Dear Kevin,

I found you! 

Almost four months later. At the university bus stop, on the E2. My usual bus.

The day was sunny so I almost vied to walk home, then changed my mind. I also almost took a whole other route to Dun Laoghaire. 

More than one almost.  

Your bus pulled up well behind the stop. I knew that drill. Aargh. Only the back doors opened, and only for exiting passengers. Too crowded. 

I scowled with hope, glancing at the driver behind the windshield, hoping you’d see my performed pain and, out of compassion, let me on. Despite the fine weather, I was feeling achy from a recent illness. If only I could get on this bus. We were a crowd. Little did I know I was in the best of hands. 

The front doors opened! I inched forward amidst the others. It was polite warfare. Half aggressive, half pretending not to be. 

You let a first wave on and then closed the doors. Stealth loading. We stood hopeful in our cluster. The doors opened again.  

Head down, it felt like giants surrounded me. I mounted the bus, small but mighty. 

I have a habit of looking at every one of you drivers, always already seeking you, Kevin. 

The world jiggled, similar to the CERN particle accelerator, not to exaggerate. 

‘Is your name Kevin?’ I spoke, breathless, through the gap in the window between us. 

You said, ‘Pardon?’ (Hadn’t I stumbled on your name four months previous that cold dark morning of my arrival?) 

I repeated, ‘Is your name Kevin?’

‘Yes, it is,’ you said, looking me in the eye with a strange certainty as though such questions confront you periodically, and you are prepared. (Like a Navy Seal guy.) 

I put my hand through the gap in the window, beaming, effervescent, and reminded you of that morning—your kindness, setting me perfectly right in my first hours in Ireland.

You shook my hand. You remembered. You caught my throw again. And, then, because you were on the job, you turned to the passenger behind me. 

‘Sorry I can’t let another on.’ Dejected but understanding, she stepped off. I can’t imagine what she was thinking having witnessed the previous seven-second scene where I was in the lead role. She took it well. 

But that meant I was the last on. Almost not allowed.

The bus was full but I had no intention of finding a seat now that I had you in my sights. I stood at the front, beside you, and we talked. 

‘Kevin, you’ve added some facial hair,’ I observed. 

‘Ach, and it’s greying,’ you said, as you grazed your lightly-bearded face, your hair still shorn and well-coiffed. You twinkled.

‘I wrote a blog about you,’ I effused.

‘Did you.’

‘I called it Beautiful Irish Man. You were so kind to me.’ 

I’m pretty sure you blushed and your shoulders straightened a tad. (Afterwards, I hoped you’d google the blog and read it yourself). I noticed the woman standing behind me smiling throughout this exchange. She took pleasure in our story. What she enjoyed was: here’s this non-Irish woman (my accent is the give-away) effusing over the kindness of a Dublin bus driver. She revelled! I saw it. And I’m happy to have peppered her pride. 

During the recent protests over the Strait-of-Hormuz rising cost of fuel, bus service was disrupted. I couldn’t get to the university, had to pop into a café and attend class via zoom. You were held up for two hours on the bridge.

‘With passengers?’ I asked. You nodded. I can just imagine the way you’d make the experience an event for anyone who remained on the bus. 

‘How are your kids?’ I asked. You appreciated the question.  

I learned they live with you, except the boy is going through a wobble, so he’s with his mom. The girls, still in college and high school, are making their way. And the focus of your heart. It filled mine to hear you talk about them. 

‘I cooked supper this morning,’ you said, and I imagined you, master of your kitchen, thinking ahead for the girls when they got home, to find their meal made by their Da, because you’ll be on shift. Stable. 

Your home is only a few streets away from where you grew up, a Dubliner (must correct original post). 

‘North side or south side?’ I enquired, then added, ‘if it’s not impertinent of me to ask.’ You signaled a sideward-knowing glance that carried the history of Dublin in it, and said, ‘It’s not. North side.’ Your smile said you appreciated my sensitivity. 

I knew the meaning. Think the flim The Commitments – ‘south siders need not apply.’ The northside of the Liffey–and our man–is salt-of-the-earth working-class Dublin.  

At a stop or two until I got the hang of it, you told me to mind my feet over the white line. I learned to step back as new passengers got on, only to swing up next to you as the bus pulled forward. We went on like that the whole way. You asked about school.

‘I did a presentation on Samuel Beckett today. I nailed it,’ I said. 

‘Beckett,’ you repeated, and your eyes twinkled with pride for Ireland, universally punching above its weight in literature. We’d talked about Joyce in our first bus ride. 

You told me about taking your daughter to Rome for four days since she was doing a project on Nero and the fire of Rome, to see the colosseum built on a lake. A trip she will treasure. You’re a history buff.

You told me a story about an unsuspecting barman in New York, how you corrected his Guinness pour or else you would not drink, and claiming to be three uncles removed from a leprechaun, for effect. 

We talked about how fun social events can be to laugh with friends and maybe dance. We both lit up at that thought, each in our own worlds.  

You mentioned that your older daughter may move to London for work, since ‘there’s nothing here,’ you said. I thought of the great exodus from Ireland, the decades of young Irish emigrants leaving for work elsewhere. The pain and hope in that. 

Twice along our route, you performed the sign of the cross. I asked. You said because we’re passing a church. ‘What a practice,’ I said aloud. And I thought—to tune into the world around you like that. Treat everything like it’s a blessing, and maybe it is. 

Commotion at each stop, as passengers dismounted through the rear doors. 

‘I love the thank yous,’ I said. And I do. Passengers call out ‘thank you’ when getting off the bus. 

‘It’s the only country in the world that does it,’ you said, your face proud and animated. The difference between you and the other drivers is that you call out ‘thank you’ back. 

(I intoned a ‘thank you’ tonight as I got off the bus, my first time. It came out of nowhere.) 

As if. 

I’m going native. 

I stayed on with you to the end of the line. We declared our mutual joy at this re-encounter. I walk on air that life worked out as such.

I will look out for you whenever I’m in Dublin, as I will be again and again. You are the best of Irish men. 

Valerie