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This is an essay that I wrote for college! Let me know what you think of it. The purpose of the essay was to profile a person, and to influence you to either be like them, or not be like them.



Stories of grand figures who dedicated their entire lives to skillful leadership and honesty have long been told throughout history. Stories like these encourage the population to follow their examples, to become citizens that are just, merciful, and have integrity. Yes, these stories have spread far and wide, their influence reaching every home and every ear. Or so it would seem. For every person that is willing to do what is right, and to behave in society, there is another person who will try as hard as they can to fight against the system; to commit as many crimes as they can get away with; to do everything wrong that they can. These individuals set terrible examples of the way to live a life, and also demonstrate extremely well the fact that living life the way that they do will make one so unappealing that life itself would not seem worth living.

Before one begins this essay, they must understand that this person is not completely real. Although everything about him physically and socially is true, his life story is entirely fictitious (as far as the author knows) and has been made up solely for the purpose of writing this essay. As previously stated, the physical characteristics are true, and the subject’s name has been changed to preserve his identity.

Sitting at a bus stop for the first time on a hot Wednesday, I glance up and look on down the road. Nothing. I look the other way. Nothing. The bus is late, and so am I. This is the first time I have ever taken the bus, so I probably should have gotten on an earlier bus in order to make sure I wasn’t late to my appointments, right? Well, guess what? This was supposed to be the earlier bus. I showed up at the stop at 9:00A.M. sharp in order to make it in time to my 12:00 appointment. Too bad it’s 11:43 right now. I look at the bus schedule again, thinking that perhaps the bus only comes by once every two or three hours. Nope. The schedule plainly states that the bus for Route 1 should stop here every thirty six minutes. At 12:36, the bus finally shows up, and starts grinding to a creaky stop. As I stand, dollar in hand ready to pay the fare, the bus keeps going for another ten feet at least before stopping. I run to catch up, worried that the bus will take off without me, even though there are no other pedestrians to pick up. The doors slowly and ominously hiss open, and I step in, pay the fare, and take my ticket. Without even looking at the operator, I take my seat, trying as hard as possible to keep my temper under control. Still, the worst is yet to come.

Although the driver is already hours late on his route, he stands up and steps out of the bus, probably to inspect some tires or something like that. The second that the driver is completely out of the doors on the bus, the vehicle recoils a foot into the air suddenly, the way that a bed spring bounces up after you take something very big off of it. Now that my interest has been piqued, I am fully alert and aware when the driver steps back onto the bus. Watching as the first leg passes through the doorway, I grimace as the massive thigh stomps against the floor and the whole bus begins to tilt, groaning and creaking as it tries to resist the weight of the monstrosity boarding it. Now that the first half is inside, the rest of the driver reluctantly begins to get on again as well. Seeing this man is a spectacle I am sure does not even exist in nature. Exerting every last force in my body to prevent me from simply screaming in disbelief and horror, I stare, dumbfounded at this massive blob.

Besides this first dominating impression, I begin to notice other details about the man as well. However, none of them can be described in any way as positive. Starting from the ground and going up, I notice that the laces on his shoes are either untied and dangling all over his feet and the floor of the bus or frayed and torn beyond recognition. This alone does not seem like much of a discomforting or impressive thought. When one looks at his shoes, though, and realizes that one of them is a size 13, black Nike, and that the other is a size 15 white with blue stripes Adidas, one begins to wonder what exactly led this man to have such a display of footwear. Was it poverty? Maybe it was simple laziness and apathy. Perhaps this man is just a victim of circumstance and couldn’t seem to get a matching pair of shoes suitable for a work environment. The answer is most likely laziness and apathy. I continue to look at this beastly man, and notice that stains from every fast food stop in the Santa Clarita Valley are adorning his uniform. A stain from Mickey D’s runs down his pant leg from some old ketchup packets, probably seven or eight, by the magnitude of the stain. On his left knee, a pickle is plastered to his faded black pants by old cheese from a cheeseburger purchased from Carle’s Jr. As I look at his belly, barely obscured by a grey shirt in terrible condition, I notice crumbs, bits of wrappers and straws, old sugar packets, and torn up receipts stuck in folds that his fat has made as it doubles over itself. The flaps of flab are definitely noticeable as well, and as I look at them I am reminded of giant mountain ranges in the Himalayas, tidal waves, and stampeding cattle. Just watching those layers of fat roll over each other, jiggling and pulsing with every movement no matter how small is enough to make me want to vomit. It gets worse. On both of his elbows are stains from where he had set his elbows down in a tray of mustard, probably when eating French Fries. I notice that throughout his unkempt goatee small bugs are hopping to and fro, enjoying the playground that his scraggly facial hair has provided for them. Even further on his face, glasses that might be over seven years old sit haphazardly upon the end of his nose. I couldn’t imagine that the glasses would do him any good at all though. Besides being caked with rust, dust, and dirt, the glasses have so many scratches and nicks on them, you could file your nails over the surfaces of the lenses. His face is incredibly greasy, and his teeth are yellow and cavity-infested. This gargantuan spectacle is the most disgusting and revolting creation that I have ever witnessed thus far throughout my entire life.

