Wake Up, Daddy by Wayne Fowler
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It wasn't my first choice for how to wake up. “Daddy! Daddy! Wake up! Mommy on fire!” I felt like I’d been asleep for ten minutes, maybe twelve. I’m a school bus driver and I love my job. Being senior man, I’m full-time, driving kids on their field trips and extra-curricular events through the day. Days not spent driving, I work as an ad hoc supervisor, of sorts, adjusting routes or taking buses for service. They manage to keep me busy. I also sign up for sports trips, driving one of the various teams to games and tournaments. It was mid-December and the band had a concert at the capitol. It was a big deal for them, having won a competition to gain the opportunity to play for the governor’s Christmas shindig. Since weather threatened, I volunteered to drive and oversee the procession: two busses, two vans and a cargo trailer. I no sooner got home and ready for bed and my phone rang. “Oh no,” I said to myself fearing the worst – we’d left a kid behind! It was the principal, all right, but not a kid, her coat. Her coat! That’s why they pay me the big bucks. The principal didn’t know which bus she’d ridden, or whether she was in one of the vans, but I was in charge. It was each driver’s responsibility to ensure that no one was left in the bus. It was possible that a kid could fall asleep and … well it was the driver’s duty. I used a flashlight even in the daytime. Good habits will serve you well. But anyway, he couldn’t call all the drivers, now could he? And I had a key to get to all the keys. “A coat?” I asked, incredulity eking through. “She walks to school, and I know tomorrow is Saturday, but … well, she needs it tomorrow morning.” “Okay, okay.” I got the details. Dressed, went out into the increasingly hostile weather conditions, fought my unplowed country road to get to the hardtop which had iced behind the snowplow that had evidently run out of the salted-sand mix. I eased my way to the four-lane. An hour later – no coat. The principal deserved to be awakened. “Oh, sorry. Mrs. Kletchamadivit called and said that little Suzie’s friend had it by mistake.” “Uh-huh. And when did you learn this?” I didn’t ask. I was too aggravated to trust myself. “At least there’s no school tomorrow! You can sleep in.” “Uh-huh.” Keys put away and locked up, I headed home, a bit worried that my vehicle was low on gas. I’d hopped into my wife’s because her heater worked better than mine. I didn’t notice the fuel gage until I was down the road a few minutes. There was enough to get to town and back, so I kept going. It was not uncommon for my beautiful bride to leave fueling it up for me over the weekend. No problem. Until the tone sounded that I had twenty-five miles of gas left. Not good. Ordinarily it would not be a problem, it was sufficient to get home and then to the station in the morning, that is unless the Missus jumped into it while I slept, and dashed off without looking at the gage. Or if she had an issue with bad roads, and not enough gas to keep the engine running while stuck in a ditch. Or if I wound up in a ditch tonight. Another problem was mechanical. We’d already coughed up $500 to replace a part that goes out when you run this particular model too low on fuel. It was going to be four AM before I got home. I would chance it and leave a note since the only station that would be open at this hour was miles out of the way. I’d left the bus yard gate open for myself. Who was going to bother anything at this hour in these conditions? But I had to get out to close and lock them at my departure. Frozen. Stuck and frozen. It took twenty minutes to get the sliding mess close together enough to lock. I thought about calling the principal back. I could barely see. The heater worked great. Too great. I was plenty warm, but something was amiss with the defroster and I couldn’t keep the windshield clear. Then it began to ice up on the outside and the wipers just sort of slid over the ice. I scraped and wiped and stomped my feet a bit more furiously than necessary. It was nearly five before I’d found a Sharpie that had ink in it, written the note, and put the note on the car driver’s seat, the only place I was sure she would see it. Then I accidentally woke her up as I tried my best to quietly get into the bed. “Oh, you poor dear.” I’ll give it to my beautiful bride. She was sincere. Really sincere! I was still somewhat wound up, so … Then I was out, a goner. “Da-addy!” My beautiful bride was a crafter, a talented one. Along with regular gifts, she usually made something personal for family members. She had a hot glue gun, a wood burner kit, and she sometimes used the oven to work plastics or glass. “Mommy on fire!” Setting the scene, I of course was still au naturel, if you get my French. And our daughter was just over four years old. She’d seen me before, but not for the last two-and-a-half years when I noticed her looking a bit too curiously. “Honey, let me get dressed.” “What, Daddy?” Now, understand that I’d had ten, maybe twelve, minutes sleep. It was entirely probable that she didn’t understand my garbled syllables. “H-o-n-e-y.” I started to explain that she needed to give me some privacy, to turn around, or something that would totally confuse the poor child. Instead, I rolled and scooted to my wife’s side of the king-size bed and let Baby Girl see my butt as I dashed into the bathroom for a robe, or my sweatpants, that I sometimes donned in the winter. Fortune was with me. I was into the hall, nearly bowling Little Miss Precious over on my way to my bride who by then might be a crispy critter. “Couldn’t you get to sleep?” she asked, sitting at the kitchen table, her tablet in front of her. “I’m on fire against your mother. I made a hundred and fourteen points with quiche on Words With Friends. “Mommy on fire, Daddy!” baby girl’s grin was infectious, at least to my bride who burst out laughing, a nervous laugh, I’ll grant, as she looked from me to the kid and back again. I failed to see the humor, myself.
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Wayne Fowler
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