Money For The Bus

• Lachlan Weal, Grade 9, South Sydney High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'Write As Rain 2014' competition

The honks and the beeps of the other cars merge in with the grinding of the bus stopping in the busy city street. The pushes and shoves of people desperate to get on the already packed bus knock an old, clearly poor man down, and I watch as his coins roll and spin slowly into the street, before dropping down into the gutter. I see the look of anguish on his face, as the pennies he had obviously been saving for the occasion drop out of reach. More people push and shove, men in suits with briefcases, woman in skirts and dresses. They all push him, and no one reaches down to help him up. I step forward, hand reaching out, but my father’s hand knocks it away, looking around at his fellow workers to see if they noticed. I felt a pang of sorrow for the man, after all, what did he do to deserve being poor and ignored? With my father’s hand on my shoulder, I watch and stare as he goes to sit down on the bench, before a group of boys jump onto the bench and pretend like he wasn’t there.

With a hand in my pocket, I reach in and pull out a two dollar coin. Its sides are worn, with scratches dulling the surface. I look up to see my father talking to a worker, then drop the coin on the ground, where it slowly rotates toward the man. As he bends over to pick it up, groaning the colourless bus pulled up at the stop. Grinding noisily to a stop, the sound fading and merging in pain as he does, our eyes meet, and I see a glint of happiness as a result of the small act of kindness I had made. As the bus rolls in, with remarkably less people on than the last one, he rises and walks on, ignoring the stares and hushed remarks. As I sit down, with my head leaning on my father’s shoulder, the man looks at me, smiles and turns to face the back of the head of the person in front of him. For the first time I take in his clothes, and his filthy beard. The tracksuit pants he is wearing looks like they have seen better days, and the short sleeved shirt he has on has a hole where the pocket would be. He beard is white, with a few grey hairs creeping in, and his teeth are yellow and stained. But unlike everyone else I see his eyes and see the kindness that fills them. The eyes that are oblivious to the taunts and hushed voices behind hands. The eyes that show his true personality, and give away much more than just his clothes and appearance do.