The bus stop in mid afternoon. A familiar place on the side of the road. A mess of buildings rise around me, extension after extension on the original building as people’s needs grew. Different architectural eras are apparent in the mish-mash of different, yet equally impressive multi-storey buildings, coming together somehow to form a functional whole. The road feels almost like a tunnel, or a capsule, embracing me in its cold touch of concrete and steel while the grey sky hovers far above.
It’s annoying to sit here after rain, because cars drive past and splash me as they whizz through the puddles in the dips of the uneven pavement. Drivers are oblivious to their selfish actions. I would drive myself, but there is never any parking and it costs a bomb anyway. Easier to let someone else do the driving. I’ve also never cared for the heavy traffic that always plagues this area. It seems that everyone wants to visit their relatives right on shift change, so you can never get in or out without a long wait.
It's not quite peak hour, but there's plenty of people finishing work already in this 24/7 world. I follow the same routine every day - I sit down in the shelter, I read my book. Every now and then, I look up from my book and watch the rain or the sun or the wind, I ponder life. People walk by without even a glance in my direction. It's as if I don't exist. That's fine by me. Social distance is welcome in an emotionally intense job like mine. I always check my scrub pocket again, just to make sure that I haven't accidentally left the drug keys in there. As always, it's empty. I then breathe a small sigh of relief because I don’t want to make the long walk back to my building to hand them over. This is a ritual I have performed thousands of times, and now I wait for my bus. I know it’s due any second now.
People walk past. Different ones each day. Every now and then one will stop and sit in the bus shelter with me. I learn a lot from watching these people. A young girl, usually with a variety of brightly coloured ribbons in her hair is a regular sight. She skips along the footpath, always urged to hurry up by her frazzled-looking mother. The girl would have stopped to talk if she was allowed. I see them most days, always in a rush. I guess the mother has poor time management, or perhaps she is anxious about lateness. A bit like the new grads I have been mentoring recently. Then there's the baker. I know he's a baker from his stained apron, it's original pigment long gone these days, replaced with the evidence of many early mornings in front of an oven. He smells of fresh bread and dried fruit. An image of hot cross buns often flashes through my mind. He usually offers a smile but has never said anything. Neither have come past today, but then again, I am running late, thanks to a critical incident, and arrived at the bus stop with seconds to spare.
I have barely sat down and opened my book, a classic icon of English literature, when my bus arrives, its windscreen wipers making a mechanical swish-thud sound as they scrape the water away. My immersion in the much-read pages is short-lived as I stand up to board the bus for my journey home, where relief awaits in the form of a hot shower and a warm milo. Rivulets run down the blue and orange livery of the vehicle, dripping onto me as I scoot up the three steps to board. It's not too full today. A handful of people are out in this weather, the usual essential workers heading home. Some look up and smile, others just stare out the window. One is reading, I notice that it is one of my favourite books in his hands. I slowly walk to my usual seat as the bus moves off, swaying slightly to keep my balance as the driver pulls out into traffic. It's warm in here, but I will keep my coat on as a barrier against the world.
I sit down, open my book again, and instantly travel back to that distant place. My mind is quickly enthralled in the story, a welcome relief from the realities of life.
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