Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4: YOU DON 'T MESS AROUND WITH JIM
9/8/11

Jim Norris
Was a bad-ass motherfucker.

He was the only public bus driver to wear studded gloves.

The gloves weren't for show – they were for tooling unruly passengers in the mug. He had a reputation in town – he was a damn fine driver, but boy, did he ever have a lack of patience for unruly riders. His black, slicked-back hair was kept in a ponytail; very 90s. His tidy goatee decorated a face yet untouched by his entry in to his early 30s. He was about as fresh-faced as a baby. No doubt because of the extra 150lbs in his pants.

In spite of his girth, Norris was notorious for chasing down unruly riders – if they provoked some shit, and tried to run, Norris'd scoop up his keys, and book it after the offending person(s). Norris was fond of leaping at the offender(s), pinning them down with his bulk. More often or not, a broken arm usually discouraged riders from ever misbehaving on the bus ever again.

Norris was the son of the regional manager of the public transit system, so, he lived like a twisted prince, most of the time. His fist was mighty, and his judgment was sound. The only thing they really regulated about Jim's service was his uniform: crisp, blue, and very chauffeur-y. It even came with a dorky little hat, with a solid black brim. That hung above the seat, due to his claims of excessive scalp sweat.

Jim could get away with murder – he often did.

This week, he'd mowed down a little old lady – he'd been passing through a crosswalk, in the rain. Usually, if he was going to mulch somebody, he'd be aiming for them. In this case, he didn't even see her. He figured it out, when the bus passed over a telltale crunchy-bump. The old woman didn't even scream; maybe she didn't have time. The crosswalk was signaling that it was time to be off the road; likely, she'd crossed at the right time, but too slowly to make it on time to the other side.

It was on Monday; he remembered that day, because that was the day he'd tried the new Chinese place – Kwan's Cookerie. It was okay – no roaches in sight. Kwan's made for a good lunch-spot. It was close to the depot, and, the fleet of family-staff members were quick at cooking. All in all, he only really spent about 15 minutes waiting. It was a 5-minute walk; he had enough time, during his lunch, to get a to-go baggie.

When the woman went under the tires, making with her crunchiness, Norris stopped. No one was aboard, and the streets were bare. This would have been 10:10 PM; he had one more 20 minute round, before the day was through. Getting out, he stooped at the front of the bus, surveying the damage. The woman's little metal wheelie-basket had scratched up the fender a little, but, nothing serious. He tugged it out from under the bus. He couldn't really see the lady too well, with the dark and rain coating his vision. He kneeled down, reaching towards a blob near the left tire. He could feel damp lace. He pulled his hand back, inspecting a smear of blood.

“Helloooooo..” a small voice said. “Ohhh, lady-nurrrse. My.. baaaaaaack's ouuuuut.”

Jim winced, hustling back in to the bus; starting it up, he backed over the woman again, then forward, then back. Crunchy... Wellp; that'd take care of her.

Musing back on this, he found himself thinking about Kwan's again. It was 7:40 PM, Wednesday. When would they close, he wondered. His bus passed two blocks away from Kwan's Cookerie. His stomach gurgled with the thought of some more fried stuff – noodles, rice, pork... Mmm. Very tempting. He had a full load, and a commitment to stay on until 9. Kwan's'd surely be closed, by then.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. The eyes in the mirror looked tired – not his usual frenetic expression, at all. He stuck his tongue out at himself; he swerved at the lights, making his way back to the area wherein he'd smacked the little old lady.

He'd taken care of the blood – a little bleach, in a super-soaker watergun. Business as usual!

He considered turning around, and ditching the passengers. Hitting Kwan's. Hell, it wasn't THAT good. But, very tempting, all the same. Norris licked his lips. He missed a stop, leaving a pissed off teen behind. Luckily for that kid, someone got off at the next stop, and traffic'd been bad enough that he'd been able to chase the bus that far.

“Fuck, you, man,” the kid muttered.

Norris stopped him, before the kid could go past the yellow line. “Fuck a duck-truck. We don't take BS from dipshit kids, okay?”

“Whatever, man. Learn to spot people at stops.”

“Fuck a duck-truck. Learn not to hide down behind the stop, shitmunch.”

The kid eyed him up. He had a backpack that smelled suspiciously like weed, and tequila. “Well, like. You gunna let me on?”

“Hey,” someone said, in the back. “Are we ever going to get going? Some of us have places to be.”

Norris eyed the kid back, stroking his manicured goatee thoughfully. “Are you gunna quit being a dipshit, and let me get on with my job?”

“What-eh-vurrrr,” the kid said, forcing his way past Norris' arm. “Just DRIVE, dude.”

Norris stomped on the gas, knocking the kid down. The kid scrambled – grasping bars, knees, and seat tops – to find a seat. People went back to their usual nonsense – Ipods, chatting.. tending to fussy babies.

Jim Norris: lord of the bus.