The Lesson of Ross

My stomach recoils as we lumber up, sending raison bran and apple juice up my throat for an encore. As the brakes whine, so does my memory, tossing advice from the base of experience to flee, to fake illness or just climb to the top of the bus and swan dive into a ravine, breaking more bones than Evel Knievel after he jumped the fountain at Caesar’s Palace while wearing patriotic colors. I get slugged in the shoulder, sending the book in my hand soaring five seats ahead. With a sigh, I reach to understand why so much glory gets offered to bullies.