Korean Karpool

She picks me up on the morning after the typhoon "ravaged the land."

She smiles, nods, pushes aside her rainbow umbrella, and motions for me to sit in the back seat. A backseat completely void of safety restraints.

I'm 8 again. On the big yellow school bus, praying the bus driver isn't leading me to a firey death in which I'm ejected through the winshield

I creek onto the brittle macro-may seat covers, as she slides on her long, bone white, driving gloves. She places them, with authority, on her shimmering bedazzled steering wheel.

She releases the e-brake, nearly kills it, and stops a block later, and begins to feverishly check her cell phone.

Another teacher, "Mary," finally enters.

"Mary" tells me everyday "you look like boy."

"Mary" and "the driver," whose name I don't, and may never know converse sporadically.

Between the "bongs" and the "bops," I occasionally hear what sounds vaguely like "Tay-ler," and polite giggling follows.

"Mary" tells me the driver would like to speak with me, but she doesn't speak English much, or very well.

Smoke spews into the cabin, via the dash. We stop in the middle of traffic.

"The driver" gets out. Stares at the hood briefly. Does nothing, and then re-enters the car.

With her short gaze, she apparently cauterized the beast's wound. We were on our way.

After 45 minutes of pure silence, "the driver" breaks her English celibacy.

"You not here at 5:00...I leave you."

I exit the car, and saunter up my jungle road.

She releases her e-brake, spews smoke, and puts away.