His work at the shop was menial, but fulfilling. Basic assembly and various projects were enough to keep food in his cupboards. The banter in the breakroom, the occasional beer after punchout, these were enough to keep his social coffers stocked, and when he rode the bus home in silence six days a week, his station felt satisfactory. Another humble man making ends meet.
As the bus pulled up, Gary tugged absentmindedly at the worn heather grey of his shirt.
Clinging gently to the thin film of sweat on his stomach, the garment was pocked with tiny holes, as were the rest of the clothes in his closet, from the small parts bin he carried roughly thirty times a day.
People milling about the corner began to gather. The hiss of the airbrakes overtook the murmured conversations of the friends and family lining up for the bus, and as he took a few shuffled steps forward, Gary saw his reflection in the convex mirror perched above the driver’s head. A single step away from climbing aboard, he noticed an elderly man and a young boy behind him, both with identical eyes and the same vaguely concerned furrow in their brow.
They were positioned perfectly on either side of him in the reflection’s distorted curvature, and as the minute hand on the busdriver’s watch ticked forward, Gary suddenly understood legacy.
He looked to the sky, for the first time grasping the magnitude of accumulating cumulonimbus.
In an instant, he counted the days, the miles traveled across a thirteen foot stretch, parts bin clasped against his abdomen.
Someone tapped his shoulder and Gary lurched forward, climbing the three rubberized steps up onto the bus. He wrapped his hand around the brushed steel pole at the top of the stairs as muscle memory paid his fare.
As Gary studied her spotted hands wrapped around the wheel, inspected the gauges, contemplated the toll time takes on all things, the impatient driver snapped her fingers.
“Please take a seat, sir.”