For Elizabeth Whaley, who said I should write a story about a bus stop.
Paul Jenkins pulled hard on the cigarette. He had been wanting to quit for quite sometime now but tonight was not the night for that. His nerves raced and his stomach was in knots. He really thought that he had lost it. All out, goodbye forever mind, been nice knowing ya crazy. It was 11:45 pm, fifteen minutes away from midnight. That's when "it" was suppose to show up, if "it" really existed. Paul doubted it did. He nervously checked his wristwatch again. A second look confirmed it was really 11:45. He had gotten here just in time. Fifteen more minutes and he would know if there was any truth to what the old man had told him about this place. In the days that followed Paul's encounter with the old homeless guy he had researched this area. On this corner was a old abandoned bus stop, the long defunct 6691 bus stop. The 6691 stop sat on the corner of Bryn Mawr and Windsor Park where it had once served the east side of Chicago, back when people actually lived over on the east side of Chicago. The city closed it down twenty five years ago when the blue collared, middle class families began moving away, chased out by the gang members and the drug dealers. Most drivers had refused to take that particular route, especially after the shootings and robberies that fell on several of their friends and colleagues. Today, the bus stop was just just a empty, rusty shell. The Plexiglas that covered the old bolted down bench had a few cracks from the kids that finally had giving up trying to shatter it and knock it out. Most of it was clouded over, impossible to see through the thick dirty glaze covering it. Weeds came up from the cracks in the pavement, trying to cover over the structure. Many a homeless persons had spent a cold night sleeping on the old bench. Empty liquor bottles littered the ground and the smell of old, stale urine filled the air. Police sirens sang their nightly serenade off in the background. Just a typical night over on the east side of the big Windy City. Paul himself lived about a hour and so away, in a small, modest two bedroom/one bath outside of the more upscale area of Bedford Park. He once have lived in Bedford Park, back when he was a different person, living a different life. That was before the fire, back before the Paul of today. Exactly two hours and forty five minutes ago Paul had left his house heading for his destination. He doubled checked the two important things he had to have. The eight quarters for his fare and the piece of paper that he had wrote on earlier. He had taken the train across the city to the Jackson Park station. From there buses ran out in each direction but to get to the old 6691 stop Paul was on his own. He walked outside to where the long line of cab drivers sat, trying to stay awake by any means they could. Some gathered in small groups talking about sports and women and politics or whatever tonight's topic happened to be. Some talked on cell phones, some cat napped, waiting for a potential client. Paul stepped to the curb and raised his hand in the "I need a cab" position and immediately the front group snapped to it and tried to beat each other to their cars, each one desperate for a fare on this cold, late fall evening. Driving someone somewhere would give them reason to be in their cars with the heat running and getting warm instead of just letting the car idle and watching the fuel needle slowly fall. The winning cab driver jumped in his drivers seat and quickly started his engine, put his car in drive and raced up to where Paul was standing. He was a dark skinned man, Haitian probably, like so many of the other city cab drivers. Paul opened the back door and climbed in the cab. "Where to my friend" asked the cabbie. Yep Paul thought to himself, Haitian, I guessed it. "I want to go to the corner of Mawr and Windsor" answered Paul. The Haitians face immediately changed, like he had just heard some unsettling thing. He looked at Paul, like Paul was going to say no man, I'm kidding. But he didn't. He just stared back at the driver, waiting for his reply. "That's a dangerous area man. You have business there?" "Yes, you could say that" answered Paul. "Fares are double for that part of town my friend. Too risky, too dangerous" said the cabbie. Paul thought he noticed something in the mans voice. Fear maybe? Certainly hesitation. "I'll pay you whatever, just get me there," mumbled Paul. The cabbie gave Paul one finally look over, shrugged and turned around and put the car in gear. The cab drove off, disappearing into the night.
