Greyhound (5 page)

“You ain’t kicking anybody off this bus, but this is where you’re going to find something new to do.” He pulled the emergency brake as the bus crept along through the dust in the lane beside the freeway. Most of the passengers were standing up watching the whole affair now, but nobody was willing to help the Greyhound driver. This struck me hard as I thought about my own situation and how nice everyone had been. The fact that no one was interested in helping the driver made me realize that he had crossed some imaginary line with his behavior.

The old Marine pulled the driver into the aisle and began beating him furiously. People slowly sat down without saying a word. It must’ve been what everyone called an “ass-whipping,” because the driver was getting one in spades. When the driver started crying loudly, the man picked him up, hurried him toward the back of the bus, and threw him in the small bathroom. Frank Burns’s sunglasses were still hanging onto his face but were badly crushed and broken. The old soldier didn’t even break a sweat.

“Don’t you come out until I tell you to, sweetheart. You’re lucky I don’t leave you on the side of the road. Now, lock the goddamned door!” As soon as he said it, the
occupied
light came on without hesitation.

“Don’t open it until I give you the command. Do you understand me?” he bellowed, shouting with his face millimeters from the flat surface of the door. Frank Burns was crying but didn’t answer the question.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, gravelly and menacing all at once.

“Of course I do.…” Frank Burns answered, sobbing uncontrollably.

When the old man turned and headed back down toward the driver’s seat, something in the bus had changed. The uniformed man got behind the wheel and pulled slowly back out onto the freeway. He immediately came on over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse our interruption of service and the gross display of behavior. If you need to smoke, please do so, but try to keep it to a minimum out of respect for those that don’t. I think we’ve all had enough cigarette smoke for a while anyway. As for the other driver…he’s indisposed in the bathroom and won’t be joining the rest of the adults until he can learn some manners. We’re still on time and should be at the Greyhound Terminal as scheduled. If you have any questions, my name’s Master Sergeant Black. Thank you all for your patience, and enjoy the rest of your trip.”

As soon as he clicked off, everybody started clapping. It was overwhelming. I had witnessed a fistfight between two men in a moving vehicle and a hostile takeover of public transportation. I felt like laughing out loud, but I could hear the driver in the lavatory crying and moaning like a small child. I could hear Frank Burns sobbing on the other side of the bathroom door, and it became uncomfortable sitting in the back next to him. I was just glad that for once it wasn’t me.

Several people had begun conversations and were happily enjoying a cigarette. The old obese lady got up, walked over to the driver, and kissed him on the cheek. A few people laughed. Master Sergeant Black was a much better driver and handled the large coach with steadiness, unlike the faux Frank Burns in the sinister sunglasses. I moved to the very front seat, now empty as other riders shifted into different seats to talk with other passengers. Looking out the large front window, I felt the view of the world had become immense and much more impressive. I began to see why everyone suggested I sit up front with the driver. Almost an hour later, Master Sergeant Black came back on over the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, hopefully everyone’s enjoying the drive. As we’re approaching Pasadena, I need to take a head count to see who will be getting off either there or in Glendale. Please raise your hands.”

I looked around and noticed that no one raised his hand or seemed interested in either of the two stops mentioned.

“It seems then as if we’re going to be downtown about thirty minutes early,”
he concluded.
“Thank you again for your patience, and God bless America.”
He clicked off.

The sequestered driver in the back yelled out, “You can’t just skip stops!” but no one paid any attention to him or seemed to care. An elderly woman smiled at me as I looked back. She was humming what sounded like a church song and enjoying the ride. The red-haired man had returned to reading his book in the seat behind me, and some people had dozed off again to catch a few minutes of rest before getting into the station.

The tall buildings of Los Angeles appeared on the skyline as we slowly closed in on the city. The driver stuck in the bathroom started yelling obscenities as we got closer in to the station. Several people told him to be quiet, including the red-haired hippie. The bus seemed to cut through the heavy throngs of city traffic all by itself. It was the largest, most densely packed place I’d ever seen in my whole life. My heart raced as I tried to read all the names of the passing stores, businesses, and street signs. Master Sergeant Black knew exactly where we were going, but instead of pulling the bus around the back of the station and onto the platform, he just drove the bus up onto the curb and parked on the sidewalk in front of the station on Third Street. People quickly stepped out of the way of the oncoming motor coach as it inched forward up the sidewalk. I laughed out loud as I realized that most of the people didn’t care too much or even pay any mind at all that someone was parking a Greyhound Bus on a busy sidewalk, midday, in downtown Los Angeles.

