Mac and Mebydavidwatts©
I do not know under what category this story will eventually be placed under by the folks at literotica. It is a primarily a Romance, but please note that it involves two women. Placing this in the Lesbian Sex category might be accurate also, but perhaps a bit misleading, since the sex is secondary to the story.
It is a story about a very lonely woman and her life. This people actually exist, but I don't know anything more about them than riding on the bus with them for a few years, observing and fantasizing. I hope that if you give the story a chance, that you find the time you invested worthwhile. Either way, as always I appreciate hearing from all readers.
The story takes place in the Capital District area of New York State and begins in the very late 1980's.
Chapter 1. In the beginning: Fall 1989.
This story had an innocent enough start, I suppose. So innocent that I don't even recall when I first encountered Mac. I guess that if I didn't always walk around with my head down while trying to avoid making eye contact with the rest of the world, I would remember things like that. All I do recall is that in the fall of 1989 we got a new bus driver for the express route which took me home from my job in downtown Albany to my place in Schenectady.
Mac was the driver's name, and I guess I began to first notice Mac when she started to call me by name when I would get on the bus in the afternoon. I'd climb on with the rest of the herd and swipe my card through the meter box until it made an approving sound.
"There you go, Sad Eyes," Mac would say afterward. "Only two swipes needed. You're an expert at this new system kiddo. They ought to let you run a class to teach everybody else how to do it!"
Sad Eyes. That was the name Mac had assigned to me. As soon as she had started driving for us, she had assigned her own names to all of her regular riders. They were usually names that seemed to have some sort of meaning, like Brandywine for the name of the street one woman got off at, or Pony Dude for the man that got off in front of the OTB parlor. Sometimes the names had no meaning, or at least they didn't seem to. No matter. When Mac gave you a name, you were stuck with it whether you liked it or not. It seemed most did, because she was very popular and everyone seemed to like her.
Mac. That was what everyone called her, even me eventually. Not a very feminine name, but one she seemed to embrace happily. Mac was a woman, one of the very few female drivers the transit company employed at that time, and she was excellent. She was courteous, safe and reliable, just like the plaque that held her nameplate claimed she would be.
It was no easy job, negotiating city traffic at rush hour in a bus, but she did it and did it well. She didn't take any crap from anybody either. I remember her handling a drunk that got on the bus one afternoon and started causing trouble. When the fuss started, I felt scared for Mac, but by the time it ended it was obvious that she could handle that jerk with no problem.
It was my custom at that time to sit toward the back of the bus and hope no one would sit next to me. If I got to sit alone, I would keep my head buried in a book until I got to my stop. If I got stuck sitting next to someone, I'd close my eyes and pretend to be sleeping. Either way worked for me.
As time went by, I began sitting closer to the front, since that's where it seemed that the action was. Mac would be holding court while she drove, regaling the passengers with stories about things that happened during the day or giving a running commentary on the drivers around us that sometimes seemed intent on killing us.
Since I got onto the bus at one of the earlier stops, I began sitting at the bench up front, right opposite Mac. Not that I would join in the conversation or anything, at least at first, but I could hear what was going on better and it sort of made me feel that I was a part of things. Plus, it made it quicker for me to help Mrs. Rogers when we reached her stop. She's an elderly lady who needs someone to make sure she doesn't fall getting off the bus, and I had started helping her a while back. It was no problem for me, and after she got safely off I would just slide over into the front seat she had occupied and ride with Mac to the end of the line, which is where I got off.
That's when I started getting to know Mac, by sitting upfront in the place just vacated by Mrs. Rogers, and listening to her. Eventually I actually began conversing, which might not seem like a big deal to you, but then again you don't know me. I'll bet you know someone that's a whole lot like me though.
My name is Abby, short for Abigail, and I was born in 1958 in Watertown, New York, one of the coldest places in the world, hidden in the northern part of New York. My mom still lives up there, and I don't know why, because everybody else that age seems to be moving to Florida. My dad passed on a few years ago and she's still up there, all alone. No matter what I say, she's intent on staying there. It's home, she says.
