5 cents (Or: A look into my soul)

I was in the shower.

Standing there, peacefully. Washfully, wetfully.

When I began to think…

How much money will I need for the bus? Oh, hang on, I have a Travel 10 (bus pass) so I can use that. But imagine I didn’t, how much would I need? $2 I think. Wait, it went up. I think it’s $2.10 now. I don’t have a ten cent piece but I do have two 5s.

But…

Do buses take five cent pieces? I’m not sure…

What if it was raining – absolutely pouring down, raining in sheets, torrents. And I had no umbrella and I needed to get to the train station or I’ll miss the train so I put my hand out for the bus and it comes by, through the misty rain, hard to see, windows fogged up, and I get on the bus and I say, ‘Burwood station’ and hand him $2.10 with two 5 cent pieces included, and the bus driver says, ‘No! I can’t let you on, we don’t allow 5 cent pieces.’ And I say, ‘What do you mean? It’s legal tender, I’m paying the right fare.’ And he says, ‘But I don’t have a little space in the cash drawer for 5 cents, I can’t take it.’ And I say, ‘Well, put it in your pocket then, and change it for a ten cent out of your pocket, or when you get back to the depot, ask someone to change it for you, no one will know.’ And he says, ‘No, I can’t do that.’

As the windscreen wipers as long as tree branches wipe the water from the front window and my heels are getting wet from the rain blowing in from the open door as I stand on the step in front of the open door, in desperation, I scream to the people on the bus, ‘Please! I need to get to the station! Can anyone change me a ten cent for two fives? Please! Please!’ But everyone just stares at me, saying nothing, wanting to get to work.

‘Off,’ says the bus driver.

I step off and into the rain, crying as the bus moves off, but no one knows I am crying because the rain has soaked me and everything through. I watch people stare at me through the windows as they pass, like I’m a fish in an aquarium. A wet one.

I walk off slowly, towards the station, my bag ruined, my laptop broken. I cry some more.

And then…

About fifty metres on, the bus stops!

I run, run, run. I jump on the bus as its door swings open. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ I say.

The bus driver smiles. ‘They made me stop,’ he says, ‘pay with the five cents, it’s ok. I’ll change it later.’

I’m so happy I drop the money with my wet fingers and it rolls around on the floor of the bus. I pick it up, blubbering, and hand it over. I turn and look down the bus and everyone starts clapping. It is amazing. I sit at the front, at those seats facing backwards and I tell everyone thank you as I take my wet bag off my shoulder. I am dripping everywhere.

Then my phone rings…

‘Hello?’

It is a policeman. He tells me my wife Jh has been in a car accident. She has died. I imagine her lying by the road. I panic. ‘My sons! My sons! Where are my two little boys?!’

Silence.

I scream but nothing comes out. I scream and scream again but nothing comes out.

‘We need you to come to the hospital,’ he says.

But I’m on a bus that was a struggle to get on to in the first place. It’s going the wrong way. I can’t ask him to stop now. What do I do? I’m stuck!

‘I need to go to the hospital!’ I cry, as I sit and people stare at me. ‘My boys…my boys…’

I’m blubbering, and it’s all because of those 5 cent pieces.

And then I get out of the shower, and tell Jh about what I was worrying about happening – all that I imagined.

‘Of course buses take 5 cent pieces, you idiot,’ she says.