By Al Bruno III
September 12th: The powers that be will tell you that none of Albany's buses run after midnight on a Sunday, and anyone who says otherwise is crazy.
The problem is that people have seen a city bus prowling the streets in the hours before morning. They say its number is 55. They say its engine growls, its windows are filthy, and the make and model are decades out of date. There are even some folks who say getting onto that bus is the last thing you'll ever do.
Of course, the powers that be scoff at such stories, dismissing the handful of witnesses as drunks, madmen, or attention seekers.
Since some of my best readers are drunks and madmen, I decided to investigate this matter for myself. So I waited alone on the corner to see what the night would bring...
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...it was 1 a.m. when I confirmed the existence of Bus 55. I heard it first, coughing and growling its way up the otherwise empty street. Then I smelled it; it was a strange smell, like a combination of diesel exhaust and ozone. The driver was just a shadowy lump sitting in front of the steering wheel, and it was obvious from the speed he was going that either he hadn't seen me or he had seen me and wasn't going to stop.
Throwing common sense to the wind, I stepped out into the road. I had just long enough to think to myself that this would be a really stupid way to die, and then the bus stopped just inches from my nose. I hadn't heard the brakes squeal or the tires screech. The bus just stopped.
The vehicle's pneumatic door slid open with an impatient hiss, and I climbed aboard. There were no interior lights to keep me from nearly missing the top step. The bus driver didn't glance at me as I paid my fare; he just kept glaring out the windshield. I cleared my throat, "Good evening. I had some questions about—"
The driver turned and glowered at me until I retreated to the back of the bus, cringing every step of the way. There were no other passengers, but I found a spot near the back. Once I sat down, the bus's door hissed to a close, and I was on my way.
But to where I had no idea.
My fellow friends and freaks on the FEAR AND TRUTH message board had been talking about this bus all week. The user called 'TrueSeeker' had managed to triangulate its location but didn't have the nerve to actually go and investigate the phenomenon themselves, especially after what happened to Sara Bishop. I, on the other hand, was more than willing to risk my neck and other body parts for the sake of a killer blog post. I slipped my iPhone from my pocket and snapped a few pictures. Nothing exciting or earth-shattering, just a little of this and a little of that.
The windows were so filthy that I only had the vaguest sense of the scenery passing by, but it seemed somehow to be going by far too quickly for the amount of acceleration I felt. I wondered if that was the big mystery, that maybe some transportation company was testing a new suspension system.
After what seemed like an eternity and a half, the bus stopped again. A stooped figure in raggedy clothes climbed aboard Bus 55 and took a seat near the driver. He had his jacket collar pulled up tight around his face; all I could see were tufts of hair.
I waited for my fellow traveler to do something, change position, look my way, or do anything, but he kept still. More miles rolled by, then another stop. Two more men got aboard, tubby with ill-fitting suits and bad haircuts. The interior of the bus was still too dark and shadowy for me to make out their faces clearly. I started fussing with my iPhone again, wondering if I could use the low-light photo app to get a better look at their faces.
That thought was quickly followed by the realization that I had no cell coverage. I looked up, wondering what the bus's ceiling was made of.
And that was when I realized more stops had been made and more passengers had been picked up. One of them sat down next to me.
The first thing I noticed was his feet, his huge feet dressed in wingtip shoes. The stocky legs that sprouted from those shoes were dressed in pinstripe trousers that had been patched here and there. He had no jacket, but he wore a paisley vest. His face was covered by a thick layer of ash-colored grease paint.
He was a clown.
And as the other passengers crowded in around me, I realized they were all clowns. But they were not the colorful birthday party performers that probably just popped into your mind. These were sullen-looking monochrome hobos, bleak creatures that had never known a circus tent or a fairground.
Who were these people? Were they just coming back from delivering nightmares, or were they living through nightmares of their own?
Then the clown sitting beside me flashed a desolate smile and spoke my name, his voice a raspy whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "Welcome, Brian."
My heart pounded as fear surged through me. How did he know my name? I tried to stand, but the clowns moved closer, their presence suffocating. The bus's air grew thicker, the smell of greasepaint and sweat overwhelming.
"Let me out," I demanded, my voice trembling. "I want to get off."
The clowns' laughter filled the bus, a cacophony of mirthless, hollow chuckles. The driver remained silent, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Panic seized me. I pushed my way towards the door, but the clowns grabbed at my clothes, their grip cold and unyielding.
I struggled, pulling free from one grasp, only to be caught by another. Their hands were everywhere, tugging, holding, and pulling me back into the darkness. I fought with everything I had, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The clowns' faces were close now, their painted smiles grotesquely in the dim light. One of them whispered in my ear, "Stay with us, Brian. Forever."
Desperation fueled my movements. I lashed out, kicking and shoving, using my elbows to jab at their sides. The clowns recoiled slightly, their grip loosening. Seizing the opportunity, I lunged towards the front of the bus. The driver's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of sympathy. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by cold indifference.
I reached the door and pounded on it. "Open up! Let me out!"
The door didn't budge. I turned to face the clowns, their expressions a mix of anger and amusement. They advanced slowly, savoring my fear. My mind raced, searching for a way out. Then I remembered the emergency exit. I scrambled to the back of the bus, the clowns' hands grabbing at me, tearing my clothes, and scratching my skin.
I reached the emergency exit and slammed my hand against the lever. The door swung open with a screech, and I leaped out, hitting the pavement hard. Pain shot through my body, but I couldn't afford to stop. I forced myself to my feet and ran, the clowns' laughter echoing behind me.
I didn't stop running until my legs gave out. I collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping for breath, my body trembling. The sound of distant sirens filled the air, and I clung to the hope that they were coming for me.
###
This wasn't the first time the local police found me dazed and wandering the streets of Albany, and it probably won't be the last, but I was glad for the ride home. The officers who found me were kind enough not to ask too many questions. They chalked it up to another late-night misadventure and left it at that.
But I couldn't forget the terror I felt on that bus, the clowns' faces haunting my every thought. What happened? How did I get from that phantom bus to our local shopping mall?
I have no idea. All I remember—or at least I think I remember—is trying to fight my way to the exit while clumsy hands grasped at me and jolly voices made threats and offered candy.
Hours of research have left me no closer to any answers. There is no dark secret, no unfinished business or curse. There's no twist in my tale that will make sense of it all.
All I can tell you is that there is an impossible vehicle making its way through the darkened streets of Albany, and there's always room inside for a few fools more.
What was it the Firesign Theater used to say? "I think we're all Bozos on this bus."
Maybe I'm the biggest Bozo of all.
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