Methadone

by Jason Kapcala

On my bus, the cast of characters never changes. There’s Grace Donohue, who is so hunchbacked that she forms a right angle. I’ve often wondered what her worldview must be like—how it would feel to stare at your shoes all day long while life flashes by above your head. Across from Mrs. Donohue sits Johnny Geronimo. It’s not his real name. But I don’t know his real name. I only know that Johnny never quite returned from his tour of duty in Afghanistan last year—he left home a man and came back a boy. Every time we cross the bridge above the Delaware, Johnny yells out, “Geronimo.” I don’t know what to make of this. Some of the other riders despise him for it. I can see them in my extra-wide rearview mirror fingering their paste pearl necklaces and rolling their eyes up toward God as though to say, “Really? Was that necessary?”

Other riders have taken to joining him.

“Geronimo,” they say in perfect cacophony. Some more emphatically than others.

And then there are Wally and Gene. Wally reads the newspaper aloud, and Gene passes judgment on everything Wally reads. They’re like a less genial Abbott and Costello.

“Says here, this chimpanzee’s celebrating his seventy-fifth birthday,” Wally says, and I can see him in my mirror, pointing to a picture somewhere in the middle of The Morning Record.

“Must be a slow news day,” Gene says, folding his arms across his chest.

“He put his tongue right in the cake,” Wally adds, nodding.

Gene says, “You’d think after seventy-five years he’d know better.”

I’ve been working this job part-time on the weekends for about three months now. The pay isn’t great, but when you’re forty-something and suddenly single, driving a busload of impoverished geriatrics and heroin junkies to the top of Fernridge Mountain doesn’t seem like such a terrible way to moonlight. After sweating all week in a New Jersey plant, packaging condiments with a Hema filler, it’s nice to get out of the house.

***

I hate all of my passengers equally. Except for Diamond Jim. I love Diamond Jim. I could even be in love with Diamond Jim if he weren’t old enough to be my father. He looks like John Lee Hooker—even dresses the part, though I’ve never seen him wear a brown top hat. But he’s got the wraparound sun shades that fit over his eyeglasses and a Black Diamond guitar pick on a chain around his neck like a dog tag. He carries his guitar case with him and always sits in the seat directly behind me. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes he just clicks his false teeth and hums. On my first day driving the route, when I opened the door to drop Johnny Geronimo off at the methadone clinic, Diamond Jim stood up. He draped his wool coat over his arm, and tucked his guitar pick necklace down in his shirt. Then he picked up his guitar case and shuffled forward.

“Hon,” I said, touching his sleeve a little, “I think you’ve got the wrong stop.” I figured he was on his way to see a rheumatologist or even his cardiologist. I’ll probably never forget the look he gave me. His smile crooked, jaw unaligned.

“No, lady, I don’t suppose so,” he said.

***

A girlfriend of mine suggested I look into online dating. Love was just a mouse-click away, she insisted. She’d heard that loud, mustached doctor talking about it on Oprah. He’d said, “You’ve got to learn to listen to your heart before your heart can listen to you,” or something equally profound. 

“Shirley, it’s so easy,” she said, picking the croutons off her salad. “You just answer some questions and then a computer matches you up with the guys who are most compatible.”

I couldn’t even begin to tell her how heartbreaking it all sounded—that we’ve become so generic a computer can scientifically pair us. It’s practically eugenics. I wondered, briefly, what kind of person headhunts companionship online.

When I got home, I went to the website. On a whim.

The front page showed a smartly dressed investment banker named Todd embracing a thin blonde named Carlee. They’d been in love for nine months and counting. In the next frame, Todd was actually jumping, his legs and arms spread-eagled; Carlee laughed. A banner at the top of the page promised, “It’s never wrong to browse.”

The instructions were simple. One pull-down menu read, “I am a man/woman.” Then, below that, a second menu asked you to select which gender you were looking for. I had no idea I was “looking for” anyone, but I selected “man,” put in my zip code, created a profile, and heated a Banquet frozen dinner. Chicken with gravy that looked like mucus.

Now, two weeks later, I’m having dinner again. At an Italian restaurant named La Bella Sicilia with a guy named Todd, no less. I can barely stomach the irony. I wonder if every man on the site is named Todd.

