Spree

Part of the job, the monotonous nature of driving a vehicle- could be anything on wheels- along a certain route, along a certain schedule. Explained by no one, you learn fast: surviving means you accept mind-numbing repetition.

The faces boarding change, and, there are the regulars. The stoic driver is the happiest, minimizing having to speak. 

A few drivers talk their whole route, the entire seven-hour shift one long chat over many riders. Or, their own phone calls, good for passing time. Clifton Stanley almost never talked to anyone. It wasn't part of his job, he got paid to drive. For Stanley, talking was more monotony. He lived for the drive home, just glad routines and schedules were irrelevant again until his next shift.

Bus driver Stanley never considered it, but he relished the exact opposite of routes: randomness. Living alone, his non-driving life was quiet, unstressed, he liked nothing better than tending to his living hobby of colorful companions.

Feeling his own day's wires untangling, Stanley beamed at his silent tropical wonders, following their constant roaming spree, how they moved about so freely, no plan, no motive, unbound by time's responsibility.