The Guy With the Rocks On the Bus

(awarded a silver key in personal essay/memoir in the 2017 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards)

By the time you get out of school, it is four in the afternoon. The 755 bus is supposed to arrive at the school’s 4:10, but it usually rolls in around 4:15. The bus’ tardiness wouldn’t matter if you had good company, and if it were above freezing. Instead, you stand alone as the freezing wind creeps under your jacket.

When the bus finally comes, it’s a fucking godsend. It stops in front of the line of pending passengers and one by one we are welcomed into the warmth. You’ll sit on the 755 bus for five or six stops and until it lets you off on Eighth and Hennepin. You shout your thanks as you stumble off the bus, trying to exit as fast as possible to try not to cause a scene. There is a two block distance between the stop for the 755 and the stop for the 18. Sometimes you walk slowly, others you chase after the bus in hopes of catching it in time.

The 18 is the busiest bus in Downtown Minneapolis. Finding a space to breathe on it takes effort, finding a place to sit takes more. If you’re lucky, you find someone who seems nice and sit next to them. This time, you sit next to a guy with a bucket of rocks on his lap.

He was wearing a black beanie that had "Chicago" proudly stitched onto it in white lettering. More importantly, he had a children’s bucket. It was plastic, like ones kids take to beaches. The bright orange bucket was lined with a shopping bag. You could tell he wasn’t looking for subtlety. He took out an small, empty cardboard box.. One by one, he removed a rock from the plastic bucket and inspected it thoroughly, feeling its texture and observing its shape. If deemed worthy, the rock was delicately placed in the box. There was nothing particularly special about these rocks, they looked like ones that anyone that could find on the street

You sat a couple of inches away with your earbuds in, listening to the Hamilton soundtrack, pretending it was punk rock. Taking a deep breath, you removed your earbuds and opened your mouth. You led with the fact that you’re a writer, and that you wanted to write about him, and then politely asked to know the stories of the rocks.

He explained he just returned from a trip to Chicago, where he spent time walking on the shores of the beaches. He collected these rocks, hoping they would be worth something to sell.

You didn’t want to burst his bubble with the idea that none of those rocks were worth anything whatsoever. Instead, you reached into the bucket in between you two and picked one up. You smiled and said,

"I think this one deserves to go in the box."

and it did.