I don’t want to be at this restaurant. It’s a beautiful stone building with ivy leaves painted along the floor and ceiling. Fresh flowers on every table. The waiter brings bread in a basket and drops it on your plate using sterling silver tongs. The wine bottles wear wicker skirts. And after you order, the waiter pulls a gold chord along the side of your booth, drawing a wine-dark curtain across your table for privacy. It’s all very lovely, but it’s also my ex-husband Mark’s favorite restaurant, and I just know he’s going to walk through that door any second.

“Order anything you want,” Todd says, hiding his face behind the menu. He’s a big meathead. On the car ride over, he managed to mention twice that he played fullback at Penn State.

I’ve already decided to order the most expensive item on the menu.

Todd asks about my job, and so I tell him about bus driving.

“That must suck,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say.

I don’t tell him that, sometimes, when the passengers are especially grumpy, the yearn to fire off the nastiest insults that leap to mind consumes me. I don’t know what holds my tongue. Maybe it’s an exercise in moral self-discipline—a forgive-us-our-tresspasses-as-we-forgive-those-who-tresspass-against-us moment. Or maybe it’s only the fear that I might say something too damaging—some cutting barb I can’t recant. I’ve always been good at pinpointing the tender spots—where to press to make it hurt. Now I’m burdened by my ability to read people’s wounds like lines on a roadmap.

I feel that way about Mark, too. We share custody of our three sons, and I still see him plenty. And every time, the responsibility never to dig into my stockpile of cheap shots, embarrassing secrets, 3:00 a.m. confessions, and taboo idiosyncrasies—no matter how badly I want to lob every spiteful hand grenade I’ve collected over the years—feels overwhelming.

I peek around the corner of the velvet curtain, like a child checking the audience at a school play, and right on cue, Mark steps on stage. He steps beneath the flowered trellis above the door and gives his reservation to the hostess. As he passes by our table, I reach out with my fist and punch him on the elbow. He stops for a minute and looks at the curtained booth. I can almost see him contemplating his options. I draw the curtain aside and offer up my easiest smile. 

“Shirley,” Mark says. “I might have known.”

“I wanted to see what you would do,” I say.

Mark introduces his new wife, Jillian.

“Mark, this is Todd. Todd, this is my ex-husband, Mark,” I say.

Jillian smiles tightly and nods while the two men awkwardly shake hands. She’s pretty enough—average looking, really—but not the kind of woman who necessarily turns heads. Still, it curdles my stomach how good they look together. Better than Mark and I ever looked. With their olive skin and their jet-black hair, they could be brother and sister.

I’m a six-foot tall blonde. Like Todd.

“Todd was a fullback at Penn State,” I say, knowing Mark has little interest in football.

“That’s right,” Todd says, perking up.

The waiter who brings our drinks saves Mark from that conversation.

For the rest of the evening, I’m only half there. I drink far too much. I can hear Mark and Jillian’s muffled talking from the booth behind us, that gaudy purple cocoon. In spite of myself, I want to know what they’re saying.

Things weren’t always easy with Mark. I’m thinking of one dark winter in particular, when we sent our three children to live with their grandparents for a few months, and we stopped talking to each other altogether. Ten rounds of passive-aggression and looks so rage-whet you’d think us capable of killing each other with axes. Of course, neither of us ever laid a hand on the other. Mark threw his clothes in a duffle bag and disappeared until spring. I drove north to The Meadows, an asylum I’d looked up on the internet—or rather, “a regional specialty provider,” according to the website.

The place looked like an old farm—crooked wood-slat fences lining a mile-long, two-way, manor-house drive. I half expected to find horses running in the fields. From my car, I could see a basketball court with netless hoops, flowers in windows, and a dozen or so low stucco buildings that looked like my oldest son’s apartment.

I sat in the car for forty minutes and no one came out. So I left.

***

“You know there are other fish in the sea,” Todd says after the waiter has left with the bill.

“What?” I say. I’m halfway through my third glass of wine; I haven’t been listening.

“You never know, you could be sitting right across from a largemouth bass.”

A largemouth bass? Oh Lord, this moment couldn’t be any more perfect.

I close my eyes. Blink a few times. “But Todd,” I say. “A largemouth bass is a freshwater fish. You wouldn’t find one in the sea.”