Not for me. I left that cold and barren town after high school, determined to make my mark in the world. I went to college for a couple of years at SUNY Albany, got a government job when I got tired of school, and here I still am fifteen years later, still working at the same place, with one little promotion to show for it all. I live in a small one bedroom apartment in the Stockade area of downtown Schenectady.
I'm tall and skinny, my nose is too big and I have what look like horse teeth to me. I'm flat-chested, devoid of self-esteem and afraid of my own shadow. I had a nightmare of a date about nine years ago which was the last "romantic" thing that's happened to me. I'm a loner and I guess I got my wish alright, because I've made my bed and I'm lying in it. Alone.
How's that for a biography? How many people do you know that can summarize their lives in so few words? Believe me, that's pretty much it, and I didn't leave all that much out either. Certainly none of the highlights, that's for sure. I am without doubt the most boring person in the world. Painfully shy, impossibly insecure, yours truly, Abby.
Chapter 2. Spring 1990.
"Dear Abby, Dear Abby my feet are too long. My hair's falling out and my rights are all wrong."
That was what I was greeted with when I would get on the bus in the afternoons by the time that the Spring of 1990 rolled in. It was a song by John Prine, as Mac explained to me, and I was learning the entire tune because Mac would sing some different lines every day as I would board.
I loved the way she sang, not because she had a classically great voice or anything, but she had this raspy drawl that reminded me of Janis Joplin. Anything that reminded me of Janis, I loved, because as far as I was concerned I was her doppelganger, lacking only the talent.
Not to mention the good sense to know when to pack it all in, I occasionally thought to myself. But the part about being a classically unattractive woman who was in a lot of emotional pain? Well, that part I could relate to well.
Being sung to as you boarded the bus was not exclusive to me on the good old 55X, but for some reason it made me feel good. Plus, there weren't many people on the bus when I got on, so there weren't that many people for me to be embarrassed in front of when I would blush.
It got to be that the ride home was the highlight of the whole day for me. At work it seemed like I got an inordinate amount of work dumped on me because of the people that didn't show up or were too lazy or incompetent to do it themselves. The bus was great fun, almost like a rolling sitcom of sorts, with me being one of the cast of oddball characters.
While riding I would marvel at the way Mac would be able to handle the bus in the worst city traffic with the greatest of ease. Then, when the bus would get on the interstate to get us out to Schenectady, she would really step on it. How I wished I could drive like Mac, or like anybody. I had tried to learn when I was a teenager, but I was way too scared to handle it. My lack of nerve just about killed my dad, who was trying hard to teach me at the time, and who ended up leaving his fingerprints permanently embedded in the dashboard.
There was this long sweeping ramp when you got out of Albany, and Mac would take the turn pretty fast with the wheel turned to the max. With warmer weather, Mac shed her blue uniform jacket, and in her short sleeved powder blue uniform shirt, I would watch as her biceps would bulge while she turned the wheel hard. It amazed me how a woman was doing what was always considered a man's job, and doing it so well.
One time Mac's shirt sleeve rode up while she turned the wheel, and I was startled to see Mac had a tattoo around her bicep. It looked like it was a tattoo of a chain, and it seemed like it went all the way around her arm. That was really neat, and every once in a while I would catch a little glimpse of it and smile. I was going to get a tattoo once myself long ago, but I chickened out in the end.
Mac also had a tattoo of a rose on the outside of her right ankle that I could see if her pant leg rode up and she wasn't wearing socks. I wanted to ask her if she had any more tattoos but I never could summon up the nerve. Besides, she would probably think I was weird to want to know that, and I didn't want to alienate one of the few people who seemed to like me.
Chapter 3. Summer 1990.
"So what do you young urban professional women do for fun in Schenectady?" Mac asked me one Friday afternoon as we neared the end of the line, which was my stop.
"Fun? You've got me!" I said in response.
"Well, I was just wondering if you'd want to do something with me Saturday or Sunday, like maybe go to the mall and do some shopping. Maybe have lunch?"
"Uh, sure. That would be fun."
"Great!" Mac said with enthusiasm. "Which is better for you, Saturday or Sunday?"
"Saturday," I said. "Or Sunday. Either one is great with me," I babbled, because it wasn't like I had a social calendar to consult.
