MIKE RESNICK
WORKING STIFF
I'm the best bus driver on the downtown line, and damned proud of it. I take the
wide turn around East Elm Street -- trickiest comer on my whole route -- feeling
the tires slide across a patch of early-morning slush, and then skid to a stop
right in front of the station. Twelve midnight. Right on schedule. I've always
been a good schedule driver. And no one's got quicker reflexes.
There's still one passenger aboard. I open the door and the bitter cold air
whisks down the aisle. Winter in upstate New York comes in hard and fast off
Lake Ontario. Sometimes it hits as early as September and sticks around till
May. Not exactly the kind of weather I grew up with back on the island, but I
always hated tropical heat.
I turn around and this guy is still sitting on his duff. "End of the line,
Mister," I announce.
The guy walks up slowly from the rear, then sits in that first seat opposite me.
He's a short, chunky guy. Glasses. Neatly trimmed beard. Shirt and tie under a
fancy overcoat. Nice boots. Not the kind of guy you'd normally see on my line,
so I've got a pretty good idea as to what's coming next. By now I can sense when
one of these jokers has come looking for a story.
"Mind if we have a chat?" he says, sweet as pie. "I'm from New York Silver
Screen Magazine."
I shrug. "Why not?"
I crawl out of the driver's seat, and the two of us walk through the gathering
snow into the bus terminal. "Wait here," I tell him. He sits on a bench in front
of the tall Plexiglas windows facing South Avenue, and I go to the supervisor's
station to clock off my shift, half-expecting him not to be there when I get
back. Some of them don't wait. Some of them, the brighter ones, can tell right
off they're not going to get the story they came hunting for.
Not this guy, though: he's still waiting. He gives me a fake smile and says,
"How's about I buy you some breakfast?"
"Thanks, but no thanks," I answer. "I got some errands to run. You're welcome to
tag along." I turn my back on him and head for the street. He follows.
"You know, you're not exactly what I expected," he says thoughtfully.
I sigh. "You mean I'm not as big as you expected."
He nods. "Right."