Four years before Paul Jenkins climbed into the back of that cab things had been different. Paul was married to Sarah back then, his soul mate and the love of his life. They had meet in collage. They didn't date long, they both knew they were meant for each other. After one year and four months of marriage came Timothy Steven Jenkins, Timmy for short. Timmy's middle name was a tribute to Sarah's Dad, who had passed away earlier that year. Those eight years of marriage had been good to the Jenkins family. Paul was a successful financial advisor for a fortune 500 company. They lived in a upscale home in the upscale neighborhood of Bedford Falls, a suburb of Chicago, over on the west side. They were living the American dream. They hosted lavish parties on the weekends. Timmy attended a very private school that most parents couldn't afford to send their kids to. But that was all before that night, that horrible night when everything that Paul held dear was taken away. It was a Saturday. That night they had had some friends over for dinner, then some drinks. Everyone was having a good time. Around 10 the friends started leaving, full and a little tipsy. After the last guests had left Paul helped Sarah clean up some of the plates and glasses. "I'm going to save the rest for tomorrow. Lets go to bed dear" Sarah said, half speaking, half yawning. "You go on up hon. I'm going to watch the news and then I'll be up" replied Paul as he pulled his wife close into him. They kissed and Paul thought about how much he loved this woman, how much she meant to him, how she was so much a part of him. "Okay you, but don't be long" said Sarah back to him with that voice and smile that he loved. "I'll check on Timmy and make sure he's wrapped up. Good night love" and with that she turned and walked up the stairs. Paul pulled off his shoes and grabbed the remote. He turned on the TV and layed back on his sofa. The news was still about 15 minutes away and some detective show was wrapping up and the culprits were being revealed and also their reasons why they did what they did. "These shows are a dime a dozen" he thought to himself. As he watched the police start to move in on the suspects his eyes got heavy. And heavier. Paul was asleep before the news even started.
The next thing that happened was something that he had run over and over in his mind ever since that night. Paul wasn't sure what exactly had awoken him first. The screams, the searing heat, the smoke. Maybe it was all three. He only knew that that was the moment when his world ended. He jumped up off the sofa, his mind cloudy and hazy, partly by the sleep, the other part by the alcohol. When he did gather his senses he stood frozen in disbelief. Flames were everywhere inside their home. The whole room seemed to be engulfed. The heat was unbearable, the air was thick with smoke. Then the screams, Sarah's screams. Screams for help, screams for Paul, screams for anyone. "I'm coming baby" shouted back her husband over the angry roar of the flames. And he really did try to get up the stairs, through the fire that had swallowed them and licked at the ceiling and the walls. The heat was unbearable but he knew he had to get to his wife and son. Nothing else mattered but that. The flames licked at his clothes and skin and the smoke threatened to completely choke him. Soon the next thing he knew was someone big behind him, pulling him away. Away from his wife , his son, his world. "No" screamed Paul. "I have to save them!" but he was no match for the lumbering firefighter who had grabbed him from behind and was pulling him to safety, away from the inferno. "We're trying to get to them but you have to get out!" shouted the fireman through his mask at Paul. But they didn't get to them. No one did. And that was the day Paul Jenkins life as he had known it ended.
It took him a long time before he was able to go back to work. Thankful, he worked at a family owned company and they had told him to take off as long as he needed before even thinking about coming back to work. Eight long torturous months before he went back. Everyday, reliving that night when his world was turned upside down. The nightmares, the what ifs, the second guessing himself. If only he had gone to bed when Sarah went, he would have maybe been able to drag her and Timmy to safety. The official cause of the fire simply listed faulty wiring as the cause of the fire. Which really meant there was no other obvious reason for the fire so we have to list something. Faulty wiring was always a good standby. Paul had thought about what could have caused it a thousand times. A bad electrical cord? A wire connection somewhere in the wall? And why didn't the smoke detectors go off and give them some warning. He had changed the batteries a couple times over the years they lived there. The chief fire investigator did seem to think that the fire started somewhere near the laundry utility room. Something about the wood framing of the house was charred the worst in that area. But really, none of that really mattered anymore. He had lost the two most important things in his life that night.Now, they were gone. And Paul was just a shell of a man. A mans body but someone with only a piece of soul. Most of it ripped apart and torn away. He had bought a small home away from where their old home had been. It was just to painful to remain in the same area. With the insurance money from the house and the life insurance policies Paul was well taken care of but he needed to work. He had to work. It was the only time when his mind was free of the thoughts and the images of his wife and son. And at night the dreams would come. Dreams that haunted him. So sweet and innocent at first but they always turned bad.Sometimes the dreams would be of him and Sarah in college. They were young, she was beautiful. They had their whole lives ahead of them. They would embrace and kiss and Paul could taste the lip gloss she always used and he could smell her perfume she always liked to wear. Sometimes the dreams would be when they were married and they had just gotten the baby asleep in his crib and they would quietly make their way into their bedroom and they would lay on the bed and Paul would take her and Sarah would have to be careful that her moans and groans didn't wake up their son. Sometimes the dreams would be of him and his son outside playing with that electric car they had given Timmy that one year for his birthday. Sometimes he would be in the floor tickling and playing with him. But even the nicest, sweetest dreams ended in horror. He and Sarah would be embracing and then her skin would start bubbling and she would start to scream at Paul. She would scream "Why, Paul?" "Why didn't you save me? You said you loved me!" Then her skin and flesh would start to melt and begin dripping off of her mouth and face, revealing the jawbone and soon the part of the skull that it was connected to. Or Timmy would stop laughing from the tickling and start crying instead. "Daddy, why didn't you come get me?" "I was waiting for you to come save me" he would ask as his clothes started to smoke. And every time Paul would wake up and HE would be the one screaming. Screaming out for Sarah. For Timmy. He had become a loner. His life was a routine. Work, come home, prepare something to eat, clean up, watch TV and then try to sleep. His co workers felt sorry for him and invited him out to different functions but he always politely declined. Being with other couples only sharpened the pain of his loss. So went Paul's life. He had become a loner. Alone with just his heartache and pain for companionship.
