The Board on the Number 4
Paul drove the number 4 bus along the coast road, from Rockport to Camden and back, four times a day. In March he found a small chalkboard in his garage and hung it inside the windshield, next to the ticket machine.
On the first Monday it said: Why is the sea always wet? It can’t find a towel.
On Tuesday: How does the sea say hello? It waves.
On Wednesday: What do you call a bus with no wheels? A room.
The jokes were bad. Everybody knew the jokes were bad. That was the deal. The woman who got on at the harbor read the board out loud every morning in a flat voice, like the news. Two students in the back seat groaned at exactly the same time. A man with a small wet dog said the same three words every day: “Oh, come on.”
Then Paul got the flu. For eight days another driver had the route, with no board and nothing in the windshield but a parking permit. People got on. People sat down. Nobody said anything.
On the ninth morning Paul climbed into his seat and found the board already full. Someone had written on it in big letters:
Why was the number 4 so quiet last week? Because nobody was telling bad jokes.
It wasn’t a good joke. Paul left it up all week.