Me and the Funky Bunch
There was a curious eighth grader I rode the bus with when I was in seventh grade. There was the most beautiful girl in the eighth grade, who, for whatever reason, liked sitting next to me on those long, bumpy morning rides. And then there was the music.
There was Jam’n 94.5 with Marky Mark and the Real McCoy and somebody singing about rhythm being a dancer. There was the New England fall, with its hills and meadows, swamps and streams. There was morning dew on the countryside.
It was enough to make your heart a bonfire.
We had conversations. The three of us did. Actually, there were four of us if you count the music. I motion that the music be counted.
We were a little society. We cared deeply about each other.
Which makes it strange to admit that I never even knew that dude’s name.
Don’t get me wrong. I asked all the time.
“What is your name?”
“Puddin’ Tane. Ask me again and I’ll tell you the same.”
After a while, I gave up trying. His name was… Puddin’ Tane? I suppose he might have told us his real name at some point, but Puddin’ Tane is the only one I remember.
Then one morning, he told us his family was moving. He wouldn’t be on the bus the next day.
It came so far out of the blue that we assumed he couldn’t be serious. After all, he was a bit of a jokester, and we hadn’t really known anyone to just take off like that in the middle of the school year.
Besides, where was he supposed to go?
The following morning didn’t look much different. The most beautiful girl in the eighth grade was still there. The scenery was the same. The Funky Bunch had hung around, at least on the radio.
I doubt anyone else on that bus even noticed someone was missing. But the most beautiful girl in the eighth grade and the shy boy beside her felt the absence.
Puddin’ Tane was gone.
When she realized he’d been telling the truth, she turned to me and said she was sad.
“Me, too,” I said. “Me, too.”
