SNAPSHOTS 15 The second to last bus of the night arrives, and the students spring toward it, scrambling on board as if they are lost at sea and have found their lifeboat. “This is route 11,” drones an automated voice as the bus pulls away from the station. The frat boy types take over the back of the bus and loudly discuss football. But one bro, overtaken by fatigue, leans his head on another bro’s shoulder. It’s a surprisingly tender moment, particularly amidst the hullabaloo of masculinity playing out around them. The moment is soon punctured, though, as one of the frat boys yells of someone unknown, “He sucks dick!” The bus approaches the last downtown station. Streams of students emerge from The Commons, racing toward their lifeboat, forming a blob that collectively pushes its way forward. But just as the mass solidifies, a group of girls, oblivious to the bus’s approach, jumps out into the street in front of it. The bus comes to a screeching halt as the driver slams on the brakes, staring in disbelief. The girls pay him no heed, running across the street with reckless abandon — fearing nothing, believing nothing can hurt them. A girl on the bus turns to her friend, shaking her head knowingly. “They’re probably freshmen.” With the bus at a standstill, the blob moves forward, shoving its way on until it seems that every square inch has been filled. Students jostle into each other, creating a sea of bodies pushed together in much the same way they
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just were on the Moonies dance floor. The driver waits for any semblance of calm. But after a minute or two, a group of guys gets impatient. “MOVE THAT BUS! MOVE THAT BUS! MOVE THAT BUS!” they chant. “SHUT UPPPP!” someone yells back. Finally, the driver — a middle-aged man with dark bags under his eyes — gives up on controlling the situation. The bus pulls away from the stop and begins to climb the hill, its engine straining against gravity like an exercise junkie trying to finish a long series of pull-ups. As it advances, the bus hits a series of bumps, knocking around its passengers — whose alcohol-filled bodies are already having difficulty maintaining a center of gravity — and producing melodramatic yells and screeches as the students tip into one another. The bus continues to move forward, and the voices of its passengers combine to form a cacophony of sound — a din that reverberates around the close confines of the bus. Still, the voices of the frat boys manage to rise above the rest. “It’s fucking Friday,” one hollers. “I love AEPi,” shouts another. Around them, an array of passengers sits (and stands) in sullen silence. Their dilemma is simple: Many are drunk enough to want to be home, but not drunk enough to be amused by the discordant tones of masculine-driven tomfoolery echoing around them. To them, the bus ride feels as if it will never end — like they are stuck in some science-fiction continuum
where time ceases to move forward. As the clamor of voices from the back continues, a girl in the front slumps into her friend’s lap. Her friend reaches forward and hugs her close. The bus stops midway up the hill to let some people off, opening its doors and exposing the continued pitter-patter of rain outside. The noise from inside the bus swells, and the driver leaves for a moment, ostensibly to check that everything is still intact after the bumpy ride up. More likely, though, he just needs a minute of peace away from the horde. Soon, he returns and drives on. When he pulls away from the stop, the lights from inside cast a glow on a figure walking up the hill; he looks dazed, confused and windblown as he’s left behind. Back on the bus, what is a party for some and a nightmare for others continues on. Soon they’ll all clamber or stumble off. But for now, pressed against one another, they yell, chant, slump and roll their eyes as the bus pulls itself up the hill, advancing farther into the night. At long last, for one guy at least, it’s over. The door swings open, and he steps off. The bus rolls on, the only source of light in the dark of the street. Still, for a few seconds, the voices of its babbling passengers are still audible, drunkenly whooping their way up the hill. It’s fleeting, though, and soon the sound of inebriated shouting fades, followed by the roar of the engine. Finally, as the bus turns the corner, all that’s left is silence — a silence only broken by the soft sound of falling rain and the wisp of a gentle, calming wind.
STudents jostle into each other, creating a sea of bodies pushed together in much the same way they just were on the moonies dance floor.”