Sometimes when I'm driving my mind wanders. I reflect on my long, interesting life and I start to wonder how I ended up where I am today. I had a good run, sure, but I was nowhere near ready to retire when I hit 55 and there are always tourists heading somewhere, so why not drive a bus?

It's not so bad most of the time. The pay is good and the benefits are better than a few other jobs I've had. You haven't lived until you've cleaned up crack whore vomit in a grocery store bathroom at 3:00 in the morning. A lot of the people I drive don't speak English, which is a challenge, but that's why I have the educational movies, you see. If I put a movie on, I don't have to talk to anyone. The bus company says it has to be a tour video, though, and not just a theatrical release featuring Washington, D.C. as a backdrop, like Independence Day or Dick.

It's hard, not talking, but sometimes I have to do it. I like to talk. I know a lot about the city's history: the monuments, the elected officials, the Smithsonian -- name a tourist attraction and I have an interesting anecdote ready and waiting.

And if I don't know anything offhand, I can always make something up. Like that giant green chair in Georgetown that was once owned by Patti O. Chair. The adults at least politely chuckle. Occasionally, the younger kids will find it totally amusing. But the teenagers give me no love at all. They're a tough crowd, always trying to be cool, look cool, sound cool. "Why?" I want to shout into the microphone. "Why is it cool to pick on Bill? What did I ever do to you?" Bus drivers have feelings too, you know.

But...what were we talking about? It wasn't my fault, you see. All the teenagers had to see how many of themselves they could cram into the very back of the bus, which doesn't leave anywhere for the adults to sit but in the very front seats. That usually works out because the adults are in charge and they can tell me where the group needs to go with more authority and less giggling than those look-what-I-pierced baby incubators back there.

The point is, I refuse to accept any blame for Saturday's events. I wasn't the one who decided we'd hit Arlington National Cemetery, The Vietnam War Memorial, and the Lincoln Monument all in twenty-five minutes. Talk to your chaperones, people. The schedule was jam-packed full of activities so none of you punks had any time to engage in any illicit activities. I'm sorry if it tired you out. Buy some postcards from this homeless man and you'll feel better. And no, I won't apologize for cutting every single line at every single food place we stopped at. There's got to be some perk to chaperoning your ungrateful asses hinder and yon through the nation's capital.

I also have no idea what that whole Georgetown thing was about. "Let's go take pictures of ourselves in a fountain, because it's 1996 and we're the cast of Friends!" Whatever. If you ask me, that New Hampshire guy was a little off his nut anyway. And what was with those shorts? At least he and his students had the good sense not to eat that nasty, nasty pizza. You get used to the grease in this town, though. Want to see my handgun permit?

I used to just smile and nod when people said America's children were getting stupider, but now I think I believe it. It makes sense to me. How many times did I tell those Alabama kids to meet me on the mall side of the Smithsonian? And where were they? I ask you that. It didn't look to me like they were on the mall side even a little bit. Damn children. If I weren't 65 and uneducated, I'd go get a real job, one that didn't involve the disgraces and abuses of a younger generation. Don't give me that look. Did I ever tell you about the grammar school I attended in Boston?

I'll just be glad when this week is over, I can tell you that much.

My name is Bill the Bus Driver. Kill me now, please.