"Tickets! Tickets for inspection!"
The grey-haired woman in the third row squirms in her seat, fumbles with her purse, and finally extracts her green Rav Kav bus card. Avshalom senses she's hiding something. His suspicions are confirmed when he presses her card to his handheld reader.
"You didn't pay," he tells her.
"What?" she asks in Russian.
"Rav Kav—empty," he replies in accented, imperfect Russian. This surprises her, he can see. She isn't expecting a religious, Sephardic, slightly overweight, somewhat dishevelled ticket inspector to answer her in her native tongue. "Get off bus," he says.
"But I paid!" Her face reddens in embarrassment as she pushes past the commuters standing near the door. "I paid!" She steps down to the sidewalk. The door whooshes closed behind her and the bus pulls away from the stop.
"Please show your tickets for inspection!" Avshalom announces to the remaining passengers.
Whenever he successfully catches someone attempting to ride the bus for free, he feels a sense of achievement. He becomes more polite, more courteous as he approaches the passengers. "Thank you," he says to the middle-aged woman with a large shopping bag at her feet. "All good here," he tells a skinny teenager who holds up his card without taking his eyes off the video game he's playing. "Enjoy the ride," he says to an elderly man sitting at the edge of his seat, looking out the window nervously as if he isn't sure where to get off. "Have a nice day," he says to the clean-shaven businessman with a laptop case on his lap.
Using a Rav Kav is so simple. Just hold it up to the card reader when you board a bus, and you're good to go. Everyone travels with a Rav Kav these days but some, like the Russian-speaking woman he just caught, try to cheat the system. And that he cannot allow.
Avshalom smiles at everyone, even though they avoid eye contact with him. He validates one card after another, squeezes through those clinging to the poles in the aisle and reaches the back of the bus. His duty done, he retraces his steps to the front.
"When's the bar mitzvah?" Avshalom asks the driver, a long-time acquaintance. They both attend Shabbat morning services at the synagogue in the Yad Eliyahu neighbourhood where Avshalom lives.
"In two weeks' time," the driver responds, as he navigates through traffic. "Moishe's ready; he mastered the parsha long ago."
"Well, if I don't see you before then, mazal tov!"
The bus pulls up to its stop. Avshalom adjusts the side bag on his shoulder, tips his cap to shed his eyes from the sun, and gets off to wait for the next one.
Avshalom prefers working mornings, when Tel Aviv is just waking up. Early hour passengers are different from those who travel later in the day, he thinks. On his rounds, Avshalom encounters black migrant workers from distant Africa heading to their menial jobs in restaurants. He travels with matronly cleaning women on their way to the fancy headquarters of high-tech companies and semi-retired men heading home after night guard shifts in those very same buildings. On the morning buses he sees children laughing and joking on their way to school, and older, quieter students heading to classes at the university. Soldiers on their return to bases up north or down south. Medical personnel reporting to Ichilov Hospital or Kupat Holim clinics.
The buses are jam-packed with the city's morning commuters, and all of them are pre-occupied with their phones. Playing games, listening to music, reading the news. Scrolling through the social apps, setting up their future romances. Avshalom isn't familiar with any of that. He rarely uses his phone except for the app that tracks bus schedules. And for calling home to Shoshana, his wife.
"You know what I saw today?" he tells her one evening. "I was standing across from the train station when two geese strolled up the green divider between the lanes. They were honking at the cars, and the cars were honking at them. The two birds strutted their wings as if they owned the place."
"That's nice, Avshalom. I made lentil soup for dinner. Taste this."
After tasting her delicious soup, he continues his story. "I wasn't sure where the geese were heading, maybe into Ganei Yehoshua Park. One of them ventured into the street. A car slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting it. And then the other goose wandered into the intersection. Along came one of those electric scooters, the kind I always complain about? It rammed into the goose, knocking the bird across two lanes. The surviving goose honked and honked. It was a sorry sight to see, and there was nothing I could do about it."
"That’s nice," Shoshana says. "Do you like the soup?"
Ever since her stroke, Shoshana has changed. She is still kind and caring, a devoted mother and grandmother, and a loving wife, of course, but she is no longer the actively involved person he married. Politics no longer interest her—she had once been a party activist—and she couldn't care less about the daily news. In fact, any mention of the upcoming elections, terrorism, or rising food prices visibly upsets her. Even the weather forecast saddens her, brings tears to her eyes. He has learned not to discuss anything of importance with her. Keep her happy, and their lives are good. Simple, uneventful, but good.
"How was your day, today?" she asks, but he can see that she is more focused on her cooking than on his reply.
