Greyhound (25 page)

You could also hear the shuffling of cards, and a few people would get up and move seats to have conversations with other riders. For the most part, everyone tried to be as pleasant as they could. One bad seed was all that was ever needed to spoil the bunch, but people like Leigh Allen and Frank Burns were incredibly rare.

It was just after ten-thirty when we got into Columbus. The rain had stopped just as the driver said it would, and the streets were all wet and puddle-strewn from the same heavy storm that had been following us across the country. Neon signs hung in shop windows everywhere as we drove toward the depot. Downtown Columbus had so many neon lights burning, they could’ve doubled as streetlights. We drove past a church with a neon sign that said
Jesus Saves
, but it definitely wasn’t the first sign like that I had seen. I’d probably seen that same sign more than any other.
7-Eleven
was a close second. Even though it was already quiet and hardly anyone was out, the several 7-Elevens that we did pass along the way all had people standing around just outside the door and under the building’s green awning. The pay phones were never lonely either. It was something you could count on.

“You need to stop at the gift shop?” Marcus asked, as he shoved his paperback book back into his jacket pocket. He was almost done with it now. It looked as if he was on the last few pages.

“Yeah, I wanted to buy some gum,” I answered.

“Cool, I’m going in too. I need to get some batteries and a bag of chips.”

I started to think that all the terminals would begin to look the same, but it just wasn’t the case. Every so often the Greyhound stations would be these odd streamlined-looking blue-and-chrome museum-style buildings from another era, and other times they were just a window in a shop or a part of some other structure like an afterthought. The Columbus station was a giant gray cube with a rotating sign outside the building, possibly to let airplanes know to avoid it or to try to land out front on the main street because they had a twenty-four-hour café. I meandered around the gift shop, bored stiff and stuck in my head. I was numb from traveling. Marcus had to tap me on the shoulder, as he had called out my name several times and I didn’t respond.

“Sebastien, you alright?” he asked. He was looking at cassette tapes next to me at the counter.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“I called your name three times and you didn’t hear me. You look stuck in your head.”

“I didn’t?” was about the most I could manage. I looked up at the cassette tapes and examined the titles. More names of people I had never heard of and probably wouldn’t want to. The name
Engelbert Humperdinck
made me smile. Turning the racks, I saw Petula Clark, Charlie Rich, Roger Whitaker, and Merle Haggard. I saw nothing I would’ve wanted to buy right off the bat. As I turned the rack a little more, two names caught my eye: Three Dog Night and Cat Stevens.

“You ever listen to Three Dog Night?” I asked, looking over at Marcus, holding up the tape.

“Nope,” he stated succinctly, bringing over an Al Jarreau tape and paying for it.

“How about Cat Stevens?” I followed up. He looked as if he was concentrating.

“You going through a list of animals first to help you narrow down your choice? What’s the title of the cassette?” he asked. “Is it
Tea for the Tillerman
?”

“It says
Greatest Hits
,” I replied.

“You seem to have a small collection of Greatest Hits building up, don’t ya?” I hadn’t thought about it before, but I did. My other two cassettes were both greatest hits compilations. I liked both of them and made my decision to buy the Cat Stevens. A sign above the rack read
fifty percent off.
All the tapes were a dollar seventy-five. My money situation was getting tighter, but it would be gone soon no matter what I spent it on. At least I could listen to music all summer long.

After I paid for the tape and gum, we made our way over to the diner. It was the first diner I had seen that was called something other than Grey’s Café or The Grey Café. This one was just called The Road Grill. The smell wafting through the air didn’t make me feel in a hurry to eat there, but I knew it was the last chance I would have to eat with Marcus, and I wouldn’t want to eat once we got to Pittsburgh, as it would be close to three in the morning.

A young waitress in the signature gray-and-blue uniform walked us over to two seats that looked through the window to the outside world. Looking around, I could see a constant throng of bodies that were heeding the warning of
“final boarding call to Amarillo on aisle 3.”
I couldn’t imagine making the trip backward now after everything that had happened. I didn’t envy any of the people running to catch their bus. If they knew what was good for them, they would miss it entirely. The image of the wildlife mural on the wall back in Blythe went through my head again. If they only had a clue that a bear in a stream full of salmon was patiently awaiting them, they might’ve had second thoughts.

