the end of the line
when i was in the ninth grade, Calvary Baptist Church decided to run a bus service / ministry from Muskegon Michigan to Fruitport Michigan so that good Baptists of Muskegon could send their children to Faith Christian School, a ministry of Bethel Baptist Church and would not have to worry about the:
1.) multiple evils lurking in the local degenerate public school systems (not the least of which included: feminism, evolution, secularism, and pluralism)
2.) far more insidious danger(s) lurking inside the local West Michigan Christian School owned and operated by the Christian Reformed Church (who, notably, consumed alcohol, did not believe in the imminent return of Jesus Christ and the ensuing seven year tribution, attended the movies, and even allowed Christians who believed in *evolution* to teach in their denominational colleges).
The teenagers riding this bus were so merciless and disorderly that each week a new bus driver was hired and then quit. Occasionally the minister of visitation from Calvary Baptist Academy would be employed as a transitional driver.
Finally a little old man who was in his seventies was contracted to run the bus. In the first few days he greeted each student with a smile and a kind hello. Within a week, he stared straight ahead, brow furrowed as his little enemies filed onto the bus.
The elementary students sat in the front of the bus as far from the dangerous high schoolers as they possibly could.
I, having just moved to the area, and (for the most part) hating the high school already, found it neccessary to sit amongst the high schoolers so as to not engender any more alienation than I was already experiencing.
One girl, I'll change her name a little, Carrie, sat in the back. Always. She was the baddest of the bad.
On days when (I'll call him --) Bud would sit in the backseat with her -- her head would disappear into the hotly rumored realm of sexual favors or (which we, of course, did not call "sexual favors") the glassy straight - ahead intensity of both of their gazes would clue us into the fact that a "hand job" (as Max and his cohorts were keen to call them) was probably in session. We knew we'd hear all the details the next day, anyway. If "Bud" wasn't on the bus -- "Carrie" was doing one of two things:
a.) talking about the trouble she'd gotten in or caused or --
b.) causing trouble for the bus driver.
Occasional paperwads, regular commentary and one or two mooned cars on the highway were enough to drive the bus driving old guy to the edge.
Had it happened now, I would have been much more freaked.
After about a month (maybe it was more, I don't really have a chronometer that's very dependable in my memory banks), Old Guy pulled the bus to the side of the road, closed and locked the doors, stood up, and started to scream.
"You're all ungrateful! I'm not doing it anymore! Who was it?! Who did it?!"
Only the wierd thing was that *this* time -- nobody had done anything. The persecution had left some kind of mark in his consciousness like a glance at the sun will give you if you close your eyes right away. He was feeling spitwads when there were none. He was hearing nasty commentary when no one had given any. He was seeing standing, moving students when none had.
He yelled for fifteen minutes then sat down and stared at the doors. A third grader started to cry.
He turned to start driving again.
"Crazy old man!" yelled Carrie.
The brakes squealed. He hadn't yet pulled all the way onto the road. A passing motorist honked. Swerved...
He looked with rage in the wide overhanging mirror. The bus was silent for the next hour as the bus was gradually emptied of its riders.
The next day -- the visitation minister was back and we never saw the old man again.
Two years before, I would have complained to my parents that an authority figure had so misused us. My sense of justice, injustice & the obligations of authority had always been very strong.
Several months at Faith Christian had destroyed my sense of justice in the world. I knew that the Old Guy probably had it worse than we did. I knew that I certainly felt like hijacking the high school several days a week.
1.) multiple evils lurking in the local degenerate public school systems (not the least of which included: feminism, evolution, secularism, and pluralism)
2.) far more insidious danger(s) lurking inside the local West Michigan Christian School owned and operated by the Christian Reformed Church (who, notably, consumed alcohol, did not believe in the imminent return of Jesus Christ and the ensuing seven year tribution, attended the movies, and even allowed Christians who believed in *evolution* to teach in their denominational colleges).
The teenagers riding this bus were so merciless and disorderly that each week a new bus driver was hired and then quit. Occasionally the minister of visitation from Calvary Baptist Academy would be employed as a transitional driver.
Finally a little old man who was in his seventies was contracted to run the bus. In the first few days he greeted each student with a smile and a kind hello. Within a week, he stared straight ahead, brow furrowed as his little enemies filed onto the bus.
The elementary students sat in the front of the bus as far from the dangerous high schoolers as they possibly could.
I, having just moved to the area, and (for the most part) hating the high school already, found it neccessary to sit amongst the high schoolers so as to not engender any more alienation than I was already experiencing.
One girl, I'll change her name a little, Carrie, sat in the back. Always. She was the baddest of the bad.
On days when (I'll call him --) Bud would sit in the backseat with her -- her head would disappear into the hotly rumored realm of sexual favors or (which we, of course, did not call "sexual favors") the glassy straight - ahead intensity of both of their gazes would clue us into the fact that a "hand job" (as Max and his cohorts were keen to call them) was probably in session. We knew we'd hear all the details the next day, anyway. If "Bud" wasn't on the bus -- "Carrie" was doing one of two things:
a.) talking about the trouble she'd gotten in or caused or --
b.) causing trouble for the bus driver.
Occasional paperwads, regular commentary and one or two mooned cars on the highway were enough to drive the bus driving old guy to the edge.
Had it happened now, I would have been much more freaked.
After about a month (maybe it was more, I don't really have a chronometer that's very dependable in my memory banks), Old Guy pulled the bus to the side of the road, closed and locked the doors, stood up, and started to scream.
"You're all ungrateful! I'm not doing it anymore! Who was it?! Who did it?!"
Only the wierd thing was that *this* time -- nobody had done anything. The persecution had left some kind of mark in his consciousness like a glance at the sun will give you if you close your eyes right away. He was feeling spitwads when there were none. He was hearing nasty commentary when no one had given any. He was seeing standing, moving students when none had.
He yelled for fifteen minutes then sat down and stared at the doors. A third grader started to cry.
He turned to start driving again.
"Crazy old man!" yelled Carrie.
The brakes squealed. He hadn't yet pulled all the way onto the road. A passing motorist honked. Swerved...
He looked with rage in the wide overhanging mirror. The bus was silent for the next hour as the bus was gradually emptied of its riders.
The next day -- the visitation minister was back and we never saw the old man again.
Two years before, I would have complained to my parents that an authority figure had so misused us. My sense of justice, injustice & the obligations of authority had always been very strong.
Several months at Faith Christian had destroyed my sense of justice in the world. I knew that the Old Guy probably had it worse than we did. I knew that I certainly felt like hijacking the high school several days a week.
posted by Redbaerd at 7:04 PM
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