🔹 PART 8 – Call Me Driver
It was James’ idea to build the bench.
Not a fancy one—just a sturdy, weathered wood plank with a little brass plaque. He said it should go on East Raynor Street, across from the old bakery, where the city used to run a small stop for Route 7. The bakery had closed a decade ago, but the sidewalk remained, cracked and sloped, like it was waiting for a second chance.
“Why a bench?” Emily asked.
James shrugged. “Every route needs a place to rest. Even after it’s over.”
She smiled. “You mean for you?”
“For anyone,” he said. “Strangers. Kids. Someone carrying too much in their hands or their heart.”
So they got to work.
James called in a favor from a friend at the lumber yard. Emily designed the plaque on her laptop. It would read:
“Sit Here If You’ve Ever Waited.
— J.F.”
They picked a Saturday in late January to install it.
Carla came with a toolbox. Tyrell brought hot cocoa and a boom box that played Sam Cooke. Miss Della walked over with her daughter, arm-in-arm, both bundled in purple coats. Marvin showed up in a taxi and refused to leave until the screws were in.
By noon, it was done.
The bench sat beneath a leafless tree, facing the street. Quiet. Unassuming. Just like James.
People clapped. Took photos. One woman placed a knit hat on the bench’s edge.
James stood back, hands in his coat pockets.
“Never thought I’d be the kind of guy with a plaque,” he muttered.
Emily nudged him. “You’re not. You’re the kind of guy who earned one.”
After everyone left, they sat together on the new bench.
Cars passed slowly, tires crunching over leftover snow. Sammy lay at their feet, tail twitching in dreams.
“Do you remember the night Mom brought me here after her late shift?” Emily asked suddenly. “You were doing the 6 p.m. loop. I was five. Fell asleep on this very corner.”
James smiled. “She was panicked. Thought you were lost. You were curled on the bench, holding my bus schedule like a teddy bear.”
Emily laughed. “You picked me up and said, ‘Looks like someone’s catching the last ride home.’”
“I said that?”
“You did. I never forgot it.”
He looked out across the street. “I used to say that a lot. End of shift. Just habit. But it meant something. More than I realized.”
“What did it mean?”
“That we all need a place where someone’s still waiting for us.”
That night, Emily found her father in the garage.
He was sanding something. Small. Wooden.
“What are you building?” she asked.
He looked up, cheeks dusted with sawdust. “A birdhouse.”
“For who?”
“For the tree by the bench. Figured it’s time the birds had somewhere to wait too.”
She smiled. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopeful,” he corrected.
February rolled in with biting winds and brittle skies.
James had more shuttle rides lined up. Word had gotten around.
One day, he drove a mother and her autistic son to a therapy appointment. Another day, he took an elderly man to visit his brother’s grave. After each ride, he came home with a new story.
“I gave them space to speak,” he told Emily. “And most just wanted someone who’d listen.”
She was proud of him. She told him so often.
And he listened back. Asked about her studies. Read over her essays. Encouraged her when she doubted herself.
They were learning how to live together not as father and daughter clinging to old roles—but as something new.
As partners in the quiet work of keeping others whole.
Then came the letter.
Official, typed, stamped.
From the mayor’s office.
James Farrow was being nominated for the Heart of the City Award.
He scoffed when he read it. “Nonsense. I just drove.”
Emily grinned. “Well, apparently that was enough.”
There’d be a ceremony in March. Small, civic-center kind. Folded chairs and punch bowls. The kind of event her father usually avoided.
“You’re going,” she said.
He grumbled. “What would I even say?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
The day of the ceremony, James wore his best sweater and the good shoes he usually saved for funerals. Emily combed his hair and clipped a small pin to his chest—his old driver’s badge.
The mayor called him “a quiet force of connection.”
James shifted uncomfortably on stage, cleared his throat, and leaned into the mic.
“I don’t know how to follow that,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what I know.”
He looked at the crowd—some strangers, some former passengers, all waiting.
“I know this city better than most. Not because of the streets, but because of the people on them. And I’ve learned that every person who steps onto your path carries something—joy, sorrow, loss, hope. You don’t need to fix it. You just need to make room for it.”
He paused.
“I drove a bus. But I also drove memories. Fears. First steps. Final rides. I’ve dropped people off at shelters, job interviews, weddings, funerals.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I never saved the world. But maybe I helped it stay a little steadier.”
Applause rose slowly. Gentle. Then stronger.
Emily’s heart swelled.
He bowed his head. “Thank you for letting me carry you.”
Later that night, they returned to the bench on Raynor Street.
The plaque caught moonlight. The birdhouse swayed softly.
They sat together in silence.
Then Emily asked, “Do you miss the bus?”
James took a while to answer.
“No,” he said. “I miss the ride. But not the route.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
“We’re still on it,” she whispered.
He smiled.
And together, they waited.
Not for a bus.
But for the next soul who needed a place to sit.