Kaya's Bus

Kaya’s Bus

Kaya and I always used to race down this long scenic hill behind our houses. We would speed down the path on our Razor scooters without helmets, wind blasting our faces, shouting as we picked up speed. One time, I lost a race, but it was probably because I caught a fly in my mouth. Besides that one, I won every other race we had.

Kaya was my German neighbor whose body odor never left him. He was always on a secret mission, crawling around in dirt and spying on our neighbors, or out exploring construction sites and climbing the scaffolding with no shoes on. Actually, he never really wore any shoes at all. His hands were greasy and whenever I let him play my Playstation, the controller would feel sticky with a dried layer of sweat coated over the buttons. He had maybe three shirts: a plain white one that had a distinct yellow and brown tint from sweat and dirt, a striped green and yellow shirt, and an all black one. He always wore cargo shorts and he always wore a smile. His smile never left him, whether it was a thin line or an all-teeth gaping one. He was probably the happiest kid I ever knew.

I don’t even know if he went to school. I’d see his families small apartment glowing in the morning on my walk to school. By the time school was out and I walked back home, he would be waiting outside playing with sticks or riding his scooter. He had 3 sisters, and his younger sister, Felis, would often be right by him poking ants. His two older sisters, Vickie and Yasmine were his half sisters. His mom’s name was Hike and she had a previous marriage, giving birth to Yasmine first, then Vickie. Hike’s husband left, and Hike’s next husband was the father of Kaya and Felis. This man left as well; it was just Hike and 4 children in a small flat. As far as I know, Hike sat around, smoked cigarettes all day, and watched TV. I guess eventually, Hike gave up; an unfulfilled life, simply overwhelmed by the consequences of her past decisions.

One day, we went to race down the same hill. The walk up the hill was long but well worth the effort. If you bothered to look to the left, the whole city of Wiesbaden was visible; a golden spire structure always stood out in the sea of gray and black rooftops. I always thought of the city as its own entity, a living breathing being. From here the streets looked like veins, and, like the blood that pumps through our bodies, the never ending flow of traffic pulsed from the walkplatz, the heart of the city, all the way out to its lonely outskirts.

We reached the top, turned around, and counted down.
3. 2. 1.
Go.

I kicked off hard and crouched in a steady, balanced stance. Kaya was already behind me, and I never looked back. I made it all the way down the hill and back to the front of our houses safely in first place.

I didn’t think about it then, but now I think I know why he lost every time we raced. Rather, I think I know why he let me win. I imagine that if I dared to look back, take my focus off of the road ahead, that Kaya would be wide-eyed, taking in the Wiesbaden scenery with his huge, boyish grin. When he would catch up to me, his heart would be racing not from exhaustion but from excitement. I’d sit on my scooter, out of breath, leg hurting from kicking too hard and too fast. Drew, he’d say, you go too fast! Slow down a little bit. And I would be foolish enough to think that he was complimenting my speed; asking for a chance. I was foolish enough to believe that he actually cared about who won the race.

I remember a particular instance in Kaya’s room when we were playing with Playmobil toys. Kaya had a substantial collection of pieces; a whole functioning train track was laid out around his room. It must have taken quite a while to assemble and put together. I was impressed by this display and asked why he chose a train set instead of something else. This train set was the only set they had to buy at the store, he said. They don’t make city set.
To Kaya’s disappointment, they didn’t make buildings, offices, markets or enough cars to create a city and keep it in a room. Kaya would have recreated Wiesbaden, his own city.

Trains are nice, but I want to drive one of these. Kaya picked up a toy bus. He wanted to be a bus driver when he grew up.

Even today, as I write from a desk at the United States Air Force Academy, the notion of being a bus driver is somewhat ridiculous. For one reason, driving a bus as a job is not normally seen as having high aspirations. For another, I think of bus drivers as being one step away from being mailmen: their version of “going postal” would be crashing a bus full of citizens into a daycare. But if I take a step back and dismount my high horse, I ask: Who the fuck am I to judge another person’s aspirations? What gives me the right to deem someone else’s dreams as worthy or unworthy?

Some while later, about a year before my family and I left Germany, Kayas family disappeared. After about a week of not seeing or hearing from Kaya or his family, I went to look into their house window – empty. No goodbye’s or any notice. They were just gone.
My brother told me that he had seen Kaya on the bus once. In the summer, my brother had to take the bus to his summer hire job. He said Kaya was carrying a skateboard – he had moved past the scooter – and that he looked a lot older. This was the last time we would ever see or hear about Kaya.

If I saw Kaya now, I imagine that he would have moved past the skateboard and moved on to buses. He would be wearing a uniform, still smiling from ear to ear. On hot days, his hands would still sweat, glazing the steering wheel that would replace my Playstation controller. He wouldn’t be in a rush. He would never be in a rush. Even in the monotonous gray concrete labyrinth, he would be able to extract a sense of beauty and a reason to laugh. More importantly, Kaya would be home, amidst the beating heart, the living rhythm of Wiesbaden’s spirit.

By now, Kaya has memorized the route and has probably lapped me more than once; as far as I’m concerned, I’m still sprinting for some finish line that I can’t see.