As we drove down Live Oak this morning, me riding shotgun and half doubled over since my Extra Strength Tylenol still hadn’t kicked in, I said, feebly, “Oh look.  There’s a short bus.  That’s two in one morning!”

“Yep.” Joey said, navigating through the slow traffic part of Live Oak where there’s flashing lights declaring it’s a School Zone…and yet there is no school anywhere in sight.  (That’s one of life’s great mysteries, one I ponder almost every morning.)

“I think Dallas has more short busses than any other town.  Or at least we just see more of them.”

Joey thought this was equally as unprofound as my earlier statement and said nothing.

“I used to ride the short bus when I was in elementary school,” I offered, attempting to sit up straight.  (I almost didn’t get out of bed this morning because I thought I might die if I did, but I decided to take life by the horns and give it a shot.)

Joey looked at me.  “YOU rode the SHORT BUS?”

“Yes, I did.”

He began laughing at me.  “YOU RODE THE SHORT BUS!!”  He squawked, completely ignoring the magnanimous amounts of pain I was suffering.

“I did ride the short bus,” I confirmed.

I let him laugh at me for awhile before adding, “It was the only bus my school had.”

I’m not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing to add, because he just laughed harder.  I didn’t realize until last year that “riding the short bus” was not considered something to be proud of.  But then, my school only had one bus, the aforementioned short bus, which always smelled like rotten PB&J, cheap vinyl, and Dave Starkey’s hair.  (His hair had tons of dandruff and when I sat behind him I used to imagine that it was actually snow.)

“At least it was painted white,” I continued, “And I think it was longer than the short busses we’ve seen today, because it felt bigger.”

“You were like seven,” Joey said.  “Everything feels bigger when you’re seven.”

I went to this particular private school in 2nd and 3rd grade. I don’t remember who bought the bus, but someone did and drove a route for those of us who lived in the northern suburbs, there were like 20 of us or so.  (Does anyone else remember the INCA short bus?)  I hated riding that thing.  No one picked on me (because no one ever picked on me a day in my entire life, I’m not really sure how that worked out…I was probably a bully or something since I can’t remember getting harassed) but it was the awful smell that bothered me, and the fact that it was always hot on that thing, making the smell worse.

On an unrelated note, it is now nearly 2:00, thus time for another dose of Extra Strength Tylenol.  That is currently more important to me than finishing my short bus story, so here’s where I’ll end it.  I’m sort of sorry.

Um…bye.