Paul lit another cigarette and checked the time. His watch now showed 11:50. Ten minutes and he would know if there was anything to the story the old homeless guy on the street corner had told him that day. Common sense had told him there was no truth to it but the man that had told him seemed like he knew what he was talking about and listening to him, one could almost believe the rambling tale. It had been a extremely cold morning that day and Paul was on his way to his favorite corner shop for a coffee and bagel before work. To the left of the door was where the homeless guy was. There was nothing that stood out about the guy. He looked like every other homeless person that populated the city. But this guy had a look on his face like he was waiting for someone. Then he turned and they made eye contact and Paul knew that HE was the one the guy had been waiting for. How he knew he had no idea but he knew. He could see it on the old bums haggardly, weather worn face. Paul normally avoided the homeless but something about this guy made him stop, stop dead in his tracks. "Spare a couple dollars for a cold, hungry man?" the guy asked. All Paul had on his was the ten dollar bill in his front pocket that he planned to use for his coffee and breakfast but suddenly it seemed important to give it to this guy. He reached in his pocket and took out the bill and offered it to the man. Smiling and showing teeth that been neglected for quite some time the old man looked down at the ten dollars now in his hand and his grin broadened. When he looked up he looked different. Paul couldn't put his finger on what looked different but something did. There was a gleam in the mans eye that wasn't there before. Before his eyes were dull and cold and almost lifeless but now there was a light of some sort. A glint that hadn't been there before. While Paul stood frozen looking at the man and trying to figure out what kind of trick his mind was trying to play on him the homeless guy suddenly reached out and grabbed Paul's arm with his free hand. Paul wanted to snatch it away and run. Run away quickly from this guy who was now setting off every internal alarm in his body. But he couldn't. He just stood there looking (he was sure) stupid at the guy. Mouth opened, wanting to tell the man to let go of him, but not able to produce any words. The old man pulled Paul close to him and he could smell every kind of filth one could imagine on the old man. The stench was nauseating, like nothing he had ever smelled before and prayed he never would again. "Your generosity is greatly appreciated Paul Jenkins" the old man said in a hoarse, raspy voice. "Dear Lord he knows my name. How is this possible" thought Paul to himself. "I know lots of things young man" the bum answered, as if Paul had spoke the words instead of thought them. "I also know what keeps you up every night and haunts your dreams when you do sleep. I know what happened to your family and I also know about a place you can go if you want to go back and fix what happened" the old man said to Paul. "Who are you and how do you know me or anything about me" he asked the man. "Lets just say I can see things and I see your hurt and pain. There's a place on the corner of Bryn Mawr and Windsor Park where you can catch a ride. Not any old ride but a special ride. A ride back to your past if there's something that needs to be fixed". "Your crazy, get your hands off of me now!" Paul said, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. "Am I?" the old man asked. "If you want to go back and change things so you can be with your wife and son again then listen to what I tell you." And now Paul did listen. He didn't know how this guy knew these things but nevertheless he knew. Was this possible? No. Was it happening? Yes. "Tell me what to do" he asked. "That's better my friend. You've helped a cold, hungry man, now I want to help you" replied back the dirty, filthy smelling man. "There's a old bus stop on that corner. It's not been used in years. You go and be there before midnight and you wait. And go alone or he won't come. The fare is two dollars. It must be eight quarters. You write down the address of where you want to go and the date you want to go there on a slip of paper. You believe with all your heart that he's coming and he will show up. When he does you get on that old bus and then you put your fare and the slip of paper in the box and he will take you there. You'll have 12 hours there after he drops you off and you do what you must. But be warned of this Paul Jenkins, whatever you do on that day affects today. Be careful of the changes you make. Whats done then is still done today. Oh, and one more thing. You MUST be back at where he drops you off at exactly 12 hours later to the minute to come back here or your stuck there forever. Understand? There is no second chance. If you get off at 4 pm then you be back there the next day at 4 am. Not 4:01. Do I make myself clear on that?" Paul just nodded his head. At this point he was unable to do anything else. None of it made sense or was even believable for that matter. But the old man spoke with a certainty in his voice like he was explaining directions to the other side of town or some other everyday thing. "Good, enjoy your ride Paul Jenkins and may you have success with whatever you need to