel his mood. The girls sat ever so nicely, with their hands in their laps, and looked up at him with meek expressions, speaking little and nodding when he spoke, as the ice cream he bought them melted all over the table and their dresses. He wished he could spend more time with them.

Indeed, Shalom’s life had nothing peaceful in it. After seven years of working as an Egged bus driver, he had very little patience for anyone or anything. His hairline was receding faster than he could keep track of, and the thought of moving his bowels filled him with daily dread of that blinding pain that felt like a dagger was being twisted in his rectum. He couldn’t fall asleep without a few puffs of what Israelis call “grass”, obtained through illegal Telegram groups. He just kept on hoping it doesn’t get worse.

Today was no different.

On the first drive of the day, from Bat Yam to Jerusalem, an older man in Chassidic garb sat right behind him, repeating incessantly into his tiny Nokia phone, “Vus? Vus?”, until Shalom lost his patience and threated him with an accident, if he doesn’t stop disturbing him. After that, the chassid continued in much the same manner, except now he was whispering, “Vus? Vus?”, trying very hard to keep his voice down. Clearly, he did not have good reception from whatever company served the Orthodox and their “kosher” phones. Shalom put on the radio, and blaring Mizrahi music filled the bus. The chassid was forced to put the phone away. The steering wheel danced in Shalom’s hands impatiently, until he drove up the ramp into the dark concrete guts of the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. On the way back, he was plagued with the smell of shawarma, which some teenagers were gulping down greedily right in the middle of the bus. Of course, once he got back to Bat Yam, he had to clean up after them, wrappers, loose cucumber pieces and stray chips that spread like the plague from where they sat. He swore as he found one of their Coke cans spilled all over the seat.

On his second run, nothing untoward happened, except a giant traffic jam on Road 1, right by Shoresh, where it becomes a steep climb. A lorry smashed into a bus, and it took paramedics hours to evacuate all the wounded. Shalom listened to some rabbi’s sermon on the religious radio, which always tended to calm the people down, answered some impatient passengers, called the office with a report… there was nothing else to do but wait and listen to more music. A pregnant woman begged to be allowed off the bus to find a bathroom, but as they were in the middle lane, he had to refuse, and then she cried and made a scene, and he gave in, then waited for her to come back. It was getting hot, so he applied the brakes and got up to take his sweater off, wishing he could smoke.

A madman in dirty clothes and shoes torn almost to nothing accosted him in Jerusalem, when he parked the bus to go for his well-deserved, but hardly sufficient break. Shaking his copper cup full of coins, he attempted to get into the door just as Shalom was opening it for himself. “Out!” – he shouted, and the man scurried away, muttering Psalms into his greyish-yellow beard.

People, with their loud voices, their smells, their questions, were so annoying, he barely restrained himself from sharp retorts or just yelling at them. Just their presence, buzzing, constant, and oppressive, made him want to pretend the bus broke down, and leave them all on the hard shoulder to wait for his replacement. Like a giant sticky animal, like a swarm of flies, they filled up his space until he could barely breathe. Jerusalem, in particular, he found intolerable, the city of fanatics in their black garbs and the bone-chilling cold, with lunatics everywhere.

Only the sea gave him respite. On Shabbat, he would walk down to the promenade in Bat Yam, ignoring the strolling crowds of Jews, Arabs, Philippinos, Russians, Ethiopians, and God only knows who else, lock his clothes and phone in a locker, and ride the waves until darkness would descend to rest onto the worried city, bringing the long-awaited cool breeze from the depth of the sea. There were no people in the vicinity when he surfed, only the Presence of something huge and aware, powerful and kind. In his mind, he called it the Presence of the Ocean, but would never even dream of sharing this with anyone.

He was really looking forward to the next weekend, especially as his old classmate invited him for birthday drinks Friday night. Dreaming about it, he urged the roaring green monstrosity up the ramp in Jerusalem yet again. The people got off, and he heaved a sigh of relief, for the next run was the last for the day.

He shifted into reverse, and looked into the mirror, getting ready to advance to the boarding terminal. Then there were screams behind him, and someone hammered on the back of the bus with their fists. He pressed the brakes button, swore and got out. First, he checked the luggage compartment – once, a puny soldier ended up travelling in there, underneath the bus, being thrown around with the baby strollers and suitcases, because he failed to notice him. Yet, it was empty. Then he walked to the back of the bus. Behind it, a teenage girl in Bnei Akiva uniform and with a huge backpack on her shoulders was holding a tiny puppy.

