Comfort Station

9:00 P.M

Fred Dingbat was tired. It had been a long day, one hell of a long day, ever since six o’clock this morning, threading this mighty Crosstown bus through the ever-changing maze of the city. And the rain had poured down out of the sky, which was above, drenching an already-drenched city. And a million life stories had played out another portion of their tales all around him, in the seething metropolis: New York.

But now it was nearing its close, the long day, one of the longest days of Fred Dingbat’s life. Supervisor Cracky had been by a little while ago to promise him this was the last circuit he would have to make, that at Twelfth Avenue his replacement was awaiting him at last. And Fred could go home, back to the wife and children, back to all his own private personal problems, back to the memory of those frozen moments in Korea, when ...

But no. He wasn’t going to think about that anymore. Not ever.

The Bryant Park Comfort Station. Looking out the rain-flecked windshield of his behemoth of the buslines, Fred saw that the Comfort Station was closed for the night. Mo Mowgli was standing there at the bus stop, in the rain, waiting.

Fred stopped. The bus door opened. Mo plodded aboard. “Evening, Fred.”

“Evening, Mo.”

Mo sat down in his usual seat. “I’m tired,” he admitted.

“Heard you had some excitement today,” Fred commented.

“A day like any other day,” Mo said wearily. “And I was there.”

They rode in companionable silence, these two, both vital parts in the mighty machine that makes up western civilization, both humble in their station and yet proud of their purpose in the greater scheme of things.

At Ninth Avenue, Mo left the bus, stepping down into the rain drenching an already-drenched city.

“Night, Mo,” Fred said.

“Night, Fred,” Mo said.

Fred drove on. There were no passengers in the bus, except for one gent sleeping toward the rear. He’d been there for quite a while, sleeping, and Fred hadn’t wanted to disturb him. A stocky swarthy man in a London Fog raincoat with a pencil moustache, he was one of half a dozen similar men who had come aboard as one man a couple of hours ago, whence all but this one had since departed.

A heavy sleeper, thought Fred. Funny how the stopping and starting of the bus didn’t wake him. Well, Fred would wake him at the end of this run, the last run of the day, when he got to Twelfth Avenue.

Fred looked out the rain-swept windshield of the mighty omnibus. Far ahead he could see his replacement standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him. Fred looked up. The rain was stopping, at long last.

It would be a nice day, tomorrow.