Hunter and the Hummer

 

Hunter walked to the bus stop, dreading what was now his daily routine. The sun beat down on him, reminding him how much he missed the air conditioning of his old car. It broke down last week. He glanced down at his watch for the fifth time and picked up his pace.

He and the bus arrived at the same time. He paid his fare and sat in the first seat that faced the front. He was always able to get this specific seat. If this was a weekday, someone would sit next to him on the second stop. By the third stop, some oaf would stand in front of him, smelling like he had not changed his pants in days.

His first Saturday trip was far more comfortable. The ridership on Saturday was half that of weekdays. Almost everyone had an empty seat next to them.

On a weekday, some idiot would be blaring cacophonous sounds from his phone, something only an idiot would describe as music. Some poor bastard would be going on about how his wife was a whore. Some toddler would be screaming, like he had not been fed breakfast. The mother would shout at the child to “shut up.” She'd follow that by smacking him across the face, teaching the child at least one way to solve his problems.

Not today though, the bus on a Saturday was a welcome relief. Someone even started humming. Hunter recognized it as something from The Wizard of Oz.

Ding, dong, the witch is dead.

Hunter could heard the words in his head as the person hummed the tune. He turned to look for the hummer. He did this discreetly. He had learned from watching other riders what qualified as proper bus riding decorum. Those that did not follow the unwritten rules ended up having unpleasant commutes. There was only one rule really, mind your own business.

The humming was annoying, but not as bad as some of the crap he has had to put up with this week. At least this was entertaining, and nostalgic.

For five straight minutes, and two bus stops, this person kept humming the song. Hunter remembered more lines.

Which old witch? The wicked witch.

After six minutes, its entertainment value quickly plummeted. Ten minutes was downright ludicrous. Hunter nonchalantly turned around for the third time, trying to find where it was coming from. He had no luck. He had no intention to ruffle feathers, but at least he would know who to aim the evil eye at.

Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Which old witch? The wicked witch.

Fifteen straight minutes of humming the same damn song. How can someone be so inconsiderate? At this point he’d rather taste a fart from that fat dirty bastard that usually stood in front of him.

Hunter pulled his hands up to his ears to try and muffle the noise. No solace was found. The song continued to ring through his head.

Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Which old witch? The wicked witch. Ding, dong, the….

Thirty minutes in, Hunter gave up trying to find the source. Now he was hunting for someone who could empathize, a partner in misery. As he looked around, no one else showed signs of distress.

He craved some acknowledgement, from anyone. The absurdity of forty straight minutes of humming and nobody looked upset about it. He began to question whether it was all in his head.

Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Which old witch? The wicked witch. Ding, dong, the wicked witch is dead.

His bus stop was next, and it could not come fast enough. He pulled the string to alert the bus driver. As the bus was stopping, Hunter couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up and faced the back of the bus.

“Shut the hell up! What kind of mental torture artist are you?!”

Everyone in the bus stopped. They looked at him. Hunter's head quivered as he brought his fists to his ears.

“What's wrong with you people? How can you stand this?!”

They thought he was mad. Those that had never seen him before were afraid. One man looked ready to tackle him. The majority went back to their daily routine.

He got off the bus. The funeral home he worked at was only a couple blocks away. The song was still in his head, but at least the humming had stopped.

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