“Thanks, folks. It’s been a pleasure,” Master Sergeant Black announced, as he opened the door, disappeared down the steps, and folded into the crowd that was quickly gathering. Supervisors from inside the terminal were now sprinting toward the bus, but they all passed Master Sergeant Black, never noticing him at all. An older man climbed up the steps, confused and angry, looking as if he was having a heart attack. He began quickly scanning the bus for the driver. He looked confused as he stared at the vacant seat.

“Where the hell’s the idiot responsible for this catastrophe?” he bellowed, mortified. Most of us just pointed back toward the restroom, where the driver was nervously standing in the doorway of the lavatory with a toilet paper wad sticking out of his right nostril.

“I demand a refund!” shouted one of the passengers. The supervisor’s face changed immediately from anger to bewilderment. “I want my money back!” someone else belted. The next moment, everything became complete chaos.

From where I sat on the bus, looking out through the window into the madness that awaited, I realized that Los Angeles was never a place
ever intended
for an eleven-year-old to be cut loose into on any day. It was the first time I felt afraid since I had left the night before. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted adult supervision, either. It was a first on many accounts.

After the police had taken everyone’s names and found out the whole story behind the hijacking, the Greyhound personnel escorted us from the bus. We had all been told that a portion of our fare would be returned to us as compensation for the inconvenience. Several of the passengers immediately responded with laughter and angry shouts, and after several more exchanges, we were all told that our fares would be
fully refunded
to us at the ticket counter and we’d be given several free lunch vouchers redeemable inside the café. To me, it seemed like a godsend. Not only was I about to receive an extra forty-four dollars but I was also going to be fed for the entirety of the journey. Many of the riders were outraged by this. A few people made puking sounds, but nothing further changed, and we were all herded off the bus and into the terminal.

When I came down the steps, several porters busied themselves with unloading our luggage onto large metal carts. Seeing my bags once again brought me a strange sense of joy. The porter heaved the bags onto the cart and immediately noticed how heavy they were. Police officers in dark blue, well-pressed uniforms stood on the sidewalk surrounding the bus. Every one of them was well armed but appeared completely bored. They all huddled near the front of the bus smoking cigarettes and fell into conversation. They could have been planning a shoot-out, but I imagined they were just talking about their bowling scores and women.

I couldn’t believe the throngs of people jammed on the sidewalk and bursting through the doors of the bus terminal. An old man, overdressed in a thick, ratty winter coat, slouched over, pushing a grocery cart full of plastic bags, slowly weaved in and out of the crowd, blending in with the Greyhound employees. I was surrounded by clear skies and tall buildings above me. The air smelled of fumes and food, wafting around me on all sides. The sun somehow emanated from below me. There was so much sunlight that every surface was caught in a permanent glare. I had to squint just to see where I was going. The large white bleached stone of the city expanded around me like hot blank paper. The bitter faces of the cops and people must’ve been the words, but I didn’t want to wait around to see the punctuation.

Going through the doors of the terminal, I followed behind the man with the long red hair. I was momentarily stunned by the roar of the immense station, the stale air-conditioning, the back-to-back platform calls from the overhead speaker, and music that all went on uninterrupted.

Every lobby seat was occupied by what I could now easily identify as homeless people or permanent Greyhound travelers. The difference between the two seemed a fine line; unfortunately, the security guards had to deal with both. Walking past the rows of small televisions, I noticed every one was running and paid for, each one tuned to a different station. I became dizzy with the crashing sounds of what was apparently commonplace to everyone else. I followed close behind the other passengers as we walked to the ticket counter, escorted by the manager. Another man, older and distinguished with a trimmed mustache and wearing a hat, stood by authorizing the refunds and passing out café tickets. I began to worry that I wouldn’t be in the right place to meet my Aunt Sharon. I started to look around nervously for her stern but manly gaze. I could barely remember what she looked like as I waited, and after everything so far, I didn’t want to hear a lecture, get in trouble, or be beaten senseless in a toilet stall for being an inconvenience. When I finally reached the front of the line, both the old man and the girl behind the ticket counter looked at me strangely.

“Were you on 1443, young man?” His name badge said
A. Hastings.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get on?” he questioned me, shifting around in his spot, leaning against the counter.