I sat and read the menu, occasionally glancing around the restaurant or outside at the neon sign across the street that read
Same Day Dry Cleaning.
It was blinking off and on methodically, which kept me looking at it. Marcus ordered a bowl of French onion soup and a corned beef sandwich. He never ordered the same thing twice and was still happy about how good it all tasted. Every time he took a bite, I’d stare at his face and watch him eat. He was ecstatic. I’d never seen anyone enjoy eating as much as Marcus did.

I ordered a glass of iced tea and a patty melt with a salad instead of fries. I hadn’t eaten any vegetables in days. The last time I saw lettuce was on the tacos in Albuquerque, and we had eaten them so fast, I barely noticed it. For all I knew, it could have been pocket lint or shredded paper rather than lettuce.

“What time does your schedule say we get into Pittsburgh?” Marcus asked. I took a sip of iced tea and dug it out from my back pocket, carefully unfolding it.

“Three-ten in the morning.”

“Any stops in between here and there?”

“No, it’s an express. The small
e
after Columbus means no stops until the next terminal,” I answered.

“You got that thing pretty much figured out, huh?”

“I’ve been trying not to look at it too much, but I think I’ve got it completely memorized at this point.”

“How long is your layover in Pittsburgh?” Marcus asked.

“I switch over to the 4692, which leaves at three-thirty.”

Marcus nodded. “Doesn’t leave too much time does it?” he asked thoughtfully.

“For what?” I wondered.

“To get rid of those bags, what else?” he replied. “We’ll have to do something drastic. You’ll have to get your bags from the porters before they wheel them over to your new bus, and whatever we do with them is gonna have to be quick, or we just might end up missing our connection.”

“The next bus from Pittsburgh into Altoona doesn’t leave until seven a.m. I have no way to call my grandparents and tell them I missed the bus. I can’t miss it.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll make that bus, buddy,” he promised. “Was this trip everything you thought it was going to be?” he asked me.

“It’s been a lot different than what I expected, that’s for sure.” We both laughed out loud as we dug into our food. I was beginning to feel a little sad again about the prospect of having to say goodbye to Marcus.

“Y’know…” I started. “You saved my life. I just wanted to say thanks.” I felt the need to tell him that one more time. I was actually unsure if I had previously thanked him at all. He kept staring into his food and balled up his face into an expression as if it was nothing at all.

“Ahh…you don’t need to thank me, man. We’re cool, y’know?” he sputtered.

“No, Marcus. I’m serious. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t be here right now,” I stated firmly. He looked up at me, carefully weighing my words.

“You’re welcome, Sebastien. Sometimes you just got to look out for people. That’s all it is,” he rejoined. “Y’know…if I can impress upon you one last thing to remember, it’s this,” he pointed at my jacket pocket. “And you can take notes too, if you want,” he suggested with a grin.

“Always try to be good to people, don’t always put yourself first, and don’t always expect things to be fair, because they won’t be. You do that…and I doubt you’ll end up
anything
like your folks. Got me?”

It took me a few seconds to write down everything he had said. I had to use a napkin because my notebook was full and somewhere in the bottom of my bag.

“I hope I don’t end up like them,” I asserted honestly. Marcus raised his eyebrows and got a crazy look across his face as he bit into his sandwich. I couldn’t tell if it was what I had said or the food.

“I wouldn’t wish that on anybody!” he answered back.

“What’s going to happen to me, Marcus?” I asked bluntly. I thought it was a question I needed to ask, and it was mostly out of desperation.

“I have no idea what’s going to happen to you, partner. Nobody does. I don’t have a crystal ball, and folks that talk like they do, don’t listen to them.”

I watched him carefully, and he seemed uncomfortable with what he had said. He put his glass down, wiped his face, and exhaled nervously. I looked away and drank my iced tea as I felt the tension rising. He wasn’t mad, but he wanted to say something else.