Scooting down the row of empty seats, I look up at the man’s tarnished nameplate, and after sorting out the letters from dirt, grime, and junk food, I learn that this driver’s name is Jaime Ramirez. I don’t have much time to spend deciphering his name or driver number, however, because I am not the only person that has been waiting for three hours to get on the bus. The bus pulls up to the next stop, and a mob of people crowd onto the bus, angrily conversing and grumbling amongst themselves. Conversations quickly fade out completely as the driver shouts out between coughs and grunts, “SIT DOWN AND SHUTTUP!” Everyone on the bus, including me, stares at the driver, terrified. His voice was neither powerful nor impressive, rather a sickly kind of voice that rasps out syllables through the spit and mucus that coats the inside of his mouth and throat. He hacks and chokes after such a vocal exertion, and spits out a chunk of booger that rivals the excretions of large birds in both size and atrocity. I watch through the window as the spit splatters onto a BMW parked next to the sidewalk. The thought runs through my head that this man has no concern for anyone else but himself, and is confirmed as the bus slams to an abrupt stop as the driver jumps on the brakes, almost ripping them out of their proper place in order to pick up three and a half French Fries that fell out of his pockets. How they got in his pockets in the first place, I could not answer. The point is that to risk the well-being of not only healthy passengers, but old ladies in wheelchairs, mothers with babies in their arms, and small children demonstrates his complete lack of human empathy and emotion.

Slowly, the bus approaches its stop at the bus station, and the driver fails to brake in time as the front of the bus collides with the post in front of it. The majority of the passengers clamber out of the bus, frantically trying to escape the awful presence of this menace. As the doors on the bus are opened, two purposes are served; both of which are a welcome relief to the experience so far. First, I no longer have so many passengers crammed together, fussing and objecting, disgruntled in four different languages on top of me. Second, I get some fresh air and my nostrils can recover from the malodorous stench of Jaime. If you took a bag of Cheez-Its, opened it and poured month old, bad milk into it, then dropped a fish that had hung outside rotting for a week, thrown the whole thing into a blender, and let it sit outside, you’d have a start on comprehending what this man smells like.

The driver gets off the bus again, and once again I am propelled into the air slightly as the bus jumps up, free of its gargantuan load, even if only temporarily. Eight minutes later, the driver steps back onto the bus with three Diet Cokes in hand (as if those are going to do him any good), and the trip is back on. On this half of the ride, it seems as though we are passing through the center of the city. Libraries, police stations, museums, etc.; I see all of these as the bus groans past them. It seems that for every important place we pass, Jaime has something to say about it. As the bus goes by the library, Jaime comments, “What a buncha idiots, wastin their time at that stupid bookhouse.” The police station goes by and Sr. Ramirez states, “There go the bastards that got my hermano…,” and he spits another lugie out the window towards the station. This man has nothing justifiable or uplifting to say about any institution except for fast food chains, where he mutters praises for chicken sandwiches and tacos as he drools over the thought.

Another seventeen minutes, and my stop is coming up. However, Jaime ignores my needs, and blows on by my stop. Instead of performing his duty, he continues for three blocks down the street, missing every stop on the way, and pulls up next to Jack in the Box. I look at my watch and notice that the time is 12:57. Apparently he didn’t want to miss the lunch special. Jaime waddles back into his seat with a bag reminiscent of himself: bulging, greasy, and covered with condiments. I ask if the driver can take me back past those four blocks he flew past, and his response is something along the lines of “just be glad I’m letting you off here.”

I hop off the bus, and huff it back four blocks, to the job interview that I was supposed to be at an hour and fifty-six minutes ago.

A week later, on the same route, a different bus driver stops and picks me up. The driver is clean, neat, prompt, and incredibly polite. A pleasant conversation ensues, and I learn that Jaime no longer works for the city. The man had continued his described behavior, and was hired and fired within nine day’s time. Even though I was completely repulsed by that man, I did feel a little sorry for him.

Actually, I’m lying. I don’t feel sorry for him. I am entirely contented that he got what he deserved, and I bet that you do, too.