fix." Then the old man just simply turned and walked away. And Paul just stood there, unable to get his thoughts together or understand what had just happened. That was two months ago. He had replayed that encounter in his mind everyday since. It couldn't be possible. It was simply impossible. The man was suggesting time travel. A hundred movies had been made about it and books had been written about it and now here he was waiting to participate in it. Was he crazy? Yes, he was sure he had slipped off the deep end, into the waters of insanity. Why else would he be out here on this cold, dark night. He had looked at every angle he could think of since the chance encounter with the man. Maybe his co-workers had given the man all that information about him and had him appear to him as a joke? Maybe the old guy had read about the fire in the paper and it was his idea of some kind of sick prank? Still, there had been something very convincing about the man and his story. Paul had simply decided to see if there was any truth to the tale at all. Finally, to just go to the place the man had told him about and see for himself. So here he was. Waiting at what he had discovered used to be called bus stop 6691.
At 12:01 Paul had decided he was a idiot. He had come out here tonight half expecting to see something and midnight passed and here he stood. Alone, cold and feeling pretty stupid. A wasted night. A lot of money paid to a cab driver and now he had to call and try to find another willing to come get him and probably charge him another small fortune. As he reached into is pocket to pull out his cell phone he turned and looked down Windsor Park Street and his blood went cold. Down the street about a quarter of a mile was a wall of white stuff. Stuff because Paul could not think of anything else to describe it. It was fog, a heavy mist or clouds, maybe a combination of all three. Whatever it was it seemed to be alive. The white swirl rolled around and into itself. The top fell to the bottom and the bottom rose to the top. The outside rolled inward while the inside rushed out to replace it. And it glowed. Glowed with some kind of internal light. It illuminated the darkness around it. And it was moving, coming towards him. Paul stood there looking at the stuff much like he had looked at the old man when he told him about his dead wife and son and the story of this place. Mouth open like he wanted to speak but the words frozen in his throat. Words that wouldn't have made any sense anyway. As the stuff rolled lazily towards him it covered and devoured the street signs in its path. The swirling stuff went up as high as the street lamps and even the ones whose bulbs weren't burnt out disappeared into the thick haze. As it got closer Paul thought he could make out two bright lights in the front low to the road that looked just like eyes. Just then a rip in the stuff rolled down and under the eye lights and Paul burst out laughing. Whatever this thing was, it had a face and it was smiling at him. Paul laughed and slapped his leg (I'm losing it) because the only other thing he could do was scream and he knew if he started doing that then he probably would never stop. So he laughed. And he laughed some more. Soon the swirling mass of stuff was right in front of him and the smile was gone. The two "eyes" were still there and now he realized that they weren't eyes but headlights. He also noticed that the smile was actually a bent, twisted fender that somehow was able to reflect some of the headlights glare even though the thing was mostly covered in rust. Paul felt a fear sweep over him like he had never felt before but at the same time he was glad to be standing next to this whatever it might be. He took a step back as the rolling mass went past him a few feet and then stopped. Now his blood went from cold to ice. Paul wanted to turn around and run. Run and run and not look back. Run until his legs couldn't run any more. But he was frozen to the spot he was standing on. Every nerve in his body tingled with fear and apprehension. His eyes widened as two doors appeared in the fog, then loudly protested with a metal screeching scream as they slowly opened. They appeared to be doors like you would see on a bus. And when they opened fully then Paul Jenkins discovered what REAL fear was. It WAS a bus behind those doors and a ghostly, hooded figure sat in the drivers seat. The driver/thing was wearing a dark, mangy hooded robe and it just st there motionless, looking straight ahead. "Who are you" Paul managed to ask with a trembling voice that also sounded incredibly dry. Sounded like that because it was dry. Paul realized that the moisture in his mouth had dried up about the same time he had first seen the stuff. "Where are you going" was his second question. The thing just sat there, staring at some invisible road ahead. But this time the thing did move, ever so slightly at first. As if it was a struggle, the thing started to raise its right arm and slowly move it towards the center of the front of the bus. It pointed a finger, no, finger was not the right word, it pointed what USED to be a finger, now just a yellowish, dry looking bone towards the fare box that was mounted on the dash of the vehicle or whatever this thing was. "Okay, I get it" he muttered to himself more then to the thing/driver. "Your