The tie he is wearing, he the tired bald bus driver, is green striped, like some sort of Saint Patrick’s Day attire. I go forth, dodging a trodden twisty packet on the way, to recite my excuse. I wouldn’t know if he is Irish or not because all he can muster is a shrug of the shoulder.
I haven’t been on this bus in three years, I think.
Schoolgirls board after school sport, stuffing their slender figures with handfuls of sugar-coated fat. One has a killer-python hanging out of a braced smile. It was here, in the warmest pocket of this very bus, I counted the world’s calories.
Over the road a woman is on her phone. Her mouth is moving while she operates a hose. Her gardenias shiver as the southerly bay breeze pats their wet petals freezing.
The bus driver in the green striped tie is watching the lady too. I wonder what he is thinking about and if he watches the lady watering her gardenias often.
A schoolboy leaps on board and lands perfectly on the twisty packet as if this was something he was aiming for. He advances without acknowledging the bus driver or the ticket screen. His schoolbag on his back, unaligned and open like that, unnerves me. The doors close behind him, our bus pulls away from the curb and I am left wondering if the boy hadn’t appeared, would we still be there.
From here the bus driver’s tie looks to be the green stripes of high school colours, something donated by a Mum to an opportunity shop and picked up by a tired, bald bus driver.
I see a red letterbox, a green gate, and a not-nice-yellow sports car under the control of someone too old for it. I see a mother walking aimlessly with a new baby. I see two boys sipping on Slurpees –one wears the expression of slurping too quickly. The boys pass a lazy dog lounging on a bed of white pansies.
There is an unmistakable aroma of deep-fried hot potato. I recall our arguing after school: Chicken salt or no chicken salt? Who cares! I did, so much so that I’d be the one putting in an extra silver platypus for our chips to be coated in the yellow dust. I look over my shoulder to where a boy is weaseling his finger into the crevice of grease-seeped butcher’s paper.
Nearing my stop I notice the world has dimmed and the fluorescents of our bus have lit up. I am late and, I recognise, a little drunk. An elderly woman clutching to a shopping trolley, the bus driver in the green striped tie, and myself are all that are left. Standing up I take in the houses lit, the full driveways, and the nature strips dotted with yellow lids. And I remember I must later take out the recycling.
I thank the bus driver in the green-striped tie and wonder how many yellow lids will be out when he does this again in an hour.
There are one hundred and twenty-eight paved squares from here to my front door, at square number seventy-eight the schoolgirl in front of me peels off home and I am left to do the rest on my own. It is a Tuesday in October. I recall, when at my thinnest, dropping wholemeal vegemite scrolls and muesli bars in her family’s wheelie bin.
I told them, my parents, I didn’t care what we had for dinner tonight though I planted the seed of barbequed fish and a lentil salad now that mangoes are in season. I know this will be on the table because Mum will scour shorelines for abalone if I tell her I feel like it. Taking the corner where the letterbox stands, I can’t help but notice the plainness of our home after all the other echoed Californian bungalows. Piles of leftover tiles on the front lawn remind me to esteem my parent’s new roof.
Bonnie, the brindle Staffy, and the smell of meat charring on a dirty-on-purpose grill meet me at the gate. This family values dinnertimes, perhaps too much, where if you are home you are obliged to sit at the set table, screens away, and engage. It is our ritual, our relaxation. I would routinely hear, “what should we do for dinner?”, over the first pot of coffee percolating on the stove.
Tonight I can see flames spilling out the chimney because ambiance in spring is what we were raised with. The hose is flowing, it’s seven-fifteen and I can hear the dishwasher being unpacked only so it can be reloaded immediately after. I am smiling because still with only two people left there is no shortage of dishes. I can almost guarantee the first thing Mum will ask me, assuming I have a lighter, is if I can light the candles. The second will be if I’d like a wine.
This Californian bungalow is a clannish candlelit commotion.
I pull the latch that strangers struggle with, even my partner of now three years, and watch out for dog shit. I stop when I see the yellow lid not yet on the nature strip. I think of the tired old bus driver, already probably back to where he got me from, how I’m grateful he dropped me here just now, how I am relieved to be eager for dinner and even more so to be fine with the fullness that comes after.
Yellow Days 