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Eleven Stops
Episode 1 of 3 of The Twelfth Stop by Lorna Keough · free to read
Bramlett handed me the manifest through the window.
“Three tonight,” he said. “Light run.”
Three names, three seats, Kirksville to West Plains. Route 9. Departure 10:40.
Then I read the header.
STOPS: 12.
“Curtis. This says twelve.”
“Says what?”
“Twelve stops. We run eleven.”
He leaned in and turned the page toward the light.
“Says eleven.”
It did. It said eleven the way it had said eleven for nine years.
“Long week,” he said.
“Long week.”
“You want it reprinted?”
“For what.”
“For nothing,” he said. “That’s what I figured.”
I did the pre trip anyway, all of it, because the pre trip is the one part of this job that never argues back. Marker lamps. Flashers. Tires with the mallet. Air up, brake test, hold. Triangles in the bay, kit behind the seat, wipers, mirrors.
412 is a 1999 and still carries the hand crank destination sign. I rolled it around until it read WEST PLAINS.
Then the log, and my name at the bottom. Sharon Gentry. Coach 412. Cardinal Coach Lines.
Nine years on this road. Eleven stops. Kirksville, Macon, Moberly, Columbia, Jefferson City, Vienna, Rolla, Licking, Houston, Cabool, West Plains. I can say them with my mouth shut.
Three riders came out of the depot with their tickets already in hand. I read them off at the curb the way I always do.
“Dwight. Ball cap. You’re off at Houston.”
“That’s me.”
“Restroom’s in back. Ten minutes in Columbia.”
A man with a duffel, riding to Cabool. A woman in a work coat, riding all the way.
I pulled the lever and the door took the air with the same sigh it has taken it since 2017.
Bramlett knocked the side twice, the way he does.
“Easy run, Sharon.”
“They’re all easy.”
That held until about four in the morning.
Macon at 11:15. Nobody on, nobody off.
Moberly at 11:55, five minutes, engine running.
Columbia at 12:40. Ten minutes. I stood in the lot with my arms crossed and counted all three of them back up the steps.
South of Jefferson City this road goes quiet in a particular way. The towns turn into porch lights. The markers come at you steady and the coach makes the same three noises for two hours.
Jefferson City at 1:30. Vienna at 2:15. Rolla at 2:55.
Between Vienna and Rolla you lose the radio and get it back. I stopped noticing when years ago.
Licking at 3:35, where the shelter has a bench and a schedule board with our times on it in white letters. Nobody under it.
Mile 152. Mile 151. Mile 150.
At 149 there is a gravel pull off and a post with nothing on it. There used to be a sign. It came down before my time.
A woman was standing at the post with a bag.
She had her arm out. Flag stop. Arm out flat, palm down, the way the old drivers taught people to do it, the way nobody does anymore.
We do not stop at 149. There is no stop at 149.
I held sixty two and went past her.
In the mirror the pull off was empty.
I took the company phone out of the cradle and thumbed it.
“Dispatch.”
“Curtis, do we flag anywhere between Licking and Houston?”
“Negative.”
“Nothing at 149.”
“There’s nothing at 149, Sharon. There’s a fence.”
“Copy.”
“You all right?”
“Deer,” I said. “Almost.”
“Well. Watch yourself out there.”
“I always do, Curtis.”
I put the phone back and drove.
Houston at 4:00.
I set the brake and opened the door and stood up and called it. “Houston.”
Nobody came up the aisle.
I put the dome lights on and walked it. Fourteen rows. The duffel man in 3 with his chin on his chest. The work coat woman in 6 with her jacket against the window.
Seat 9 was empty. The seat back was down and there was nothing on it.
“Anybody for Houston,” I said.
Nobody was for Houston.
I stood in the aisle with my hand on a seat back and made myself go through it. He got on at Kirksville. He answered to his name at the curb. He asked me about the restroom somewhere north of Columbia.
I shut the door and drove to Cabool.
The duffel man got off at 4:28 and thanked me twice.
West Plains at 5:10, five minutes down, which is nothing.
The work coat woman came past me at the door.
“Thanks, hon.”
“Have a good one.”
Then the lot, the sodium light, the clipboard, the pen on its chain. I do the paperwork on the front step where there is air.
Three boarded Kirksville. One off Cabool. One off West Plains.
I sat with it a while, waiting for the sentence that would make it ordinary. He slept through Houston and got off behind my back at Cabool. People do that. People do that all the time.
Then I wrote the numbers in and the numbers would not close.
Three went down the aisle at Kirksville. Two came off my coach.
I did the post trip and the log. Six hours fifteen driving, seven forty on duty. Then I drove home with the windows down.
I came in one name light.