going to the address that I have wrote on this slip of paper in my pocket right?" Ever so slowly Paul saw the thing nod. "Okay then, lets see how all this plays out. If I'm crazy then I'm already at the place of no return" he thought to himself. While his legs felt like they were suddenly made of lead he lifted the right one first and stepped onto the step of the bus. He almost had to put his hands on his left leg and pull up on it to get it to follow his right one. Never had walking been such a chore. Two more struggling steps and he was on the bus, standing right next to the thing who was going to drive him to 1800 Darington Avenue. The thing behind the wheel continued to point at the fare box and Paul slipped the piece of paper into the box. Quickly reaching into his pocket he grabbed the pieces of loose change and pulled them out. He dropped the quarters in the box and the doors slowly shut behind him in that same moaning protest as before. As Paul stared down at the space on the ground that he had been occupying just a few minutes ago the stuff quickly swirled in and consumed it up. The swirling stuff surrounded the bus. Every window he looked out of the stuff was there. Rolling, banking, coming, going. Paul took a seat a couple rows back and the thing released the brake and the bus began to move. Move towards 1800 Darington Avenue. Normally a one hour ride from this part of town, give or take a few but this one might take longer. This one was going back in time. Four years back to be exact.
As he turned towards the back of the bus he moved back four or five rows before settling down on one of the seats. He wanted to, had to, put some distance between himself and the thing behind the wheel of this "bus". Still, he didn't want to be to far back. He wanted to be able to see that thing, to be ready to act if he had to. It was hard to see inside here. Any light inside was coming from the faint illumination that was coming from inside the fog. Confident that there was enough distance between him and the driver Paul settled down on one of the seats. Sitting wouldn't be the right word. He was to on edge to sit. Instead, he eased down onto one of the seats and leaned back. He tried to get his bearings inside this rusty, dirty hull of metal and glass. Was this thing moving? It felt like it but with the fog and mist swirling outside the windows it was hard to tell. His mind was just to overwhelmed by this whole experience. Where was he? Was he really home in bed, having yet another nightmare? Maybe his mind had grown tired of replaying the same old movie every night that starred his (former) wife Susan and (also former) son Timmy. Then he realized this wasn't a dream when the bus hit what had to be more then a pothole in the road, it was more like a sinkhole that had suddenly opened up and took a good section of road down into it. The bus slammed down in the hole and bounced back up and Paul flew up off his seat and bit his tongue so hard that he was amazed he didn't sever it right in half! He had no time to wonder what it was and then there was another one, then another. What ever road this thing was on now was no longer a road he had ever traveled on. He thought crazily for a second that this is what our good old boys over fighting in those third world sand lots must feel like when their driving through one of those places that's been decimated by land mines and bombs and every other imaginable device designed to create destruction. He desperately reached out and grabbed the old, rusty handrail beside his seat with his right hand and lashed out with his left one to grab whatever it came in contact with first, which happened to be the arm rest that divided the seat he was on with the seat to his left. And there was noise. And light. As the road got rougher and Paul had to hold on to keep from being bounced around like a kid bounces in one of those birthday party bounce houses, the light outside in the fog got a little brighter and the weird humming noise started. Soon the light was pouring in through the windows and illuminating the old metal hull. It looked old and run down. He briefly wondered about the other ones that had taken a ride in this magical express. Where were they heading? What was their thing that needed fixing? Had they suffered as he had? The thought was chased out of his head though by the deafening roar that was drilling into his head. It seemed to be coming from somewhere out in the fog as well. He would have slapped his hands over his ears to try to muffle it but letting go of the rail and armrest would probably send him on another unintended ride besides this one. There was absolutely no doubt now that they were moving. They were three levels beyond just moving. Every sense of Paul's body recognized the fact that they were traveling at hyper speed. The light was now blinding inside the bus. He shut his eyes. The noise threatened to shatter his eardrums. He just had to cover then up. As he released his grips he slapped his hands to the sides of his head to keep his head from exploding. He also dropped down to the floor and attempted to wedge himself between the seats. And then he screamed. Screamed for his eyes that were being blinded by this intense, white light. He screamed also for his poor ears, he was pretty sure his eardrums where soon going