“Shalom,” – she said. – “Are you the driver? You almost run him over!”

“Yes,” – he said automatically. It was clumsy, beige-brown, with thick paws and short ears, and a long pink tongue was lolling out of its mouth. Shalom was too shocked to argue. Stray dogs are virtually unknown in Israel, so where did this little ball of fur come from? All his anger and frustration evaporated, leaving behind a sense of wonder and even, he could say, destiny.

Then they called out “Whose is this?” a few times into the crowds, and the girl walked into the shops nearby, sniffling and wiping her tears, but nobody claimed ownership of the puppy. “I cannot take him”, - she said. – “I am allergic to fur…” – and he saw her eyes spilling over yet again. Belatedly, he realized she was not crying, but rather having a reaction. “Can you take him? I will put up signs here…”

“I don’t think anyone lost him, they would have come back already…” – he shrugged with resignation. Then, he picked up the puppy from the girl’s hands, and looked around for a cardboard box, but found none. In the end, he tucked in his sweater, and gently lowered the puppy into the space right by his chest. He gave the girl his phone number, just in case, and returned to his seat.

If the passengers on the way back to Bat Yam were surprised to have a driver with a moving bulge of a belly, they did not show it in any way.

Shalom parked the bus, and slowly walked towards the promenade. The screams of sea gulls filled the air. Runners and bikers flowed past him, without disturbing him, as if he turned into a bank of a river made of people.

He bought a sandwich with pastrami, and shared it with the puppy, letting him run around a bit. Then, making a decision, he turned and walked slowly towards the other part of the city, where gangs of little urchins swarmed in between dilapidated greyish buildings, stealing snacks from the grocery shops and playing outside until the nights grew cold. It was pleasant to walk after eight hours of sitting in the driver’s seat, and his mood lifted. After reaching Katzenelson street, he turned left, and then right, then into a yard strewn with every kind of rubbish, from old toys and plastic cups to used heroin needles. A rusty chain that once supported a swing was creaking in the chilly autumn wind, adding a post-apocalyptic din to an already gloomy place. Avoiding the elevator with its burnt buttons and the stink of urine, he walked up to the second floor, and rang the bell.

“Have you lost your mind? You’ve dumped your kids on your wife, and now you’re dumping this poor creature on me?!” – a man in a wheelchair, bent down by age and illness, was yelling at Shalom, his voice a screech not unlike the sea gulls. The puppy squatted down on his thick, but shaky paws, and made a big puddle. “Take it away!” – the man hollered, turning red, except the bluish shadows in his sunken cheeks, covered in dense stubble.

“It’s a pity you lost your legs from your stroke, and not your screams. I really thought he would be good for you.” – Shalom retorted, but tried to control his anger. “I meant no harm, dad.”

“How could a man in a wheelchair walk a dog? As usual, you do things first, think second, or never at all. Shame of a son that I have! Loser!”

Shaking from rage, Shalom jumped outside the door, slamming it after him. It was only when he got downstairs that he realized that he did not take the puppy. Oh well… maybe it was for the best. On his way home, he called his father’s caretaker, a Moldavian man who called himself George, and explained to him in broken English about buying some dog food urgently, and perhaps a small leash. Geroge agreed to help.  

A few months later, when the first wintery rain washed off most of the trash in the streets, and the sky looked piercing blue again, dotted with gentle wisps of cotton wool clouds, Shalom took his daughters to see the puppy, whom his father named Storm. The old man was waiting for them outside, with a chequered blanket covering his legs, and a strong brown leash wrapped around his right forearm. Storm gave a perfunctory bark, then licked the girls’ palms, making them giggle. Shira gave him a hug, kissing him on his powerful neck, while Tali hung back, unsure of what to do. Shalom picked her up, and put her in her grandfather’s lap. They went for a walk, with Storm leading the way, and Shalom felt as if the Presence of the Ocean came to visit them on dry land, making life feel right for the first time since he remembered himself. A fragile stalk of hope for a change was reaching for sunlight in his heart.