The high point of his route is the college stop. He hates the students, who get on the bus with plugged ears or stumble off, liberated drunks, self-declared adults. Frat boys call him “Man” and “Pops,” caught between vernacular decades. More than frats, he hates the girls who smile. Shit-faced sorostitutes mean nothing; he avoids seeing the tan curves bursting from disheveled clothes; that’s how honest men get fired. The smiling girls wear sweaters and tell him to have a good day, condescending goodwill when they don’t give a damn. He got this job ten years ago with a high school diploma that’s not worth the paper it was written on, a casualty of academic inflation. At the college stop, he releases the air break, bus flatulence. The route calls for a five minute stop. The students check their watches. He has a smoke and lets the fuckers wait.