Before Burger King: on the bus, near the back. Lee sat staring out the fogged window, forehead on the plastic, some wet snow still striking the bus half-heartedly. Jay was asleep. He could nod off anywhere, wake up immediately—no befuddled glancing around, no stretching or yawning; just awake and himself. Lee heard voices near the exit door, about three seats ahead of him. They were sharp and rose in volume. Jay woke up and watched along with Lee—and with most of the bus. Two young men were yelling at each other, their noses close. The one nearer the door reached into his pocket and everyone who could, hit the deck, now also yelling. Lee looked up at the driver he secretly called Sarge. Older, about 50, his salt-and-pepper hair high and tight, probably the same cut he’d had since Korea almost thirty years ago. Even seated, you could tell he was big, a stolid citizen with a narrow gaze. He was also the only driver who didn’t jerk away from the curb before older passengers were seated. (With anyone else, if you were at the front of the bus you knew you were a Catcher for any old people who’d just got on, the sudden lurch driving them forward into your arms.) He’d already been glancing into his rearview at the two men, and he pulled over, stopped smoothly, got out the front, opened the exit door, stepped up. His hand gripped the upper arm of the man whose hand was still in his pocket. The driver leaned over a little, spoke into the guy’s ear for not even five seconds. The guy took his hand, empty, out of his pocket and followed the driver out of the bus. He walked away quickly and the driver climbed back in through the front door. Of course, everyone cheered.
Neither Lee nor Jay spoke, but the same thought went through their heads, wondering whether they could’ve done that. They saw it as heroism, and they gently pushed it away.
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