I’m 73 years old, and I thought I’d seen every shade of human cruelty. But nothing prepared me for what happened when a bus driver’s sudden braking sent me flying into a pole, and then he threw me onto the frozen street to save his own skin. What came knocking three weeks later changed everything.
I’m May. I’m 73 years old, and I’ve lived long enough to know that people can surprise you in the worst possible ways. But that icy morning last winter?
That was something else entirely. It was just another Thursday. Gray sky, frozen streets, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there.
I’d just finished my appointment with Dr. Harrison — the same routine checkup I’d been doing for years. Arthritis in my lower back, he’d said.
Nothing unusual for a woman my age. Take these pills, do some stretches, and you’ll be fine. “Miss May, you’re doing remarkably well for your age,” he’d told me, scribbling on his prescription pad.
“Just take it easy on these icy sidewalks. One fall could set you back months.”
I smiled at him. “Doctor, I’ve been navigating these streets since before you were born.
I’ll be just fine.”
If only I’d known how wrong I was. I shuffled out of the clinic and waited at the bus stop, my breath forming little clouds in the frigid air. The bus that pulled up was the same route I’d taken for 20 years, but the driver was new.
I could tell right away. The regulars — old Eddie, sweet Maria, who always asked about my garden — they knew me. They’d wait while I climbed the steps, giving me a moment to settle.
This one didn’t. He was a stocky man, maybe late 30s, with a face that looked like it’d been through a meat grinder. His name badge said “Calvin.” Dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his jaw, hands gripping the wheel like he was holding on for dear life.
“Move it, lady,” he muttered as I climbed aboard. I didn’t say anything. Just swiped my card and made my way to my usual seat… middle row, window side.
The bus was empty except for me. The heater was barely working, and I could see my breath even inside. “Excuse me,” I called out.
“Could you turn up the heat? It’s freezing back here.”
He didn’t even look in the rearview mirror. “The heater’s broken.
Deal with it.”
Nice guy, I thought. Real charmer. We lurched forward, the bus rattling over potholes and patches of black ice.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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