"Everything the same as always."
"Go wash up and we can sit down for dinner."
Avshalom enjoys his job. He rises every day before dawn, showers, breakfasts on yogurt and fruit, straps on his tefillin and covers his shoulders with his tallit, and rushes through the morning prayers. He is never late to work. His routes change from morning to morning; he rides the buses randomly, never knowing which one he'll board at any given stop. His life is organised, never straying from his normal routine. And that's fine for him.
Travelling on the buses, he encounters all types. The young, the old. The religious, the secular. Right-wingers and leftists. Jews, Arabs, and others whose religion he cannot determine. Ashkenazim, Sephardim. Teenagers on outings to the malls. Pregnant Ethiopian women with youngsters in tow. Shoppers on their way to and from Carmel Market. Fashionably dressed women coming back from the luxury shops at TLV Fashion Mall. People shaking the rain off their umbrellas in the winter. Sun-tanned youth on their way to the beaches in the summer.
Many of the faces he recognises, and he nods to them in greeting, although he doesn't know any of their names.
"Please show your ticket for inspection," he says to the elderly gentleman swaying with the holy words of his Book of Psalms. "Your tickets, please," he asks the dark-skinned African woman in the back, her wide-eyed dark-skinned son sitting on the seat next to her. "Good morning, officer," he greets the uniformed policeman on his way to district headquarters.
Occasionally, Avshalom meets tourists on the buses, unfamiliar with the requirements of Israeli urban transportation.
"No, you can't pay with the cash," he says to them in his accented, imperfect English. "You must to have the Rav Kav. The bus card? Or you can to pay here," he says, pointing to the slot where they can swipe their credit card. "OK also with phone app. But, no with the cash. With the card, you press it here, on this box." He points to the card reader attached to the pole above the seat. "You understand?"
One bus after another, up one street and down the next. From Holon in the south to Kiryat Atidim in the north. Yefet Street in Yafo. Menachem Begin. HaMasger. Past the pavements gutted in preparation for the long-anticipated, long-delayed light rail. Past Dizengoff Center and towards Azrieli Center. Tel Aviv. His city. He may not know his way around the city on foot, but he is familiar with each and every one of its bus routes.
"Please show your tickets for inspection!"
"How was your day today?" Shoshana asks when he returns to their apartment in the evening.
He hangs his side bag on the coat rack and takes off his company cap. "Everything the same as always. What's for dinner tonight?"
"Everything the same as always," she answers with a laugh. "I made lentil soup."
She has forgotten that she made lentil soup the previous day, but he doesn't mention it. He likes lentil soup.
As she finishes preparing their meal, he sits down with the newspaper and scans the headlines. Security incidents. Political infighting. Declarations against Israel at the United Nations. He can't discuss any of this with Shoshana. After dinner, they'll watch nature documentaries, like they do every night, until they both fall asleep in their reclining lounge chairs.
Life is uneventful, but good. Just the way he likes it.
The double-carriage buses are always exciting to ride. Standing in the center of one of them as it takes a wide turn, he shifts back and forth, imagining for a moment that he's riding a surfboard in the waves off Gordon Beach. He lowers his head, ready to forge through the surf to shore, but instead he continues up the aisle, focusing on his duties.
Sderot Rokach Boulevard. Raoul Wallenberg Street. Dvora Hanevia. Line 189 north. Line 5 south. One stop after another.
Avshalom has travelled many of these same routes every day for years. Some of the veteran drivers started when Avshalom was still a bus driver himself. Back in those days, a driver had to accept cash payments and make change, all while continuing to fight his way through traffic. The tickets were thin strips of paper! These days, all that a driver needs to do is drive. And, of course, monitor the doors at each stop, allowing people to disembark and others to board.
Avshalom misses his driving days, but travelling on the buses, inspecting tickets, keeps him busy. He really can’t complain.
A teenager is seated near the back, engrossed in the music streaming directly into his earphones. The music is so loud that it visibly bothers those sitting nearby. So loud, that the boy doesn't hear Avshalom's repeated requests to see his ticket.
"Tickets for inspection!" he repeats, starting to lose his patience. When the boy continues to ignore him, Avshalom shakes his shoulder lightly.
"Don’t you dare touch me!" the boy cries, leaping from his seat. Instead of producing his bus card, the boy races for the door. He jumps from the bus and runs up the street.
"There are all kinds," Avshalom mutters, shaking his head. He doesn't let the incident upset him and continues down the aisle.
"I made lentil soup," Shoshana informs him when he walks into their apartment.
