His words are belligerent even when they’re innocuous, and many of the boys give him a wide berth. Yudi has a narrow face, the kind that’s built for sneers and is difficult to trust, and he’s tall and lanky, his limbs moving carelessly, effortlessly threatening. Naftali suspects that Yudi is in Ohr Gershon because the closer schools wouldn’t take him there’s something about him that’s dark and dangerous. Yudi lives out in Meadowbrook, so far from the school that Naftali has to start his route a half hour earlier than the other drivers. At least he should be someone’s favorite. His favorite of all the boys, from cherubic toddlers to rowdy ten-year-olds to sluggish teens, is the unlikely Yudi Stein. He likes the boys who can’t behave, the ones who are relieved to escape the school building, and they like him back. Once, he had been one of those boys climbing on the seats, flush with energy after a day of cooped-up frustration and failure. There’s no shame to being a bus driver, he reminds himself. They thank Naftali without being coaxed by parents there’s some vague respect, at least the same as they’d have toward the Ohr Gershon custodian. In the evenings, once they’re dismissed from school after night seder, they’re equally listless, rarely awake enough to cause trouble. They stagger onto the bus just before seven in the morning, settling down heavily in their seats. Naftali’s minyan route is the boys who have grown up. They’ll grow up eventually, they all decide.
#LAST STOP AUTO DRIVERS#
There’s nothing to be done about them, the other drivers say. It had been a miracle that Naftali had managed to defuse the fight today. In the afternoon, they’re wild and uncontainable, climbing over seats and shouting out the windows, and they have learned irreverence for the adults in their lives who aren’t their rebbeim. Naftali has dodged the elementary boys in the morning by virtue of his other routes. Tuli, can we eat on the bus? Tuli, how much longer until we get there? Tuli, do you want to see my new backpack? In the afternoons, they’re even louder, playing with each other, then stepping off the bus, one at a time, their parents urging them to thank the driver. They pile onto the bus in the morning, one by one, bouncing on the seats with enthusiasm and calling his name with shrill, joyous voices. Within moments, the boy is shouting at his classmate sitting in the back from a safe distance, apology forgotten. His face is still flushed but his voice is calm, and Naftali shoots him a sympathetic smile and pulls the bus out to the street again.
This isn’t the first time, and he can see the frustration on the boy’s face when he’s seated again. “Come on up front,” Naftali firmly tells one of them. The boys look up at him, disgruntled and wary. It will never cease to amaze Naftali, the authority he holds in this big yellow vehicle. He parks, pulls in the stop signs on the side of the bus, and turns around. The bus is a monstrous thing to park on the side of a quiet street, loud and bright and blocking half of the lane. He pulls the bus over before he intervenes. Naftali glances at the mirror, catches sight of two boys with dark glares and fists raining down upon each other.
“ He can back off.” Something clatters to the floor - glasses? Not broken glasses again - then there’s a ragged yell and more fists pummeling bodies. There’s a return blow, equally powerful, and the sound of a boy crashing to the ground.Ī hoarse voice, filled with rage. There’s a grunt, then a howl, the cries of other boys around the aggressor. He knows, without turning around, the source of the noises from the back of the bus: a fist slamming into a chest, a body thrown against the side of a seat. It will never cease to amaze Naftali, the authority he holds in this big yellow vehicle
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