“Stockton,” I replied. I dug out my ticket stub and handed it over. He examined it carefully.

“Alone? You’re traveling alone?” His words seem to stumble out of him one at a time.

“I am, sir. I’m supposed to meet my aunt on the platform.”

“Is that right?” he asked, studying me behind his furrowed brow. “How far are you traveling?”

“Past Pittsburgh,” I replied. Mr. Hastings’s eyes became as large as bicentennial dollar coins. The girl’s mouth also became slack and dropped open.

“Pittsburgh…” he parroted, scarcely believing it. He examined the stack of café tickets in his hand and stared into the air as if he were calculating time and space all at once.

“Issue the boy forty-four dollars, Marie,” he commanded, speaking to the girl firmly and counting out six café tickets. “Here, take these,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Sebastien, Sebastien Ranes.”

He smiled as he handed me the money and returned my bus ticket. He watched me stash everything away and then placed a hand on my shoulder and led me across the lobby. “Well, Sebastien, Sebastien Ranes, your bus leaves from platform eight at two-fifteen.” He examined his watch and led me through the crowd. “Have you ridden the bus before?”

“Yes, I have, Mr. Hastings. Last year I rode from Altoona to Sacramento with my mother.”

“Altoona, eh?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s where I’m headed.”

“I’ve been through Altoona. Very green,” he said with a slight tone. “Almost like the place that time forgot. Your grandparents live there?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“If I told you that it makes perfect sense, does that clear it up?”

“Not really,” I answered. He laughed as we walked out onto the platform where our old bus was now parked.

“Seeing that your bus got here early, there shouldn’t be any problem with your relatives. Do you see them?” he asked me, looking around. I scanned the almost empty platform without seeing any trace of my Aunt Sharon of Uncle Gerald.

“No, not yet, Mr. Hastings.”

“Strange. Well, they should be here for you soon. I guess waiting is probably the best bet. Do you have all you need, son?”

“I do, Mr. Hastings, thank you.”

“If you need anything else, just come to the ticket counter and ask for me by name, okay?”

“Thank you for the café tickets.”

“No, no, don’t worry about that. Your bus leaves over there, understood?” He was pointing several rows down at an empty spot under the awning. I nodded that I got it. He headed down the platform toward the sliding glass doors leading into the lobby. I sunk into myself and prepared to wait it out for my aunt and uncle.

“Mr. Ranes!” he called. I turned and acknowledged Mr. Hastings, who was standing in the doorway.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have a nice trip, son,” he shouted. I waved as he slipped away inside. I took a seat below the painted sign that read
San Diego.
A large group of Marines were standing around in two small clusters, smoking cigarettes, telling jokes, and laughing. The older ones in the group had similar-looking uniforms to Master Sergeant Black. The younger ones were spitting into soda cans and waiting to get on the bus that I had just left behind. There was no sign at all of my Aunt Sharon. I wondered if she knew where the Greyhound station was, or if she was confused about the arrival time.

Sitting on the bench, I calculated my money and figured that I had over seventy dollars in cash now and enough café tickets to see me well past Altoona. As the minutes passed, I watched the driver of the old bus reappear wearing a new pair of sunglasses. He saw me but apparently wasn’t about to make eye contact. He shifted sheepishly across the platform and stood out by the open door smoking a cigarette as if nothing had ever taken place. His face looked a bit swollen but hadn’t yet bruised. Maybe he was just hoping to make up the money for the shift. I watched him climb the stairs, start the engine, and usher all the passengers aboard. It was a steady but even and predictable process.

“Final boarding call, 1442 to San Diego. Platform 2. Final boarding call.”
I was directly under the speaker, and my head rang with the echo of each word. The giant door of the bus swung shut with loud “shooshing” hydraulics. My eyes fixed on the backward American flag painted just off to the side of the closed door. I had remembered reading that an upside-down flag meant
treason
and was a signal to others during the Civil War of trouble. I wondered what type of signal a backward flag could mean? It seemed like a bad omen, but I was now putting some good distance between myself and my mother, and it couldn’t have all spelled doom.

