The Last Kid On The Bus

A Journey of Motion Sickness and Self-Discovery

Photo by Jan Budomo on Unsplash

When I was a kid, I was always the last one to get dropped off on the bus. There was never a question about it. I wasn’t “one of the last.” I was the last. The bus could have been empty, the lights flickering, raccoons moving in, and I would still be sitting there, bouncing along, waiting for the gravel road to nowhere.

It started off exciting. I had the whole bus to myself and could sit wherever I wanted. Sitting in the front felt like I had a job to do, while the middle made me feel part of society. The back, on the other hand, felt like I was on the run. Eventually, that freedom began to feel more like solitary confinement. You don’t feel cool when you’re the last one left.

The silence got strange. Once the last kid before me got off, the mood shifted completely. It was just me and Darrell, who immediately stopped pretending to be professional. He’d let out a long Funyun-laced fart, adjust in his seat like he was settling in for a cross-country trip, and start driving like he was trying to beat a GPS that had wronged his family.

I once asked him, “Are we close to my house?” He didn’t answer right away. Darrell just laughed. Not a comforting laugh. It was the kind of laugh that usually comes before someone tells you the moon landing was staged.

You learn a lot when you’re the last kid. Patience, for one. You sit through every stop, every broken zipper, every “Wait, I think I left my retainer on the floor.” Time loses all meaning. At one point, I’m pretty sure we drove through another time zone.

Humility is another lesson. Everyone else gets home early. They’re watching cartoons. They’re eating after-school snacks. I’m still out there, watching cows look at me like, “You still on that thing?”

You also develop survival instincts. I knew how to turn my backpack into a pillow. I learned how to brace for potholes like a professional stuntman. I figured out how long I could survive with only a Capri Sun and half a pack of crackers. (Rule number one: Never eat your snack as soon as you get on the bus.) I could have lived on that bus for days if I had to. I didn’t know it at the time, but riding bus 54 was preparing me to fly Aeroflot many years later.

Now, when I’m standing in line at the DMV and everyone else seems to be getting where they’re going faster, I remember that ride. I picture the empty seats, the endless turns, the motion sickness, and the Funyun-scented breeze coming through a cracked window.

Eventually, the bus stops and the door opens. I stumble off the bus and stand in the driveway looking for a safe place to deal with my motion sickness. It’s easier to hose off the driveway than clean the toilet once I’m inside. If I make it to the grass, all the better.

I digress. The point is that you always get there.

It just takes a little longer when you live in the middle of nowhere and the driver’s on a journey of self-discovery.