Todd cocks his head a little and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “It was a metaphor,” he says, grabbing his jacket and scooting out of the booth.

Later that night, when Todd, my very own largemouth ass, wheels his Camaro down a gravel backwoods road and says he’s taking me to meet his father, I start wondering how he plans to kill me. I’m not sure what to do. I can’t very well jump from a moving car.

The house is small and windowless. Built into a hillside. The middle of nowhere. It’s like something out of Silence of the Lambs. I’m a grown woman. Empowered. Independent. But I have no idea how I got into this situation. Maybe it’s the alcohol’s effect, but I’m not even appropriately alarmed by my circumstances.

“My father likes it dark,” Todd explains, opening the front door into pitch darkness.

There’s no way I’m following him inside. From down the hallway somewhere a voice calls out, “Boy, is that you?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Todd replies, grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind him.

In the next room, the father is propped up in bed with a half-dozen blankets pulled up beneath his armpits in spite of the heat. He looks like a leper. “Come, turn out that light. It’s too bright in here,” he says, coughing and motioning to the single shadeless corner lamp. 

Todd introduces me and the old man raises one hand like a monarch.

I say something about it being late, about working early and needing to be home.

“Drive her home, Toddy,” the old man says. “You know nothing good happens after midnight.”

***

Todd gets frustrated when I insist that he call a cab for me. The cab arrives a half-hour later, and when I climb in the back, the cabbie says, “Jesus, that’s one creepy looking house.”

***

My riders love to gripe. In fact, they feed on it. It’s like lava running through their veins. Or maybe just java—hot and thick and satisfying.

“Spring is no season for air conditioning,” Grace says, leaning sideways out of her seat so I can get a good look at her in the mirror as she wraps her shawl around her shoulders and glares at the floorboards. I turn off the AC and crack my window. The highway smells like roadkill.

“It’s almost noon already,” Gene says loudly, staring at his watch.

“It’s eleven forty-five,” Wally says.

“That’s almost noon,” Gene says.

“You’ve got appointments. I get it,” I say, speeding up a little when we hit the railroad tracks. Behind me, I hear some “Ooofs”—the kind of noise you make when you’ve eaten far too much for dinner. My passengers bounce in their seats.

“Geronimo,” Johnny says.

By law, I’m supposed to stop at every set of railroad tracks and open my door to look for on-coming trains. In all the years I’ve lived in Lakeville, I’ve never once seen a train. Still, I know I’ll hear about it from my supervisor tomorrow. One of these passengers will rat me out. They always do. They know the regulations better than I do. They live for a good slip up.

Ten minutes later, they get their wishes granted when a deer leaps out in front of the bus and we hit it. I never really see the deer coming. Not until it’s too late. There’s a sickening thump, and then I’m yanking the steering wheel hard toward the shoulder of the road. It’s an instinctive move. The wrong one, it turns out. These old transport busses are nothing like sports cars, and for a moment I’m afraid we might tip. Instead, we dip off the edge of the pavement, kicking up dust and gravel, and come to rest at the bottom of a small drainage ditch.

“Holy Mother,” Gene says.

Wally recites the Twenty-Third Psalm.

My hands shake as I radio in the accident. Then I help everyone off the bus. No one is hurt. Unless you count the deer. Grace Donohue quivers. Gene starts to say something else. I shoot him a dirty look and he reconsiders.

“Geronimo,” Johnny says, and I could just kill him.

Outside, there’s no sign of the deer we hit, but one look at the front of the bus suggests that the animal has gone off somewhere to die. Both tires on the driver’s side are flat. The passengers form little groups along the road’s shoulder. I assure them that help is on the way. But who knows when it will arrive or what that even means.

Diamond Jim sits on the guardrail. He’s trembling a little.

“Withdrawal,” he says. “Mostly.”

I nod and offer him a stick of gum. He shakes his head and points to his dentures. Then he pats the section of rail next to him, so I sit down.

I expect him to say something about the crash. About how it wasn’t my fault. Cars hit deer constantly along this stretch. But instead, he says in perfect nonsequitur, “You’re thinking I should get my act together. Get cleaned up. Throw the proverbial monkey from my back. . .”