"How about Saturday around one?"
"Great," I said. "Uh, I don't have a drive. I mean I don't have a car."
"And you don't drive," Mac said smiling. "I know. You told me that a long time ago. Give me your address and I'll pick you up."
I gave Mac my address and my phone number and I hopped off the bus with something to do on a weekend, a rarity for me. I hardly ever got to go to the mall, because the bus going out there was usually filled with wacky kids on the weekends, making the ride horrible.
That Friday night my happy hour was a lot more fun. I had begun having my own private happy hours on Friday evenings as sort of a remembrance of an old friend. Back when I had just gotten out of college I roomed with this girl Brianna.
Brianna was a beautiful blonde who worked for the state too, and we would go out together Friday nights. I suppose that I was the ideal girl to accompany her, because I made her look even more beautiful in comparison, not that she really needed it. Lots of times a guy would pick her up, and if he had a friend that guy got stuck with me.
Usually they were losers like me, but even at that point in my life when I was willing to give it away, 'it' being my prized virginity, there were no takers. I had to occasionally expend a little energy a couple of times to keep my virginity in high school, where the boys were desperate and willing to mount anything with a pulse. Apparently men got less desperate as they aged, at least when I was around, and that combined with my looks left me out of the loop.
Brianna went out one Saturday night alone and never came home. The police found her corpse in the park a few days later; beaten, raped and sexually mutilated, stuck behind some bushes and left to rot.
Ever since then, in her memory I've had this little happy hour on Friday evenings where I would have a few drinks and play some records until I would fall asleep. Vodka and 7up is my drink of choice, and the records are usually Janis, Bonnie Raitt or Billie Holiday, with some British Invasion thrown in for variety. I sing along, softly in the beginning and probably louder as the night goes on, but you would have to ask my neighbors about that. I have a great record collection and a lot of movies on tape too. All a woman needs to entertain herself in the comfort of her own home. It's a lot safer there anyway.
Oh, and the part about having a few drinks until I get drowsy? I guess a more accurate description would be that I have a lot of drinks and then pass out. It's only one night a week, after all, and I then spent the rest of the weekend recovering and doing laundry.
I took it easy that Friday night because I didn't want to be hurting come Saturday. Going to the mall and doing girl stuff was something others did, not me, and I was looking forward to being one of the girls for once.
Chapter 4. Saturday afternoon.
I looked out the living room window of my apartment a little before 1 and waited for Mac to come pick me up. I was going to sit outside on the steps but decided against it. Good thing too, I realized when Mac arrived.
I hardly recognized her at first as this sharp black pickup truck pulled up across the street. When Mac climbed out of the truck and crossed the street I panicked. Mac was dressed really nicely, with a cherry red short sleeved top and black slacks. I looked down at my sorry self, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and freaked out.
I ran to my closet and searched for something to wear, finally finding a decent looking blouse and slacks as the doorbell rang. Throwing my shabby clothes off and putting the other stuff on as fast as I could, I called out to Mac as I went to the door and opened it.
"Hi! I'm running a little late. Come in and make yourself comfortable."
"No problem Abby. Take your time. We've got all day," Mac told me as I scurried into the bathroom and tried to pull myself together.
I hadn't expected this to be a dress-up thing, but I didn't want to embarrass Mac by looking like a bum, even though it sometimes seems like my mission on this planet is to make everybody else look good. I threw on some make-up and straightened my clothes out so I was halfway presentable before going out to rejoin Mac, who was busy browsing through my records.
"Amazing music collection you've got here Abby," Mac said as she looked through the bookcase at my albums. "I could spend a month listening to stuff here that I love."
"That's my entertainment, that and movies."
"So I see. Great stuff there too."
We went out to Mac's truck, and as I walked next to her I noticed that we were almost the same height. That was good since I usually tower over other girls as well as a lot of guys, and that makes me feel uncomfortable. I had to struggle to climb up into the front seat of the truck, and my effort got a giggle from Mac, who had hopped in effortlessly.
"Quite a climb if you aren't used to it, ain't it Abby?"
