Bad-Ass Bus Drivin' Mammas
Jonesey tugged and tugged, but it just wouldn't come. He even tried a ratchet, but he couldn't get it off. Then an adjustable crescent wrench, and a wildly overlong box wrench with which he thought he’d be able to get enough leverage. But no. The oil pan plug wasn't budging. At first he cussed at the lousy schmuck who made it so tight the last time he changed the oil, but then Jonesey remembered he’d been the only mechanic to work on these school busses for the past 30 years. He snickered at this own revelation, and whispered, “Guess that makes me the lousy schmuck,” and he made his way to Ol’ Sally, the air compressor that had been employed by the school district even longer than he had.
He hated resorting to Ol’ Sally because, even though the diaphragm was still intact (preventing tires from getting pregnant for four decades, he liked to chortle over and over again to anyone who hadn't already heard the moldy old joke fewer than a half dozen times) one of the air lines was leaking and beyond repair. And Ol’ Sally sure did stink up the garage bay when he had to pull her cord and snap his pneumatic nut driver in place to change a tire, or loosen a stubborn oil pan plug.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jonesey,” said Miranda, “this town is chock full of lousy schmucks.” Jonesey was startled, thinking he was alone. He was alone 95% of the time in the garage, and so talking to himself was usually safer.
“Oh, hey ‘Randa,” he said. “You gave me a start. Usually you drivers steer clear of the garage.”
“Well, I have something I need to talk to you about, Jonesey,” Miranda said.
“Ok, ‘Randa. What can I do for you?” He asked in good faith, albeit suspicious.
Miranda side-stepped closer to Jonesey, and started fingering the buttons on his Dickey workshirt, noticing how they bulged more and more every year. He wasn't quite the specimen he used to be back in the day, when he was playing offensive tackle for the school’s football team and she was leading the cheer squad. They had both aged in the 30 years since they graduated, but as time was known to stand still in
and at this very high school, they overlooked each other’s dents and scratches. Geraldine Township
She got even closer, and jutted her hips forward so their thighs were touching while she continued to finger his buttons. “See, Jonesey, a man like you – powerful and red-blooded and…available – well, most of us women just go all to pieces when we’re around you.” She lowered her hand from his buttons to his belt buckle.
“In fact,” she continued, “when we fantasize about giving ourselves up to dominant, virile men, you’re the man we picture in our silly, girly daydreams.” Her hand moved down from his belt buckle to the inseam of his matching Dickey workpants, and she cupped his man parts. Jonesey held his breath, mostly to keep from hyperventilating as she caressed him, and whispered in his ear.
“But,” she said, closing her grip and making him wince in expectation of the pain he knew was coming. “There’s a little teensy-weensy problem, Jonesey.”
“Ok, ‘Randa, Ok, don’t get carried away now…”
But “carried away” is exactly what Miranda had in mind. And she squeezed.
“The teensy-weensy problem, Jonesey, is that I saw you trying to recruit Bridgett McCardle for some private one-on-one celebrating after the team won homecoming.” Miranda whispered in his ear again, but this time it was more like a hiss. “Do I really need to go over the rules with you again, Jonesey?”
“No, Jonesey!” she lashed out, squeezing his manhood tighter. He gasped, but refused to double over. To the two of them, he was still the football player and she was still the cheerleader. But, no, not really. She was calling the plays now. “Don’t even say it,” Miranda continued. “Do not even try to say ‘But ‘Randa, she’s 18 you know.’ Because that’s going to make me squeeze harder.
“Don’t…” was all Jonesey could croak.
“Ok, I’ll go over the rules again,” she conceded. “Eighteen is still a child, Jonesey! She’s still a student in this school, still a child living with her mom and dad, and we don’t touch children, do we Jonesey?”
“Please…” he winced, as a spray of cold sweat developed across his forehead trickled down the small of his back.
“Say it,” Miranda commanded.
“We…don’t…touch…children…” Jonesey said between breaths.
“Good boy,” Miranda said. She gave one sharp squeeze before letting go, and Jonesey moaned despite his best effort to show no pain. Miranda turned and walked away, as the other drivers started to pull in from the morning run.
Jonesey made his way to his tool rack and pretended to look for a long-lost item, while he was really trying to breathe his way through the waves of dull ache spreading out in all directions from his brutalized onions.
Miranda spied Constance, the young driver who put in her first run this morning, and waved her over.
As they approached each other, Miranda blocked the sun from her eyes, and noticed how smooth
skin was compared to her own. Youth, she sighed. We don’t touch children.
“Do we just go home until the afternoon run?”
“If that’s what you want to do,” Miranda said. “But I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the girls. Come into the drivers’ lounge.”
The drivers’ lounge was a rather quaint and charitable way of saying there was a store room in the garage that the drivers repossessed and outfitted with an old divan and coffee table and a few lockers that they pulled out of the dumpster after the boys’ locker room was renovated.
Constance by the
hand, and closed the door behind them. The rest of the drivers made room for
Miranda and Constance, fell into their circle,
joined hands, and chanted: “We are the bad-ass bus drivin’ mammas. We protect
our cubs by whatever means are necessary. We are the bad-ass bus drivin’
mammas. We protect our cubs…”