“Look…” he started again. “If I had to take a guess, all I could say is that you’re going to spend your life looking for friends and continually coming up short. That’s what happens when you don’t have a real father. You’re going to have to be careful about people and know that they often have very selfish motives and will rarely be honest with you about them…but it doesn’t mean not to trust anyone either.”

“I’m not going to have any friends?” I repeated, somewhat stuck on that part.

“No. That’s not what I said, now,” he spoke back quick and sharp. “I said you’re going to be looking for friends and won’t find many. It’s a big difference, understand?”

“I don’t know. I guess,” I answered, a bit flummoxed.

“Hmm…” he laughed quietly to himself. “I guess,” he repeated, all while watching me.

We sat talking for another five minutes before the waitress came with the bill. I gave her two café vouchers, but she looked puzzled when she picked them up.

“What’s this?” she responded angrily. Marcus and I both failed to answer her tone right away. We just sat quietly watching her. A moment later, she became uncomfortable and looked down at the café vouchers. She didn’t seem pleased at all.

“Where did you get these?” she snapped. I pulled out Mr. Hastings’s business card and handed it to her. She gave it another quick glance.

“I’ll have to talk to the manager and make sure we can even take these, but don’t count on it.”

“Just m– m–…” I couldn’t get it out in one piece.

“What?” she growled hurriedly.

“The card. Just make sure I get that back. Mr. Hastings is my friend.”

She looked at me as if I was pathetic, turned around, and left to go check with her boss.

I looked over at Marcus who wasn’t bothered by the girl’s rudeness at all. He was watching her figure as she walked away. I was surprised. He smiled broadly, his eyes fixed to her rear end.

“Hey, even angry girls need love too, buddy. Don’t forget that either,” he laughed, pointing at her as she slipped away.

I pulled out the rest of my café vouchers and slid them across the table. “Here, you might as well have these. I won’t be needing them at my grandma’s house. They gave me a bunch of them back in Los Angeles when our bus got hijacked.”

Marcus was immediately shocked by this revelation. “Say what? You never told me about that.” His hand slapped down on the table, and all the silverware bounced in unison, making a loud noise.

“Yeah, what can I say? It’s been one of those weeks,” I confessed lightly. We both found it funny.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Marcus.”

“Hey, you going to go see if there’s a message from Monty at the information booth? We only got a few minutes left.”

“I almost forgot,” I rejoined.

“I’ll handle the waitress. You go check it out, just in case,” he suggested.

I’d almost forgotten about Monty’s message. I walked quickly out of The Road Grill and through the long stretch of lobby toward the information counter, which was on the other side of the terminal. I had seen it on the way in but had dismissed it completely.

A smell of cigar smoke and body odor emanated from the doorway of the small office that was marked
Information
by a small brown plaque jutting out into the hall. An old red-faced man with a bulbous, bright-red nose was telling a story to another Greyhound driver. I knocked on the half-size door, but neither of the two men acknowledged me. The second time, I knocked firmer and much louder.

“Hello!” I announced. They were both a little taken aback that I had interrupted them, but they didn’t budge. The old man just swished the cigar around in his mouth.

“I’m looking to see if I have a message,” I spoke. The two men went stale and silent, staring at me. I felt like I was being examined; it was disturbing.

“A message? What’s your name?” he barked. I knew he was going to ask, but it didn’t make a bit of difference.

“My name? It’s uh, like…”

“What the hell’s your name, kid. Stop the goddamned mumbling and spit it out. This isn’t a goddamned petting zoo,” he yelled. The other man laughed and leered at me, creeping me out.

“Ranes,” I squeezed out through my hardening vocal cords. “Sebastien,” I continued in a truncated fashion.

“Ranes? Sebastien?” he groaned. “Which is it, punk?”

“My name is Sebastien Ranes.” The words came out of my mouth like huge pieces of rusted metal. My gums and lips were dry. I was sweating and nervous.

“Got problems with the English language, huh?” he commented unsympathetically. The other man just sipped his coffee.