"Wonderful," he says, hanging up his coat and cap. He picks up his newspaper and sits in his recliner. Another security incident. A clash with ultra-Orthodox yeshiva students in Mea Shearim. The visit of a foreign minister pushing for Israel to make more concessions to the Palestinians."
"Those European leaders think they can dictate to us," Avshalom says aloud. "What do they know about suicide bombings and shooting attacks?"
"What’s that?" Shoshana asks him from the kitchen.
"Oh, nothing. I was saying the lentil soup smells good."
"Dinner will be ready in a minute. Go wash up."
Sunday starts like every Sunday, like every one of the work days on his journey towards forced retirement. He is not looking forward to the end of his long employment in the company. It will mean more hours in the apartment, more hours with Shoshana. He can deal with their hours together in the evenings, but how will he cope spending entire days with her?
He catches his first bus at the stop near his apartment. Yigal is the driver and Avshalom asks him about his recent vacation.
"Morocco was amazing," Yigal says, shifting the bus into gear. "There's nothing like tracing one's roots. Seeing the places where your grandparents lived, where your parents grew up. Where I was born, a country I never knew. And now I had a chance to see it. What about your roots?"
"Ha! I have no desire to visit Baghdad. Nothing to see there. Even Saddam Hussein is long gone," Avshalom jokes.
There are not many passengers on the bus and he quickly performs his duties, one bus ticket validated after another. He jokes with Yigal again before getting off to wait for the next bus.
A few hours later, it's nearly the time for his lunchtime break. There's a cheese sandwich waiting in his side bag—Shoshana prepared it before they went to bed like she does every night. If he's lucky, she'll have remembered to include some lettuce inside, so it won't be too dry. It's the exact same sandwich he's brought to work every day for years, but he never complains. Before lunch, one more bus to ride.
"Please present your tickets for inspection!"
A fidgety young man is seated in the back row, all by himself. The man doesn't seem to understand Avshalom's request. In fact, he doesn't seem to understand Hebrew. He has olive-coloured skin and appears to be a Palestinian. Maybe he doesn't have a ticket; maybe he lacks a permit to be in Israel. Just what Avshalom needs—an illegal worker.
"Your ticket, please," Avshalom says in his accented, imperfect Arabic. He notices that unseasonably, the man is wearing a heavy brown jacket.
What's that under his jacket? Are those wires? No, no, it seems to be something long and sharp. A knife?
What should he do? Avshalom steps back, considering different scenarios. He could shout out 'Terrorist!' Everyone would dash for the door but the anxious terrorist would go amok. Set off his bomb, stab out with his knife. They would all die. Or, Avshalom could jump on the terrorist, absorbing the blow while everyone else escaped. Only he would die. Or, Avshalom could make his way back to warn the driver.
These thoughts race through his mind, but all he can do is mumble his request. "Ticket please."
The young man rises from his seat. His eyes dart back and forth, as if he's searching for a way to get past Avshalom, to make a run for the door. Or to launch his murderous assault on the unsuspecting passengers in the other rows.
A shot rings out. And then another. The young man grabs his chest. He falls back, slumps on the seat. The words 'Allah Akbar' seem to be forming on his lips as he takes his last breath. A knife falls to the floor of the bus.
A soldier is standing next to Avshalom. Putting down his gun, the soldier takes charge of the situation, directing everyone to the doors while at the same time trying to calm them down. "It's over," he says repeatedly.
Shaken to the core, Avshalom stares at the blood, at the fallen knife. His feet are cemented to the floor. Everyone else has disembarked and only he remains on the bus. He can hear sirens in the distance, growing closer by the minute.
"It's over," the soldier says calmly to Avshalom. "You can get off the bus now."
"There's lentil soup for dinner," Shoshana informs him when he arrives home at the end of his shift. "Go wash up and I'll set the table."
He lingers in the hall, the side bag still strapped over his shoulder, the company cap still on his head. He can see the terrorist slumped in the back seat, dead, the blood on the man's jacket. Avshalom knows he is lucky to have survived unscathed. He's lucky to be alive.
Finally, he makes his way to the kitchen and joins Shoshana as she ladles him a bowl of soup. "How was your day today?" she asks.
He stares at her, sees the simple love in her eyes. He remembers the day they got married, how excited they were when they moved into their first apartment. The joy when their son was born, the thrill of raising a family. The years—so full of happiness. They never lacked for anything. He tears up as he regards his wife. So naïve and unassuming due to her failing mental health. He loves her as much today as when they were young.
"How was your day?" she asks again.
"Everything the same as always," he replies. "The soup smells wonderful!"
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