Something you may have once called a face. Now just a pile of bones and flesh bathing in green blood. That’s what got left of Joe. Joe was nobody. Actually, even less than nobody. Calling him nobody would acknowledge his existence. He does not deserve that. Joe woke up every day at the same time. He put on the same shirt. He bought the same coffee and bagel for breakfast. He sat behind the same cubicle in his work. For 30 years he was doing the same unimportant job. Receiving a message from the outside and redirecting it to the proper person on the inside. If anyone would ever care. He could’ve been replaced by a primitive program written in less than five minutes. But he did not. He was there for 30 years. For 30 years he sat behind his desk. Waiting patiently on a message just to send it somewhere else. For 30 years he had no ambition of changing his profession. For 30 years he didn’t burn out even once. There was nothing to burn. No passion to destroy. He was safe. He was immune. In his tiny cubicle for 30 years he wasn’t alive. Every day he went home by bus number 848 stopping right in front of his office building—a concrete massive of 200 floors suffocating so many souls similar to Joe’s.
Bus 848 has arrived. Half empty as always. He wants to sit in the back, as always. But the place is occupied. A tiny person with a black hood over his head. Joe cannot see its face. It’s weird. Somebody off a routine. He has never seen this person before. And he sits at his place. Joe finds another seat and settles down with a weird sensation in his stomach. A trespasser. Somebody who went off the rail. And now, he’s disturbing other people. Poor Joe he thinks of himself. Is it too much to want a little certainty in life? To have your breakfast, seat, and shirt is it too much? What if tomorrow this guy eats the last bagel at the coffee shop? Or sits at his desk in an office? What if he steals his shirt whilst he will be asleep? What’s stopping him from unknowingly taking all Joe’s possessions in the same fashion as he unknowingly stole his spot on a bus?
Joe starts to breathe a little more heavily than he’s used to. He never does. He does no sport. He never runs for a bus as he’s always at the stop on time. Why the heavy breathing? Joe pulls out his pleasure-gator from his pocket, such as everyone else on a bus. But before he turns it on, he turns around for one last time and desperately looks at his spot. The person is sitting still. Doing nothing. Doing nothing? What? What is wrong with this filthy bastard? Joe thought. Where’s his pleasure-gator? Is he even normal? Sitting here, doing nothing? Is he mocking him? Did he steal his seat on purpose? Joe’s breath is out of control, the sensation in his stomach turned to sharp pain. His sight is getting foggy. How can this indigenous bastard torture him so hard, with so a neutral face? He looks into nothingness. Unbothered. How can he be so calm and at the same time do such harm?
No. Joe thinks for himself. I cannot leave it like this. I went too far off my customs. No more or this will get out of hand. Joe stands up and starts wobbling towards the back of the bus. He stands a mere meter in front of a tiny person when he notices him. With a kind voice, he says—“May I help you sir?” Joe, without a word, hits the guy with his fist. As the hit lands, the man’s head goes full speed back, hitting the rear window, shattering it to little pieces. Before the head could even stop, another hit lands, now perfectly onto a nose shattering it to pieces as small as the shards. Joe keeps his neutral face during this operation. He lands two more hits on a face, adds a few kicks to the body and he’s done. The guy sits here unconscious, he picks him up and throws him out of a broken window. Then he proceeds to sit on his spot now covered in blood and shards of glass. He’s at peace. Right back at what he knew. For 30 years, he sat on this spot on his way home, and today is no different.
Joe left the bus at stop number 99 and headed towards his home. He arrives in a typical fashion right as the news is starting on TV. He sits on his couch and opens his beer, just as he did for the last 30 years. The sitting is a little more uncomfortable than usual as he still got some shards up his ass from the bus ride but he doesn’t let this slight discomfort ruin this moment. In the news, they talk about the murder that happened on bus number 848. Some crazy person beat the living soul out of a poor little guy and then threw him out the window. They showed a photo of him and a name. His name was Joe. Joe was nobody. Actually, even less than nobody. Calling him nobody would acknowledge his existence. He does not deserve that. Joe drove that bus every day for 30 years until one day. Some crazy person decided that 30 years were enough and there will be no other day. Joe watched the TV, passively, unbothered sipping on his beer and an idea struck him. A crazy thought caused probably by the toxins that are everpresent lately all around the city. What if he did something different? What if tomorrow for the first time in his life he made some change? He wondered what it would feel like. This curiosity gave him no peace. After a few moments of contemplation, he made a decision. Tomorrow is going to be different. He didn’t know what will be different but something will.
Tomorrow. Waking up at the same time. Putting on the same shirt. Having the same coffee and bagel for breakfast. On a way to work sitting on his spot, staring into a pleasure-gator. Arriving at work. Doing the same thing as always. He forgot about that stupid idea he had yesterday. He had forgotten until he got to a bus stop. His bus, number 848 called a 5 minutes delay. It happens pretty often as it starts in the suburbs and has to get through the entire city to get in front of Joe’s office building it often gets some few minutes behind the schedule. He didn’t care. He was about to pull out his pleasure-gator to pass this time as a normal person would do but something stopped him. It was a bus arriving. Number 849. He’s seen the bus a thousand times stopping here when 848 was delayed but today was somehow different. Something told him to step in. So he did. He sat on his usual spot he sat on for the last 30 years but he was on the wrong bus. He wanted to pull out his pleasure-gator as he did for the last 30 years but he simply couldn’t. Something was off. Something was different. He was fascinated by this new sensation. A bus 849. Who would have thought that Joe would ever ride it? But he does. Another person gets in on the next stop and sits somewhere in a middle of a bus. After a while. The person starts shivering. He looks at Joe for a second at then turns sight elsewhere. This goes on for the next five minutes and then out of a sudden, the person stands up. The person stands a mere meter in front of Joe and Joe—because he’s a very kind person—politely asks.—“May I help you sir?” Without an answer a direct hit lands on Joe’s face, he hears glass shattering and another hit. Then another and a few more. It’s happening so fast. It’s so different. Nothing like this ever happened to Joe in 30 years. He feels that something is lifting him, and in a second, he flies. He flies for a long time. He even dares to open his eyes. He’s in a bright endless space of nothingness. There’s nothing but light anywhere he looks. He’s confused for a while but then he realizes that that was it. That was what his life was about. He didn’t realize it until this moment but he was trapped. Trapped in a sameness. Only a change could’ve saved him and now it did. Joe closed his eyes and never opened them again. He flew through the light at peace. Forever.