Greyhound (9 page)

“Stuttering is often the result of something really bad, something traumatic, that happens. Why don’t you tell me what happened to you two years ago?” he continued. He spoke just above a whisper.

I turned my face away toward the window, feeling a little ashamed and a little upset. I didn’t have any way to explain it to him, and my brain was telling me that my mouth wouldn’t have a way to speak the words without fumbling all over them.

“Can…we…” I tried slowly.

“What? Can we what?” he asked, concerned.

“Nothing. Can we not talk about it?” I cut myself short, satisfied with what I was able to get out. I felt light-headed, and my throat went dry and began to constrict, as if someone was choking me. The grip felt unbearable. I closed my eyes and did my best to shut down. I was becoming convinced that I was slowly turning into one of those mannequins. I was absolutely useless. They probably wanted to speak but couldn’t, their throats wooden and closed, unable to articulate the personal hell that they were trapped in. It was a life of constant manipulation, with no ability to respond. I feared for myself and what was up ahead. Slowly, I slipped away, letting go of it and everything else. Sleep was the only thing that I had any reasonable control over. Lately, I hadn’t had much of it either. When it came, I didn’t feel like struggling against it just to watch the constant river of headlights passing outside the window. For the moment, drifting into darkness was better.

I was barely able to open my eyes, as they were crusted shut and blasted dry from the air-conditioning vent. My lips were cracked, and the inside of my mouth tasted like the strange blue water that was now very evidently fuming from the bathroom toilet.

The overhead lights dimly shone down from above. The engine was still. The bus had stopped. I got up and noticed that I was the only one still aboard. Everyone else had disembarked, including Marcus.

As I made my way down the center aisle, I couldn’t hear any noise coming from the overhead intercom outside, but the exterior of the pale concrete and iron terminal was brightly lit up like an airport or a UFO landing site. It looked like the middle of the day outside, but it was closer to nine p.m. From the rafters of the overhang, I saw a sign that read
Blythe.

Outside the bus, Marcus was having a cigarette with the driver. “Look who’s awake,” he announced, as I came down the metal steps. “I didn’t think you were ever gonna wake up. You looked dead to the world back there.”

I rubbed my eyes, assaulted by the intensity of the bright light. “Where are we?” I asked.

“California-Arizona border,” the driver bellowed with a smile. It took me a second to realize it, but he wasn’t the same driver that got on in Los Angeles. The man’s name tag read
Monty.

“Looks like the middle of nowhere,” I said after glancing around at the alien structure, which was surrounded by a massive, flat parking lot and sat a long distance from the freeway. My eyes had a difficult time piercing the blackness that was being held off by the flaming white lamps.

They both laughed at me. “It is. Literally,” Monty answered. Monty was older than all of the drivers so far. His hair was white and curly. He was darker than Marcus and had an easiness about him that made him look comfortable in his oversize Greyhound uniform. He might’ve been driving some type of transport his whole life just by the way he was standing close to the bus, smiling and palming his cigarette. He had deep lines around the edges of his mouth.

“You best go use the latrine now, youngun’. We’ll be leaving directly.” He spoke his words kindly, with just enough purpose.

“What time is it?” I asked, as I thrust my hands into my coat pockets, yawning.

“Just past eight-thirty. Be leavin’ up outta here in ’proximately ten mics.” Monty spoke to me in a type of elusive military/truck-driver code that seemed perfectly normal to him and Marcus. As I wandered into the terminal, I felt relieved that I had figured out some of what he had told me.

Inside, soft music was dropping down from the high ceiling above. The large center of the lobby was devoid of any of the riders and residents that I’d seen back in Los Angeles. Blythe was a stark contrast. Along the main wall stood a long row of old-fashioned enclosed telephone booths from another era. They had sliding glass doors for privacy, which were edged with dark wood, and the inside had a soft amber light shining down on a small wooden seat next to the dialing pad. Almost every one of the twenty or so phone booths had someone inside. Maybe this is what you’re supposed to do when you come to Blythe. Call home. Maybe it had something to do with crossing a border. I turned away, having no desire to call anyone. It was three hours later at my grandma’s in Pennsylvania, and they were most likely in bed. It was too late to call. My grandpa wasn’t the type of person who appreciated late-night interruptions. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want a phone call from me either in the middle of the night at the border of California and Arizona. It just wasn’t worth it.