to implode and he would never be able to hear again. And screamed for the fact that if this ride didn't end soon then it probably wasn't going to matter. He would die blind and deaf but that would be okay because there was nothing to see or hear anyway. And then as fast as it had started, it stopped. He had fallen to the floor from his self made wedge and all he could do was just lie there. He opened his eyes. There were those bright speckles of light swirling and dancing around in front of them like everyone gets from time to time and they wonder if it is a early onset of blindness creeping up on them or if there could be some other kind of problem that they should discuss with a doctor but then it goes away and you forget about it until the next time it happens. And he had a loud ringing in his ears, like he had had front row tickets to some loud, talentless rock band who disguised their lack of talent with loudness. But, by golly, he was alive. He reached up to try to pull himself up from the floor of the bus and grabbed the handrail he had been holding only moments ago but snatched his hand away so quickly that he fell back to the floor. The handrail was cold to the touch and it was SHINY. Not old and rusted as before but new looking. New looking because it was new. It was shined and buffed so that you could see your reflection in it, although distorted of course. By now the northern constellation of lights that had been dancing before his eyes were beginning to fade and Paul was able to take in his surroundings. The floor that he lay on was clean. The back of the seat looking up at his left looked new. The bottom of the one to his right was the same. He grabbed that new rail and this time didn't snatch away but instead pulled himself up, up onto his wobbly legs. And then fell back down on the new, clean, fake leather but a good imitation of it seat. He tried to take it all in. The thing he had boarding was old, dirty, beat up. This thing he sat in now was new. Brand spanking new. There wasn't a spot of dirt anywhere. The windows sparkled. The floor was swept and clean. ALL the handrails were shiny and polished. It was just to much to take in. "Here we are my friend," and Paul jumped back from his stupor. He turned his head toward the voice and the thing/driver that had brought him here was gone. In his place sat a little man. "Hey pal, you okay?" the driver asked in a shrill, annoying voice. It was one of those voices that made you want to tell the person to shut up or they risked getting decked if they continued to talk. 'Yes", he answered back. He looked at the man that now sat behind the wheel of the bus. He was in full uniform. A darkish blue one at that. On his head he worn a heavy looking hat with a short brim. He had a jacket and wore a dress shirt under that with a matching tie. He had a pudgy neck though. Paul thought it looked like the collar was maybe to tight and the guy probably was dying to loosen the tie and unbutton a few buttons. That pudgy neck and the head above it was red, like it wasn't getting a good supply of oxygen nor blood. And his eyes. Something about them set his internal alarm off. They were dark, too dark. And lifeless. Maybe this was the same driver that had picked him up. He had just got a quick makeover, like the bus had done. What was once old is now new he thought to himself. "Where are we" he asked the driver. And the driver answered him back in that same high pitched voice that made Paul cringe. "Why, we are at your stop you requested. Where else would we be? 1800 Darington Avenue, exactly where you asked to go when you got on friend. You sure your feeling okay?" "Yes, I'm fine. Thanks," "Okay then, here you go" and the driver twisted the lever that made the front doors open with a big whisssing sound. "And thanks for traveling with your friends at C.T.A and always remember, if you wanna go there then we can get you there. Have a good day," and he gave Paul the biggest crap eating grin he had seen in quite sometime. "Okay buddy, thanks" muttered Paul as he took the first of three steps down into a world that he wasn't sure of what world it was. I guess I'm about to find out he thought to himself. The second step down was when the man called out to him and it scared him because this wasn't a voice he had heard yet. This was a deep voice that made people stop and take notice when they told them too. "Look at the place where you get off this bus Paul Jenkins and you look good. You have exactly 12 hours to do whatever you have to do and be back at this very spot. Bring no one else, only yourself. It's now 3:20 pm. I'll be back here at 3:20 am to pick you up. If your here at 3:21 you will miss the bus and there won't be another one. You'll be here for good. Do I make myself clear?" "Yeah, I got it. See you tomorrow morning at 3:20" "Good Paul Jenkins!" and that shrill voice was suddenly back. Cheerful but yet TO cheerful. Almost seemingly mocking cheerful. Paul turned back around and took that final step down. He took a couple steps away and again heard that whisssing sound as the bus doors shut behind him. He turned around and watched as the big bus started to drive away and he watched it until it was almost out of sight. Then he turned around to survey the scene at 1800 Darington Avenue. And to go home. Finally, after all this time.
