Cliffhanger

“Every day seems hotter than the next,” I say, wiping my brow.

It’s now very late in the day, thirty degrees Celsius with eighty-five percent humidity, and this bus is FULL!

The Americans sit in the front. Next are the Chinese, followed by the Europeans. Meanwhile, the rest of the world sits in the back or stands in the aisle, disgusted by the thought of accidentally touching the sweaty stranger standing next to them. Some have even taken up residency on the roof—whole shantytowns, hanging on for dear life. In times past, people would bring animals on the bus, but they’re only roadkill now. Even the pesky mosquitos are no longer with us. God, how I miss the mosquitos… Did I mention it’s hot? Conversation is kept to a minimum and held only in a whisper. Even the children are mostly silent, nervous about their prospects. Everyone looks ahead at the road, but the view is impaired, and we’re all just trying not to get carsick at this point.

The bus to Nowhere is driven by an elderly white man, who in turn is driven by ambition and an insatiable thirst for money and absolute control. In fact, if he were to sit any more forward in his seat, his nose would be touching the windshield. He looks quite frail and probably should’ve retired years ago, while he still had all his faculties, but he’s too punch-drunk on power, and nobody can get him to let go of the wheel. There are others in line standing right behind him, but they must wait until he can no longer hide the certainty that he has become blind and senile, and hasn’t an idea where he’s going. We all try to relax, but it’s too hard with the crazy old man climbing up the narrow mountain road like there’s no tomorrow. Not even for the curves does he slow down. At any moment, it would take just the slightest lift of a wheel or perhaps an unexpected rock in the road to bring the whole thing tumbling down.

The news I read most days feels like looking out the window of this noisy, smoke-spewing, metallic beast. I take a glance and shudder at the precarious state of it all. As for the rest of the passengers, they’re in a state of frozen panic, with half-smiles that barely conceal their anxiety.

Some try to convince the kids that everything is alright, but there’s no gaslighting it. A mother tells her son to close his eyes, when suddenly the bus swerves inches away from what’s easily a hundred-foot drop. Good grief, I think to myself, trying not to lose my lunch.

“Just let us know when we get there!” someone calls out from the back.

Academics and pundits tell us that the world has never been better—and has never been worse. We have less poverty, but fewer resources. We have less disease, but too many people. We have less war, but weapons capable of destroying the Earth several times over. We are more connected than ever, and at the same time, we have never felt lonelier and more isolated.

I remind myself that I need to stop watching so much news, that I need to spend less time looking out the window and worrying about things I can’t change. I tell myself to find solace in that which is the immutable witness to it all.

I slowly let go of the seat in front of me that I was grabbing onto like a castaway out at sea.

I sit back.

I take a deep breath.

I go in.