More than zero

The bus glides like a spaceship through the alien night. For sure, I should know this area. The sleepy farms, the casual trees, the serious ditches, the cheeky meadows. But this evening, the whole environment seems strange to me. Is it the fleecy fog? The fine rain? The freezing temperature? The strong autumn winds?

It is warm inside the bus. If I had not been so restless, so unsettled, I could have enjoyed the ride. I would have taken my book out of my backpack (Keep the Aspidistra Flying), I would have read something, daydreamed a bit. There would have been moments when I would have called my life enjoyable. Pleasant, nice.

Now I am sitting there like a frustrated astronaut staring at the erratic drops on the dark windows. As if there is something in the drops that could improve my mood. But I know better. This unrest, this desperation will not just go away. Every now and then it grabs me by the throat. Like a gigantic space monster taking pleasure in strangling me with its strong, plastic fingers. Slow, indifferent.

And it is precisely on these days that the desperation is at its worst. When the evening is as black as an extinguished star, the panic as cold as a forgotten galaxy. Then it looks life-size in front of me. The pointlessness, the meaninglessness, the uselessness. My daily job, my relationships, society, the feeding of the squirrels.

I used to think that there should be some reason for this melancholy. Had I eaten well enough? Did someone make a nasty comment? But I have discovered that it does not work that way. The futility of my life is something that is always present. Like athlete's foot, like a headache, like a poor upbringing. Most days I can push the feeling away, I am able to keep the misery and sadness elegantly and politely outside my door. But tonight, it does not work at all. Time feels too dark, space is too cold. Even now the bus is brightly lit, even if the heating is on the highest setting. I am like a Martian who manage to get lost in a miserable place on earth.

“Last night I talked to my son. For the first time in more than ten years,” the bus driver says in a dim voice. If she would have looked over her shoulder, she could have seen me sitting in the back.

“Twelve years ago, I got divorced. By then, I visited them regularly, my only son and my ex. But later, that got less and less.”

As she talks, she continues to look straight ahead. Is she chatting to me? Is she speaking to herself? Does she realize I am listening?

“My ex-husband is a well-known lawyer. He likes to surround himself with artists, performers, wealthy businesspeople, mighty politicians. My son is currently studying at a prestigious university in the United States. His new mother is a concert pianist.”

She is chatting. Like we are sitting in a café and have known each other for years. Salty peanuts, fresh craft beer, background music.

“He contacted me himself, my son. A few weeks ago. I had no clue how to respond. I loved hearing his voice, I fancied knowing how he was doing. But at the same time, I felt a deep feeling of shame. Because I realized what background he comes from. But what did he know about my existence? About my rental house in a shabby neighborhood, about my job as a bus driver. About my friends? The garbage collectors, the hairdressers, the call center employees?”

I suspect what is to come. Otherwise, she would not tell me the story, would she? Her son had hugged her last night. After all those years. He had told her with his well-educated voice that he loved her dearly. Like she is. Poor but honest. Pitiful but authentic.

Actually, she stops talking. I study her face as best I can from my position. What does she feel? What is she thinking? Her fingers tap along to the rhythm of the song playing from the speakers. She seems calm, relieved. But at the same time also very unsophisticated, very natural. As if life has already made many attempts to suffocate her, to crush her. But that she has just as often found ways to breathe again, get up, brush the dust from her body.

The bus glides like a spaceship through the alien night. But I am starting to recognize the farms. The trees, the ditches, the meadows.