Perhaps everything was now going in reverse, or that I had somehow entered a mirror universe of the world that I was originally supposed to be in but wasn’t. In the other world, I speculated that if I were still on the bus, I was probably traveling with my mother and father. If it was to set everything right, I might as well set it all right. I was going back to live with them and my grandma in Altoona because everything was better and I didn’t feel the way I had anymore. I didn’t want things to end as badly as I longed for them to. I was confused about this line of thinking and decided to give it up. It was making me feel even more unhappy than I already was. What was the use of feeling this way? I had already been thrown to the wolves, and nobody cared in the slightest, except some perfect strangers. But maybe that was what made them perfect. I just couldn’t tell anymore. I felt useless, my situation felt useless, and I wondered where my aunt was.

For almost two hours, I sat perfectly still, poised on that bench as if I were put there like a forgotten doll to be a dull witness watching buses, people, and homeless folks come and go. People boarded and got off, and their expressions were all the same. I knew I should’ve felt differently about it, but I didn’t. Nobody seemed happy, and I was aware of it. The only people at the bus terminal who were smiling were the people who were living there, its permanent residents. The homeless parked in front of static-screen TVs, either half asleep or apparently drunk and laughing at everybody with a type of madness that no one wanted to get near. Most of the folks tried to ignore it and were just busy getting from one bus to the next or hurrying to get out to the front of the terminal.

I could’ve sat there all day, and no one would’ve noticed me. Every seat outside on the platform was taken; all the benches were filled except mine. I felt isolated, and it seemed like no one wanted anything to do with me. Something in the world wasn’t right, but I didn’t need to be sitting on a Greyhound bus all day to know that.

“Everything okay?” A voice called out above me like it was coming from the speaker. I turned and saw Mr. Hastings standing beside me.

I sat up. “Uhh, maybe they forgot,” I said. He had two cups of hot liquid in his hands.

“You drink coffee, young man?” he asked, taking the open seat next to me on the bench. He handed me a red paper cup that was almost full of hot coffee. “Here. I came out earlier and saw you nodding off. Thought this might do you some good.”

“I thought for sure they would’ve been here by now.”

“Hmmph,” he grunted, fully resigned.

I looked over at him. The whole thing finally came together for me. “They’re not coming, are they?”

“They never do.”

“I’m not the first eleven-year-old traveling alone, am I?”

“For someone so young, you sure do catch on pretty fast.”

“I don’t have any other choice, do I? I mean, I’m here and they’re…wherever they are.” I petered out and sipped my coffee.

“Your mother included,” he said softly, lighting a cigar. Mr. Hastings was laughing. “I just want to let you know that I called the information operator up in Stockton. I found a listing for a Charlotte Ranes.”

“My mother.”

“Mmm-huh. Anyway, I called the number.” He looked over at me darkly.

“You probably thought I ran away or something.”

He laughed again. “Or something…” he admitted. “Nobody picked up.” He showed me a piece of paper with my house number on it.

“You get a lot of this, don’t you?”

“Well, Sebastien…I’ve been the station manager for about eighteen years, and I’ve seen a lot of kids come through here. But not many come through here having been sent alone by their own parents. People are shocked to see you here, that’s for sure. It’s obvious that you’re not a runaway. You don’t
look
like a runaway.” He glanced around, watching several people stepping down off an arrived bus. “You get a lot of this, don’t you?” He repeated what I had said, putting it back at me.

“I never thought much about it. But I know my mother’s not normal, Mr. Hastings.”

“No, I wouldn’t think she is.”

“She’s probably in San Francisco. She went with another new man to go get married again,” I continued. He looked me over, shaking his head.

“Not the first time, eh?” he rejoined with laughter.

“No,” I answered, sipping my coffee. Sitting there talking to him, I started to feel better. It was much better than being alone and being stuck in my head wondering about my aunt, who still hadn’t surfaced.

“Well, look…you hungry?”

“A little,” I answered.

“Why don’t we get something to snack on from the café. If they come looking for you, I’m sure they’ll page us. Okay?”

I got up and left the platform with Mr. Hastings and headed for the Grey Café once more. He told me all about how he’d been driving Greyhound buses since just after the end of the 1950s. I figured that was a long time to be anything.

Inside the terminal, the loudspeaker was still going full tilt.

“Departure to San Francisco through Simi Valley, Ventura, Santa Barbara, and San Simeon. Aisle 4.”

“1202 arriving on Aisle 1 from Palm Springs.”
I found it hard to hear everything Mr. Hastings was saying, so I leaned in close as we sat at the counter, trying to catch his words. He probably just thought I was interested.