On one of the large walls hung a huge painting of a sprawling green forest with a winding stream and craggy mountains rising up in the background. The words
Welcome to California
were painted neatly within the upper portion of the canvas like it was a good thing. A very unconcerned and innocent-looking bear was frolicking in the stream, grabbing at a fish. I stared at the painting for a few minutes, locked in a trance. It wasn’t the California I knew at all. Maybe this is what it was for the adults or everyone else. Maybe this is what it was for my mother on her honeymoon with Dick. In my mind I pictured the innocent bear fishing them both from that frothy stream. They were gasping for air, their mouths full of ice-cold water, trying to get away. That was possibly the only California that would’ve made sense to me.

The Blythe Terminal was something to see. It was large, well-built, and clean, which was quite the opposite from the overcrowded and dirty Los Angeles Terminal, which was too small, too cramped, and falling apart. It would’ve made some sense if they could’ve switched terminals, but that just wasn’t possible.

I made my way across the charcoal gray marble to the far end. Two thin signs hung above two doorways and read
Mens
and
Womens,
amber-lit from inside. The bathroom was covered in white square tile from floor to ceiling. In the middle stood a large, round stainless-steel fountain with running water that was being used by one other man. It was the first time I’d ever seen anyone peeing in a water fountain. I surveyed the room for urinals. Once I realized that the fountain contraption
was
the urinal, I stepped up and did my business. Thankfully, the center portion of the fountain was raised, obscuring me from the other man directly across from where I stood.

A short row of stalls that was made of the same wood as the phone booths was set back opposite the sinks. The bathroom was bigger than a lot of apartments I had lived in with my mother. The sound of someone flushing cut through the calm sound of my pee mixing into the running water below me.

I noticed that even though I was in a bathroom, the air smelled fresh and clean, and the place was considerably relaxing. A tile mural of horses running across a desert plain was embedded into one of the walls just left of where I was standing. The homeless people in Los Angeles would’ve loved this place.

I washed up quickly and left. I was starting to feel the vise grip of sleep closing in and twisting around me. My eyes were heavy, the joints of my hands hurt, and I couldn’t stop yawning. I thought I was going to swallow a bug the third time my mouth stretched open to vacuum in the night air and fill my body with the dark poison of the middle-of-nowhere. As I stepped outside, I could see that the bus was running again and people were filtering forward in a hazy state. I saw a lot of the same riders from Los Angeles and Palm Springs, but only a few other people had been on the bus ride longer than I had: an old woman with her not-so-pretty daughter, the creepy guy in the suit, and the man with the red hair and green army jacket who had gotten hassled by the evil Frank Burns in Bakersfield.

We rumbled back out into the night, away from the Blythe Terminal with all of its clean and well-lit surfaces. A man with a janitor’s cart and a hose was spraying down one of the bus platforms. After we left, the place looked vacant. It was easy for me to huddle back into the corner of my window seat and fade away. Marcus said it was okay for me to take two seats, as he was stretched out on the third and into the aisle, slowly drifting away.

When Monty had merged us all back onto the freeway, I looked across the bus and out one of the windows on the opposite side to see if the Blythe Terminal was still visible. With the glare from the passing cars, the strong glow wasn’t all that impressive now and could’ve been easily missed if you weren’t paying attention.

I had hoped that they had a gift shop, as the thought occurred to me earlier to see if I had enough money to buy a Walkman, a music tape, and some batteries. The gift store was closed, and I couldn’t get a good look inside as everything was dark. Listening to music was a good way to pass the time and take my mind off the endless monotony, especially at night, when I either couldn’t sleep or wasn’t talking with Marcus. I could faintly hear Marcus listening to something. The light wisps of a man’s voice drifted my way. “Mercy Mercy Me” was the only part I caught. The rest of it was too quiet and too far away for me to hear it.

Suddenly, after a few moments of driving, the intercom gently clicked on. It didn’t crack at my ears like all the other times.

