When The Wild Comes

A Dusty Little Fairy Tale

Dust To Dust by eMMe

What would I tell a freshly born self, well before life tattooed tire tracks into their soil?

When the wild appears in front of your sparkly white sneakers, respect those mad adaptive skills for their tenacity and brilliance.

Could knowing that impact the depth of tire tracks or how long they last?

One can wonder.

In the distance, a grumbling pinkish cloud surrounding a ramshackle school bus edges closer before slamming to a stop inches from my white sneakers. Dusty streamers shudder from the handlebars of a Big Wheel trike stuck to the hood. Two wide, thick straps strung from the front grill disappear beneath it, likely ensuring the bottom of the bus remains connected to the top. As it idle-groans loudly, I note the straps shake violently, as if connected to a vibrational source similar to those “fat-burning” machines from the 1960s.

The door shrieks open. A squat older person with a wild bush of grey-black hair is in the driver’s seat, their brown arm stretched to accommodate a lever that had been used to shove open the door. The inky black eyes that unwaveringly stare direct into mine perch above a broad, smashed nose. Beneath that, a still-lit, stubby-end of a cigar protrudes from their mouth. Smoke seeps out either side when they speak slowly, as though pronouncing I am as thick as the red dust coating the school bus.

“Well? …. Getter in, already.”

Gesturing to the bus, I reply with an obvious observation, though my mind is filled with a long list of questions anxiously needing answers.

“That thing doesn’t look safe.”

Teeth clamped tightly on the cigar, their voice came out a surly, gravelly whisper.

“Ahhh ….that’s right, yer the whinger.…”

I sense hilarity in the tone as though a laugh track plays to an audience I cannot see. Since the bus driver doesn’t seem to be expecting me to respond, I don’t. Instead, I searched my brain for the definition of “whinger,” eventually arriving at the Aussie version of “whiner.” The bus driver growls over my silent stream of offended thoughts.

“….Well? Whatcha gonna do? Sit out ‘ere all day? We got places tah go.”

I take in the length of the bus, shadowy movement in the windows clarifying it isn’t only me the driver would haul to unnamed places. The sun relentlessly bears down on a deeply ribbed track of compressed dust play-acting as a road. In all directions, a forlorn landscape is empty of people and probably full of snakes and other scary and bitey things. Over the preceding few minutes, my rubber-toed sneakers had gone from sparkly white, to rosy-orange. An accumulating load of red grit between my nose hairs and teeth now makes it difficult to breathe and swallow.

How the hell did I get here?

An Uh-Oh Trail by eMMe

The driver splits a grin on either side of the cigar as though enjoying I am reaching the awareness there is no other option.

Trepidatiously, my right foot tests the first step of the vibrating pile of junk. Swiftly, the left foot rockets up to the next level when my nervous system realizes one foot on and one off will end with me landing on the dirt road. I worry about slamming into the driver as they reclaim the lever with me half-in and the door hits my bum. I somehow manage to get by without learning what it feels like to have a slimy, lit cigar smash into my face. The bus driver cackles as they grind through gears until the bus lurches forward. Sway-crashing side-to-side to an empty seat, I can’t imagine what wild thing will happen next.

The bus makes crunching, gasping thumps careening over a road that isn’t a road, more a suggested trail someone etched out on a cocktail napkin after too many shots of tequila. Aware there’s no way of looking over my shoulder without other passengers noticing, I give up acting as a person should in a normal situation and boldly turn around. Several young children are scattered throughout the bus—one holding a pillow and sucking a thumb, another with a trunk of a stuffed elephant in their mouth and staring soberly at me without an expression. A kindergarten-aged girl with what has to be a painful ponytail, bounces in their seat high enough I suspect they are on a yoga ball. Toward the back, a blonde kid in a pink tutu eats the frosting off a cupcake with a finger tip, stopping mid-lick to wave shyly. I flutter a few fingers in response. A somber boy wearing a dark tailored suit jacket and matching shorts, coupled with a crisp white shirt and tie, intently watches me from a nearby seat. There’s an older girl, maybe ten or twelve, with a flamboyant mixture of hair color, sticking her tongue out. I assume it’s me she’s aiming for when she winks.

The rest of the passengers rush by in a glancing blur as a massive heave of the bus shoves me hard up and back into my seat to resume facing forward. Rubbing my neck, my attention moves to the bus driver. They have a terrifying way about them and I wonder about their name. Possibly reading my mind, they answer.

“Buttercup. Me name’s Buttercup.”

