Василиса Чмелева – The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City (страница 3)
"Didn’t you try to go back to basketball after you healed?" the kid asked.
"No." I shook my head. "I was too angry at everyone back then. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Basketball was over for me—and so was any desire to stand out."
"But you became an artist," the boy pointed out. "That makes you stand out too."
"By then I’d learned not to let anyone smother what I wanted," I said. "That’s the whole point of living, isn’t it?"
The crow let out a loud caw and took off. Its wing seemed fine now as it flew away confidently, still cawing in the distance.
"Guess it wanted to thank you," the kid smiled, watching it go.
"For what?"
"Maybe it just needed someone to believe in it."
"You and your weird theories, kid," I laughed. "It’s just a bird."
"If you say so." He pointed behind me at the bus stop’s covered section. "What do you think was posted there before?"
I glanced at the torn remnants of paper still clinging to the metal frame, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
"No idea. Apartment listings, probably. The usual stuff."
"Zero imagination," Oscar clicked his tongue. "And you call yourself a creative."
"Who cares?" I sat back down on the bench, which creaked ominously under my weight.
"Come on," he persisted. "I always look at those when waiting for the bus. Sometimes there’s something cool."
"Like what?"
"Like… selling vintage dolls or buying up old jewelry," he said.
"And what's so interesting about that?" I crossed my arms.
"Aren't you curious why someone would sell a doll their great-grandmother played with? Or some old ring? There's gotta be a story behind it."
"Kid, you're seriously bored," I shook my head.
We'd been sitting at that stop for over an hour. Nothing had changed—no cars passed, no birds landed. The scenery burned itself into my memory like a dried-up tumbleweed. Leaning back against the sunbaked metal, I picked at a stubborn scrap of paper from some long-gone notice. Then the kid's earlier words echoed in my head:
"How'd you know I'm an artist?" I asked.
"It's pretty obvious you're into art," the kid mused after a pause. "You look at the world like you're sizing it up. Stare at trees forever while most people wouldn't even notice a weird branch. Only two kinds of people do that—clueless dreamers or real-deal artists."
"You're too sharp for your age, kid," I smirked.
Memories flashed through my mind—my early days as an artist. That fall when I first dared show my paintings to the world. Broke as I was, I'd painted mini-versions on flyers and plastered them around the neighborhood, scribbling my address so curious folks could see the real pieces.
People came. Not just the next day, but for weeks after—all sorts. Some just wanted to gawk, others to meet "the artist," a few even bought my work (which, hell, felt good). Later, I had to fork over half those earnings to pay fines for illegal postering. The city called it "aesthetic pollution"—never mind that ugly billboards and overflowing trash bins ruined the view way worse than my art ever could. But who was I to argue with the system?
"What're you thinking about?" The kid snapped me out of it, handing me a water bottle.
"Nothing important," I said, taking a swig. "That bus isn't coming today, is it?"
"It'll come. Definitely," Oscar said, weirdly earnest. "Just gotta be patient."
"Patient…" The word tasted bitter. "Always fucking waiting."
"Yeah, well—that's life. What can you do?" He knocked his rubber boots together with a dull thud.
Suppressing a surge of irritation, I started examining all the torn flyers, searching for at least one intact one. After about ten minutes, I found it.
"PORCELAIN FIGURINES. CUSTOM ORDERS," read a small rectangular card, with neatly handwritten phone number strips dangling below.
"Weird," I muttered.
"What is it?" the kid asked.
"The handwriting… it seems familiar."
"Maybe one of your friends makes figurines? I'd totally go to an exhibit like that."
I strained to recall if I’d seen that number before, but something else caught my eye—another ad I hadn’t noticed earlier.
"MOTORCYCLE FOR SALE. GOOD CONDITION."
"I remember buying my bike thanks to an ad just like this," I smiled, suddenly picturing my old steel companion. "Never regretted it for a second."
"Your parents must've worried about you," Oscar said. "My grandpa always says bikes are dangerous. That you get addicted to speed without even noticing. Not that I'd know—I've only got a bicycle, but he keeps warning me anyway."
"My grandfather was the same," I replied. "Always cautious when it came to family, but a total daredevil himself."
"When I grow up, I'm getting a motorcycle too," the kid declared proudly. "Then I won’t have to sit at this bus stop forever."
"You know what?" I slapped my knees and stood up. "You're right. Enough waiting around."
"Wait, where are you going?" Oscar scrambled to his feet.
"Back to the house. I'm done with this."
I tore off the phone number and headed toward the cabin, grabbing the kid's backpack on the way.
"Tomorrow I’ll call about the ad and see if the owner can bring the bike here."
"Wait—you actually have money to buy it?" Oscar asked skeptically.
"I’ll figure that out later," I said, scratching my sunburnt forehead. "At the very least, I’ll ask for a taxi number so one can actually come out here. Since this godforsaken place has no internet… Christ, it’s boiling."
"Hey," Oscar bristled, "don’t call my home ‘godforsaken.’"
"Sorry, you know what I mean," I muttered, embarrassed. "What’ve you got in this backpack, bricks?"
"Just the essentials!" he declared.
I smirked at the way he scrunched his nose indignantly, then glanced back one last time at the bus stop—now just a sliver of its roof visible through the reeds.
"Weird," I mused after a moment. "Why so many torn-off ads if this place is so remote? Barely anyone comes through here."
"Who knows?" The kid shrugged. "Maybe this stop was a starting point more often than you’d think."
Chapter 2
The night was restless. I tossed and turned, futilely trying to get comfortable on the stiff mattress I’d dragged out from the storage room—with the kid’s permission, of course. Meanwhile, he slept soundly in his single bed, snoring softly and occasionally smacking his lips. Once or twice, he even muttered something in his sleep, though I couldn’t make out the words.
Finally admitting defeat, I got up and tiptoed out of the house, trying to stay quiet despite the floorboards creaking their protests.
Outside, the darkness was absolute—no streetlights, no glow of civilization. Without artificial light, the night felt hushed and oddly welcoming, though as a kid, I’d hated the dark. Back then, it always seemed to hide danger, every rustle sharp and hostile in my ears. Especially in the city, where drunken barhoppers lurked around every corner.
Later, I read in some book that this fear was just a leftover from our ancient animal instincts—back when survival meant fending off wild beasts or rival tribes. That explanation actually comforted me so much that, over time, I not only made peace with the dark but even became one of those very same barhoppers stumbling home at dawn.
I pulled out a cigarette from the pack I’d discreetly swiped from the hallway shelf (likely belonging to the kid’s grandfather). Lighting up, I sat down on the porch steps, relieved I didn’t impale myself on a splinter. A cloud of exhaled smoke hung in the air, and without thinking, I inhaled it back. Cue a coughing fit. These cigarettes were brutal, way stronger than I’d expected. Wincing, I stubbed it out on the railing and flicked the butt into the dirt.