By Emma Rowan
I didn’t want to be the guy always writing about how the city bus filled with fish. But I was the one alone at the bus stop when it drove up Fifth and reached Sunset Park, stopped at the corner of Fifth and Forty-third and flooded with saltwater. And, as if dropped right out of God’s hands through the emergency hatch, filled with various marine life. Angelfish and yellow tangs and moon jellies and lion-fish and snowflake eels. Plumose anemone and barrier coral and red string seaweed sprouted from the seats. Abalones slid across the windows where sea stars weren’t stuck while stingrays slid by. All of it happening in seconds.
I was standing at the doors waiting for them to open before realizing they couldn’t without drowning the whole block and committing mass ecological murder. My mouth fell open, and I walked slowly around the side trying to get a better look. Inside, a loggerhead sea turtle drifted by like a blimp. It was a bus filled with fish alright. Sunlight rippling through the water. And then, just as soon as it arrived, it left. Pulled away from the curb, disappearing into Manhattan’s pulse.
I’ve called the MTA seven times since then. Made thirteen online reports—at least I think I did, it’s not so easy on the computer. I’m writing letters too, got plenty of stamps. But man, you wouldn’t believe how many buttons I have to hit on the damn phone until I get to the other-est of other options and can finally speak to a real human being. They always tell me the same story. They have no idea what I’m talking about. They say no bus was scheduled to come up Fifth and stop at Forty-third on Thursday, June 2nd at approximately 2:30 in the afternoon. That the usual route stops there at 3:05 on a perfect day. That there was actually a terrible delay due to mechanical issues, and a bus did not come through Brooklyn up from Bay Ridge for another hour or so. They think I’m nuts.
So, I started writing to news outlets. ABC, NBC, Fox, News 12, PIX 11, you name it. I’ve tried the Times, the Post, Newsday. None of ‘em would hear it. Nobody believes me. I tried personal ads in the local paper, tried to post on something called “Craigslist” too. That reeled in some real weirdos.
But honestly I’m not doing it to have my name in the papers or to get on Good Morning America talking to Joan Lunden like some schmuck. I just think people should know about this. People should know about the absolute miracle that is the Fish City Bus.
See, I’ve come to realize what a blessing this is. An honor that was bestowed upon me, that sorta thing, you know. Who would’ve been better than me to be standing at the bus stop at Fifth and Forty-third that Thursday afternoon? No one else would’ve been able to name all the exact species of oceanic life. Would’ve recognized that they all originate from vastly different marine ecosystems. Me, an expert, a custodian at the Museum of Natural History who’s been sweeping and studying the Hall of Ocean Life for the past thirty-three years, don’t forget it. Best job in the world, I tell my daughter that all the time. Now it’s really paid off.
I haven’t told her about it yet—my daughter that is. Hailey, light of my life. Best thing I’ve ever given this world. I haven’t accomplished much in my life ‘cept for her. Look, I can’t lie, I’ve messed up a lot—with her mother…you know how it goes. It was a long time ago.
Hails just had a baby boy, about four months, name’s David. I’m a grandfather, can you believe it? If you told ‘70s me that, when I was a dumb kid, too busy smoking dope and getting blasted at the Loft in the South Bronx ‘til sunrise, I’d be knocked right on my ass! She’s moved out of the city into the suburbs now, her and her husband, but I miss ‘em like hell. She always says she’s gonna bring the baby around, but I haven’t gotten to see him yet. I guess it is a bit of a hike for them to take the train from Jersey. But she’s gonna be so proud of me when she sees what I’ve found. I just have to show her.
I bought one of those outdoor chairs—those canvas ones with the mesh cup holders that I used to bring to Hail’s soccer games—and have been sitting at the bus stop for two hours now. Most people have minded their business, walked right by. One person bought me a coffee from the bodega, that was nice. One kid tried to ask me something with a tiny microphone, get me on some video, but I politely shooed him off. I need to stay focused. I’m not the best with the phone, so I have to be ready for when the Fish City Bus comes back. And I know it will. I’m gonna send Hails a picture. Then she’ll have to bring David, and I’ll get to show him, point his chubby, little hand at the saltwater windows as that sea turtle’s fin grazes the steering wheel. Look, a little miracle, all for you.
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Emma Rowan is a writer from New York. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Miami University where she is the CNF Editor for Ox Mag. She is also a Prose Editor for Temporal Lobe. She has work published or forthcoming in Hominum Journal, Spellbinder, Beaver Mag, and other places.