Busses

Way, way back long ago, lost in the mists of time, the busses were the kings of the forest. They weren’t particularly noble or wise – in fact, they were a bit…slow – but it was a simpler time, and the busses ruled simply because they were bigger than the other vehicles.

Now in addition to being big – and a bit dim – they were very gregarious. They loved to chat with all the other vehicles, to go around the forest picking up bits of gossip, dropping off pieces of news. And when they got to the end of the path, they’d go back and do it all over again. And again. And again.

The only vehicles they didn’t end up talking to were each other because, well, they weren’t too careful about what they ate, so they tended to emit an awful stench, which kept them from following too closely in one another's tracks.

But in general they were very happy with their lives: trundling along one by one, chatting away to their friends, and stinking.

Well, the other vehicles were not so happy. In fact, they were downright fed up! And so they called a secret meeting, late one night, when the busses had all gone back to the depot. The family cars all came, and the minivans, the black cabs and the sporty roadsters and the motorcycles. Even the bicycles were there, skimming around through the crowd and glinting in the moonlight.

The cars began airing their grievances: The busses were big and noisy and stinky, said a Ford Mustang. Yeah, added a Chevy Impala, and they always expected you to stop and let them pull out in front of you. And worst of all, they all agreed, was the monotonous regularity with which they appeared. Just when you were dropping off into a really good afternoon snooze, a 22 would thunder by and wake you up. So you’d decide to get up and have a cup of tea, and just as you’d poured it, and lifted it to drink, a 16 would rumble by and shake the trees so hard that a papaya would crash down and smash your teapot in two.

It was awful. Something had to be done: the busses must be made to leave the forest. They all honked their horns and revved their engines in agreement.

The bicycles started to say said, “um, I’m not sure that such a good—” but the roar of the engines drowned them out, as the plans were discussed and the decisions made. In the end it was agreed that the cabs would do the dirty deed.

So the next evening, in the gloomy dusk, the cabs positioned themselves at a place where the road came out of the forest and around a bend, so that they couldn’t be seen. And they waited. Their shiny black carapaces gleamed, and their engines growled, low and menacing.

They could hear the first bus approaching, singing a little ditty to itself: “the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and—” Suddenly it found itself faced with a row of 20 black cabs, lined up door to door, and steadily advancing. The bus was startled, and the cabs took advantage of its confusion to force it from the path and chase it up over a small rise and down the other side, where the hill sloped away steeply, and the bus gathered speed and ended up going faster and faster, and farther and farther away until it was just a tiny speck in the distance.

The cabs wheeled back into position and waited for the next one to come down the path. In this manner, all of the busses in the forest were driven away.

At first the inhabitants were glad. The air was fresher. The forest was quieter. And you could get in a good long snooze and a decent cup of tea, without being interrupted all the time. But slowly the vehicles began to realize that all was not well. For instance, the vines and trees started to close in on the path and block out all the light, without the large bodies of the busses to keep them clear. And the path itself started to get lumpy and bumpy without the heavy weight of the busses to keep the earth packed down solid.

But, most worryingly, the communities began to break apart. Without the busses going around the forest in their daily routine, passing on the gossip and the news, and keeping everyone in the loop, the cars began to lose touch with what was going on with each other. They became increasingly isolated. The cabs began whizzing around as if they ruled the road. And the motorcycles ran hog wild!

The bicycles watched this happening with growing dismay. They knew there was only one solution: to find the busses and bring them back! So they set off up over the hill and down across the countryside, searching here and there through fields and vineyards, hills and valleys until, finally, they found the busses and pleaded with them to come back.

The busses were reluctant. They had blundered into a cornfield and had been eating the corn, and the fuel was so clean that their exhaust didn’t stink anymore! For the first time in their lives they were enjoying each other’s company.

But the bicycles stressed to them how much they were missed, how the forest was coming apart without their steady presence to hold it together. And as they heard about what was happening with all of their old friends, the busses began to tear up so much that they had to put their wiper blades on high. And so they agreed that yes, they would come back to the forest.

All the vehicles were overjoyed to have them back. Even the cabs apologized and welcomed them home. And so they returned to their routine, going round and round the forest, jolly – and dim – as ever. But they were at least wise enough to realize that the reason they’d been overpowered, and forced from their home, was because they were so vulnerable spaced out one by one along the path as they were. So now they always travel in packs, to prevent anything like that from ever happening again.

Andrea Blumberg