I wasn’t, but I say, “Sure. Why not?”

“. . . Because when it comes down to it, every day is a new day,” Jim says, gesturing to everything and nothing, like a preacher reaching out toward his congregation. “Sun shining bright on my face. Birds singing in the trees. Children laughing and playing.”

“Well, isn’t it so?” I say.

Jim shoots me a sidelong glance that says, Come on sister, wake up and smell the road kill.

“Okay, have it your way,” I say. “Life sucks. Getting wasted feels good.”

Jim frowns heavily and chews the inside of his cheek. He barks one hard laugh.

“Why do guys like me go insane, become alcoholics or druggies? You think we’re just bored? No. It’s ’cause we all got one thing,” he says. He holds up his index finger. He’s waiting for me to ask. Probably he’ll wait all day if I let him.

“What’s that?” I say.

“Something,” Jim says. “Anything. Any one thing that keep you from living your life. From sleeping at night. From settling down with a wife and kids and a cozy acre of land somewhere. From making neighbors and having potlucks. And barbecues on the weekend. From buying a boat or taking up golf. Whatever. That one thing that hits you hard and fast like a Cassius Clay jab. Keeps you just left of center—makes you good at what you do. And all it costs in return is everything you’ve got.”

I stare at the mountainside across the highway. Some large rocks have fallen from its face. Water dribbles down from cracks in the rock, pooling along the roadside. I rub my forehead.

“That’s some really profound bullshit, Jim,” I say without looking at him.

“Do I look like I got a woman waiting at home for me?” Jim asks. “Dinner on the table? Kiss on the cheek? Grandchildren coming to visit, running in the halls? No, that’s not happening for me.”

Jim fingers the guitar pick at his neck, then balls up his hand into an arthritic fist. He says, “When it’s over . . . well. . .”

“Maybe you just need a hobby,” I say.

Jim looks over, and it’s as though he’s considering whether I’ve earned a smile or not.

“I suppose I could take up needlepoint,” he says, finally. “But I’d probably be too damn good at that, too.”

He laughs and wipes some perspiration from his forehead and he’s suddenly ageless. I want to kiss him. But I know it’s ridiculous, and so I don’t.

It takes a little over an hour for the emergency shuttle to arrive, and after I’ve helped the passengers with boarding, I agree to wait for the tow truck. 

“You want me to come back for you?” the shuttle bus driver, Georgie, asks.

“Maybe,” I say, and he nods.

I watch the bus disappear down the mountain; then I stare down at the accident site. My bus lists precariously against the guardrail, like a sinking luxury liner, its twin flat tires resting on the rims. Coarse brown animal hairs and blood cover the grille. I grab fistfuls of my own hair. It’s possible that my stint as chauffeur has ended.

Down in the ditch, next to the front fender, is Diamond Jim’s long, black guitar case. I should grab that for him. I edge my way down the weedy embankment one more time, bending heavily at the knees, searching for toeholds in the undergrowth.

When I finally make it back up to the road, I consider opening the case. It’s surprisingly light. I don’t know much about guitars, but I imagine what rests inside is expensive—probably a wine-colored Gibson Les Paul with creamy abalone inlay. Frets like gold. The kind of guitar my middle son mooned over for years in the guitar catalogues until Mark finally bought him one as a high school graduation present. I pluck at an imaginary string and listen to its twang.

When I do open the case, it’s predictably empty. No guitar. No drug paraphernalia. No concert playbills, or pictures, or mementos of any sort. Nothing. Just sad maroon lining, shiny felt worn smooth and greasy like the knees on an old pair of corduroys.

I walk up and down the quiet stretch of highway—maybe fifty yards or so—gripping the case by its handle. It’s like something out of those music videos my boys were always watching on MTV. When I get back to the accident site, I lean over the guardrail on the other side. I watch the Delaware River flowing down below, moving fast with the sound of rushing water and the twittering of birds in the trees, Jim’s guitar case in my outstretched palms. A sacrifice or a baptism; I don’t know which. But I let it drop. I don’t even know why, really.

The case hits the water with a splash, and then, to my surprise, surfaces. It sails downstream like a newspaper boat.

“Geronimo,” I say, but, as the case disappears beneath a small ripple, even I don’t think it’s very funny.