Unable to cough it back, I snort.

Of course, their name is Buttercup.

“Nothing gave Buttercup as much pleasure as ordering Westley around.” The Princess Bride, 1987.

While facing Buttercup’s back, I sense someone flipping me off—the same way in junior high when the hair on my head tingled just before a kid threw a wad of gum. I turn to see a wickedly deft and arrogant middle finger jamming pointedly and repeatedly at me. Twin eyeballs beneath a load of coppery red hair, impale me with ferociousness. Immediately, the twenty-ish-aged girl mouths “Fuck you.” The final touch is a bawdy grin. Quickly looking anywhere but there, I see a large section of seating and most of the aisle swallowed by a tumble of dank hues in the form of a crocheted blanket. A tick-tick of crochet needles becomes audible. Ridiculously, I discern a lowland gorilla, their serious and grim expression barely visible above what cannot be described other than as a nightmare-toned, endless blanket.

The gorilla isn’t the only passenger that ought to be confined to a jungle. A tiger’s tail snaps up like a whip, though, thankfully, the rest of the terrifying concept is hidden beneath the enormous blanket. And, in the furthest seat, in the way back of the bus, almost too far away to be sure, a giraffe’s neck stretches up through the top of the bus as if an open sunroof accomodated their height. I imagine when the bus first appeared, a giraffe sticking out of the roof of the bus was missed when the odd sight of a Big Wheel hood ornament took all my attention.

Overwhelmed by the expanding circus, I turn forward. Not up for more middle fingers or whatever else that may occur, I resolutely stare at the back of the driver’s seat and notice my palms are sweaty, and, either I smell, or someone nearby does. Another very good reason not to be overly curious. There can be no benefit to verifying the owner and species of the body odor. The rest of the bus doesn’t agree with my intentional dissociation.

“Hey! Think we’re just gonna sit back here and let you ignore us?”

Instead of responding, I focus on the patterns of red dust on the windshield of the bus.

“It won’t work…trying to bugger us off. We’re not going anywhere and neither are you.”

This strikes several passengers as hilarious. I hear giggles, guffaws, and someone claiming they might pee their pants. I slide down in the seat, my feet coming within an inch of touching the driver’s shoes.

“They ain’t gonna stop yah know.”

It isn’t directly obvious this comment is from Buttercup. Cigar smoke continues blooming, their sloped shoulders still face the road. My guess is that it was Buttercup, because from the start, their voice has come into my ears as though they are sitting inside me. Hair on the back of my head prickles and I shudder in what has to be at least ninety degrees. The voice comes in again.

“They be on the same bus, same as you.”

Now I’m certain it is Buttercup speaking. Further aggravated by the vague statement, I reply.

“What does that even mean?”

“Means, yah in this together.”

Confused, I can’t imagine what Buttercup is referring to.

“'We’re in what together?”

When they answer, the growly voice carries a detectable grin.

“Ack, yah know…. the whole shebang. Lumpy road, no idea where yah off to, in a shit bus, and chucked at with a wad a gum.”

I gingerly run my fingers through my hair to see if the last item landed. Both thankfully come back clean. Tears of relief prepare to escape. Annoyed, I push them deeper. Overwhelm is reaching a zenith. My guts are twisted into a ball and I think I’ll vomit if the bus keeps heaving. Could be the driver perceives my upset and doesn’t want stomach contents adding to the perfumed air, for the bus stops dramatically and Buttercup shoves open the door. Nothing moves. Even the rumbling engine is silent. Still life in a ridiculous situ.

I don’t turn to see what the other passengers are doing. Eons or a few seconds that feel like eons pass, tension continuing to wind tighter until I cannot wait any longer. I stand and walk to the door. Buttercup doesn’t move. In profile the bus driver appears resolute. Maybe they’re angry, or maybe, just bored. As my heel leaves the last step, the door slams shut and the bus springs forward. All the pieces resume clanging at once and the dirt roadway fills with motioning red soil.

Eventually, the air settles and the loud ruckus of the bus fades. Turning away from the road, I see perhaps a dozen suitcases, each broken wide open. Oddly shaped, unidentifiable items are strewn across the road, some pieces mingling with sage brush on the edges. Something about the suitcases seems familiar. My gut, relieved after leaving the bus, resumes twisting with worry. Staring at the chaotic mess, uneasiness rips through the rest of my body. I sense these traveling closets can’t be put back together and the items that used to be caged within them are wild and free.

FREE.

“Uh-oh.”