I sit in the front row like a star student who intends to graduate at the top of his class.
“How are you doing, sir?” I ask the elderly driver. He wears the blue shirt the city drivers wear as part of their uniform, paired with beige slacks. The blue hat that matches the shirt casts dark brown eyes into shadow.
“Mr. Crossbow,” he says, “I didn’t think you took public transportation.”
“My first time, actually.”
“I’m honored,” he deadpans, his tone telling me he’s clearly not.
“I need to take the line 66 bus that goes toward the border. Am I on the right track?”
He nods. “If you get off by the docks, which is seven stops from now, you’ll catch 66 before it leaves for the day.”
Our public transport is excellent when you judge it by how it can get you around the city, or the whole country, for that matter. But if you weren’t born and raised here and you don’t know how it works, it’s a nightmare. Anyone trying to find their way around Selnoa via public transport will probably get lost.
The natives like it that way. They don’t want the tourists on buses or expats in the city, so they make it harder to get around. The records of the bus lines are outdated, and the buses are over forty years old, with no air-conditioning. Mind you, we’re on the Mediterranean, where the summers clock in at over forty degrees Celsius.
Selnoa thrives in this controlled chaos. I’d like to standardize the bus lines. Maybe the mayor can do something about it.
The bus makes its stops, and little by little, the previously relatively empty space fills up with more passengers. They recognize me and sit as far from me as possible. Even the elderly, who should sit up front, won’t take the vacant space next to me.
People act like I have the plague. The guns I carry openly don’t help either. It’s for the best.
The bus makes its seventh stop, and the driver turns toward me. “This is your stop.”
I thank him and exit just as bus 66 pulls up. I get in and ride it out of the city, then get off. I’m not going in the direction of the border. That’s a diversion in case someone comes looking for me or is tailing me. I doubt anyone is right now, but my brother will look for me. When I’m ready to be found, I’ll let him find me.
From my backpack, I take out my black windbreaker jacket and sling it on. I put on a cap to hide my face. With the shades on and a hat, I won’t be recognized as I switch buses.
Besides, I’ve got access to the cameras in the city, but there’re none out here.
I catch another bus and get comfortable in the back.
It’s a long ride to the other side of the coast.
It’s twilight when I get off the bus in a small, cozy town of about twenty-seven thousand people. I walk the short distance between the bus stop and the city center. A group of boys running with ice cream cones in their hands nearly knocks me over.
A woman rushes after them, telling them to slow down. She curses under her breath, then sits down at the table with two other women. They’re having their evening cappuccinos. The outdoor tables of the street cafés spill onto sidewalks that are full of people of all ages socializing this evening.
Yet, it’s less noisy than the big city.
I walk through the lively square. Lively with people, but not noisy with buses or honking cars. Older men gather around a table where two men are playing backgammon. There are three more tables like it. Families walk their dogs. A young couple hold hands as they eat leftover movie popcorn.
Straight ahead after I cross the square, I come upon a church as well as a hotel a little farther up on the left. I head toward the church. The hill behind it is steeper than I expected, and I’m breathing a little heavier as I search for the address I paid seventeen million pounds for.
866 Lover’s Lane
A bunch of dreamers founded this coastal town. It’s not like Couldermouth, the coastal town I grew up in. You won’t find a lover’s lane in Couldermouth. You’ll find a Deranged Anchorpirate bar. If a stranger walked down a residential street in Couldermouth like I’m doing here, the people would dial my uncle Endo and report a stranger. He’s the authority there. Law and order.
I strolled down the streets here, and they barely even looked at me.
Don’t get me wrong, we have tourists in Couldermouth, but they stay in their designated areas. They don’t venture into residential neighborhoods. Not the middle-class ones, that’s for sure.
Oh, hey, here’s 866 Lover’s Lane.
A two-story white home with green trim and a green door. Two border collies lounge on the porch, one with a damaged ear, as if someone had bitten it. It’s an old wound. We all have those.
Mindful of the animals, I test them by slowly opening the gate.