IS THIS SEAT TAKEN?
Rachel Elizabeth Cole

A tall skinny guy lifts his tray from the counter of the busy McDonald’s in the Vancouver Greyhound Terminal. He pauses for a moment, scanning the crowded tables, and a staticky voice echoes through the station, announcing the bus to Edmonton will be boarding shortly. Then he heads for the corner booth where a pregnant girl sits alone, her nose buried in a paperback novel.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

She looks up and blinks her large brown eyes. Her face is puffy and her burgundy lipstick is the wrong colour for her skin.

“Pardon?” she says and glances around at the tables filled with travellers gorging themselves on Big Macs and fries then back at the guy hovering there with his tray. “Um, no,” she says, with an embarrassed smile, and removes her duffel bag from the tabletop so he can sit.

He drops a worn backpack onto the bench, and slides in. He’s wearing a long-sleeved, grey tee shirt with “Fukengruven” printed on the front. His sandy blonde hair sticks out at odd angles and he hasn’t shaved in a few days. “Been here a while?” he asks.

“A few hours. My bus was delayed.” She watches him unwrap his Fillet O’Fish and take a bite.

He smiles and offers her his super-size fries. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” She plucks a few from the box.

“So where you headed?”

“Toronto.”

“That’s a long trip. Your family there?”

“No. I’m...” She glances away, absently fingers the black fabric that swaddles her beach ball-sized stomach. “I’m meeting my husband.”

“Mm,” he says and his eyes flick to her ringless left hand.

Blushing, she crosses her arms. “What about you? Where are you headed?”

He chews slowly, thoughtfully. “L.A.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re an actor?”

“No. Not an actor. An artist.”

“Really? Do you paint?”

“Uh, yeah. Actually, I do.” He bounces his knee and the table jiggles.

“Cool.” She leans forward, smiling. “Think you’ll get famous? Have all your work in a big art gallery?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“You know, I just love Monet. His stuff might not look like much up close—y'know, like somebody just globbed the paint on—but from across the room it almost looks real.” She smiles, blushes again. “What about you? Do you have a favourite?”

“Yeah, I like Monet. And Picasso.” He makes a big deal of wadding his sandwich wrapper into a compact ball and tosses it on his tray where it begins to slowly unwrap itself. “So, what’s your husband do for work?”

She blinks. “He’s, um, starting his own company.”

He nods, smiles.

She glances away.

The P.A. system crackles, announcing the bus for Toronto.

“Hey, isn’t that you?” he asks.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” She doesn’t move, just sits there, staring out at the passengers scurrying past the restaurant.

“Well, shouldn’t you go?”

For a second longer she hesitates then slides out of the booth. “Well, bye. I guess,” she says and stalks off into the crowd, her bag banging her hip.

Long after she’s disappeared into the crowd, he stares after her. Then, with a shake of his head, he stacks his leftovers on the tray, grabs his pack, and heads out of the restaurant.

He finds a pay phone and dials the operator. “I’d like to place a collect call.” He leans against the wall and closes his eyes while he waits for the line to connect.

At last, his eyes snap open and he says, “Hi, Mom? Yeah, I’m about to catch my bus now . . . I should be there tomorrow morning. You’ll come pick me up?”

He listens, then sighs, scrubs at the stubble on his chin. “I dunno. I guess college wasn’t all it was cracked up to be…Yes, I know how much tuition costs…Then tell Dad I’ll pay him back as soon as I get a job…Yes, I’ll get a job…Look, can we please talk about my ‘future’ when I get home? Okay, bye.” He hangs up the phone, runs a hand through his hair, and stares at a spot on the wall for several seconds. Then he heads outside into the rain-grey afternoon.

The Greyhound waits at the curb, its door open, EDMONTON on the sign in the front window. He hands his pack over to the driver and takes a long last look back at the bus station. Through the large windows, he sees the girl, still there, sitting on a bench, casually chatting with another guy.

He sighs and boards his bus.

© Rachel Elizabeth Cole 2005

Rachel Elizabeth Cole has travelled many places by Greyhound, but now prefers to stay at home, just outside Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband and their two sons. Her fiction has appeared in Write Away and is forthcoming in Canadian Stories.

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