"Yes it is," I said. "Gee, this is a real treat for you, driving me around on your day off."
"Ha!" Mac chortled. "The rest of the week I've got no choice but to haul you around, but today I want to. Love to drive anyway," Mac added as we headed out.
Long story short. It was a great afternoon. We shopped and had lunch at Friendly's, and then shopped some more. I had so much fun that I hated to have it end, and it was getting dark when Mac finally brought me back home.
"Um, do you want to come in and have a cup of coffee or something?" I asked Mac as she pulled up in front of my place.
"Love to. Besides, you're going to need some help hauling all this stuff in."
I had bought an awful lot of things, taking advantage of having a ride home for once instead of taking the bus to the mall. Sheets, towels and curtains filled the space behind the car seat, and Mac grabbed most of it as we brought it inside. I tossed the stuff in my bedroom before I went into the kitchen and got the coffee going.
"You've got a cute place here, Abby."
"Really? I'm not that crazy about it, but I guess it's because I'm bored with it. I've been here what seems like forever."
"How old are you anyway, Abby?" Mac asked. "Excuse my abruptness, but that's just me. If I want to know something I ask."
"I know," I laughed. "I see that every day. I'm 32."
"Wow, you're a couple of years older than me," Mac said. "I figured that I was older than you. Must be because I've been rode hard and put away wet."
"You're tall," I said, sounding like an idiot.
"So are you," Mac said chuckling.
"I know, but I mean... I never had never seen you standing up before today, and I was shocked when I saw how tall you were. Not that I thought you only came up to my waist or anything, like you do when I get on the bus," I said. "Feel free to tell me to stop babbling on like an idiot if it gets to be too much for you," I added.
"I love listening to you talk, Abby," Mac replied. "There's so much inside of you that seems like it can't wait to come out, and I enjoy hearing you let loose like this. For the record, I'm almost two inches short of six feet, and my guess is that you're an inch or two taller than I am," Mac surmised correctly.
"Yeah, six feet, but I learned to scrunch down whenever I used to get measured, so that I would be 5'11"," I confessed. "Don't you hate it, being tall?"
"Hell no. Why should I? We are what we are, and there's no sense trying to change what can't be changed, Abby. You should stand tall and proud, because you're a beautiful woman."
My head jerked upward at that comment, because I thought she was trying to be funny or something, but she was staring straight at me with a solemn expression.
"Gee no," I said as I brought over the coffee pot and filled our mugs. "I got into the habit of slouching early in life. You know, trying to hide and blend in instead of being the geek."
"I'll bet everybody called you names," Mac said after sipping her coffee. "And I'll bet every time they did you took it to heart."
"Big Bird was the most popular. Ostrich was another, along with stork. The stork didn't bring Abby, the stork is Abby!"
"Kids are cruel," Mac admitted. "I used to get called Mack truck all the time."
"Carpenter's dream was another one," I recalled less than fondly. "Another time a bunch of guys from the football team walked past me in the hall, and the quarterback motioned over to me. I stopped like an idiot, because I had a crush on him."
"Abby and her football hero," Mac chirped.
"Right," I said sarcastically. "Anyway, he stops me and tells me that he came to my defense earlier in the day and wanted to tell me about it. He said that a guy told everybody that Abigail Sanders looked exactly like a stork, and he said that he defended me."
"Oh boy, let me guess," Mac said softly.
"He said that you could tell that I wasn't a stork, because if you got enough guys together and gave them enough beer, sooner or later one of the guys would eventually want to fuck the stork."
"Charming," Mac said. "All the guys roar like hyenas and Abby runs down the hall crying."
"I didn't know you were there at my school watching," I said laughing.
"Fifteen years later and you still let it haunt you," Mac said while slowly shaking her head. "What am I gonna do with you Abby? Well, I know what I'd like to do with you, but..."
"I know. I'm hopeless."
"Defintely NOT hopeless," Mac said. "You just need some to care about you and help give you the confidence to see how great you really are."
"Among many other things. Okay, now that I've spilled my guts, I have to ask you a question. What's your real name?"
Mac was always Mac on the bus, and even her name plate just said Mac. People would ask her and that's the answer they got. Mac.