Third Place Story, 2001.

Prescient Witness

Tracy Whelan

It was almost time. He listened to the jaunty tune Sam, the bus driver, was humming but couldn’t quite catch it. He stared resolutely at the back of Sam’s bulbous head, his stomach crawling around inside him.

Sam spoke and Marcus jumped a little. “You’ve got your work cut out for you today, yep, you always do. I like this city, though.” Sam beamed at the view through the windshield as if the filthy city were El Dorado. Sam was Marcus’ fifth shuttler, and by far the most irrepressible.

The bus reached Marcus’ destination with a hiss of air brakes. Marcus felt the familiar stabbing anxiety, his intimate enemy. Another day. Another chance to fail. The stakes were high enough to keep him going – important enough to force himself through the daily pain. That was what made him get off the bus. Every day he had to get off.

His task may well be futile, but it was still vital. Despite the clear view he had of past and present, he could not make the choices himself. It had to be this way, and so it would always be. Influencing the events directly would render the choices themselves meaningless.

“Have a good day, Marcus,” Sam encouraged him cheerfully as he went down the steps.

Marcus raised a hand in polite acknowledgment and exited the bus. He took his place on the covered bench, the only bus stop on Main Street with a shelter.

He took his place in the world for yet another day.

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