“Good evening, folks. Welcome back on the 1364 to Phoenix, Saint Louis, Pittsburgh, and New York. We’ll be pulling into Phoenix in just about three and a half hours. It’s a safe and gentle drive when the wind is still, and it’s looking pretty calm. I’ll leave the floor lights on. Other than that, get some rest, be courteous to the other riders, and please refrain from smoking after nine p.m. My name is Monty, and I’ll be your driver for the next twelve hours. Thank you.”

So far, we hadn’t had a driver for that long. All the other drivers were only on for four hours at most. It made sense if they had to turn around and drive back home after their shift. I was just glad that we didn’t have to deal with Frank Burns anymore.

When my eyes closed, I was thankful. It was the end of the first whole day on the bus, and I was a lot closer to being home. One of the last things that went through my head before I fell asleep was the luggage. I knew at some point, I’d have to get rid of it.

MAY 12, 1981…

Several times during the night I had opened my eyes and stared out into the blackness, counting the stars and letting my mind completely separate from my tired body. Reclined in the rear of a moving bus wasn’t necessarily the most comfortable place on earth to find sleep, but it would have to do. My only consolation was that I wasn’t wedged between a pay television, the homeless, and surrounded on all sides by other travelers stuck in the same predicament. The backseat of the bus was notoriously bumpy. While the suspension absorbed a lot of the repetitive bumps and dips, the majority had to be endured. This was another good reason for the sane of mind to not sit in the back row. After a while, it became something else to ignore, but every so often the metallic behemoth would hit an unusually large dip, sending me bouncing off the seat.

In one of those moments of deep sleep, I completely detached from the reality of being on the bus and believed myself to be somewhere else. I had my face buried in the seat cushion, drooling, when the bus hit an abnormally large pothole in the road and then swayed. I was completely knocked off the bench and sent directly to the floor. When I picked myself up, Marcus just sort of chuckled. “Are you alright down there?” he asked.

“Yeah, fine,” I mumbled, shaken and dazed. I climbed back up onto the seat. I knew after I hit the floor that trying to sleep would be a lost cause, but at least I had a window seat. Marcus drifted back into slumber as we drove on, getting closer to our destination. I was hoping that the café in Phoenix would be open, as I was feeling hungry again. Eating was just another way to pass the time and fight off boredom. I also had a good supply of café vouchers and wanted to use them.

When the bus climbed up the off-ramp, I rubbed my eyes, yawned, and prepared myself to step down. We slowed at a light for a moment and then made a few turns into downtown Phoenix. Streetlights now, no stars. Sidewalks, neon signs, parked cars, newspaper machines, and rows of parking meters. It was everything I expected to see as we drifted deeper into the heart of urban civilization. But every time I thought we were going to stop and pull into the station, we just kept on driving. It was a roundabout route that slowly took us away from normalcy and once again into an industrial wasteland. Maybe that kind of
out-of-the-way
Toiletburg, U.S.A., was a prerequisite for building the bulk of the terminals back in Greyhound’s good-ol’-days.

When the familiar oblong, blue-and-white Greyhound sign came into view, we cut into the station and were met by the flashing lights of three squad cars. The spinning red-and-blue orbs bounced around the walls and ceiling of our coach, casting all of our faces in a more serious hue. Monty slowly and very carefully pulled the bus through the terminal. All of the passengers on the right side of the bus had stood up and moved closer into the middle aisle to get a better look. As we drifted by the entrance into the terminal, a group of police officers was escorting a man in handcuffs with his head bowed to the cars outside. He had a shaved head and a fierce look. Blood covered the front of his white T-shirt. We were just a few minutes too late to have seen the fight.

“Looks like the locals have been brawlin’,” Marcus spoke, assessing the situation. He had one raised eyebrow and seemed to be shaking his head.

“That guy’s bleeding,” I replied, stating the obvious.

“Hate to see what happened to the other guy.”

The bus pulled into its spot along the terminal wall. A painted sign in front of our space read
Los Angeles–Flagstaff.
When the bus came to a complete stop, the intercom switched on.

“I know everyone’s itching to get off, but I need to make sure that it’s safe for us to disembark and get the go-ahead. It will only take a moment.”

Nobody protested, but everyone fidgeted anxiously to get a better look, despite being fast asleep only moments ago. Monty switched channels on his radio and called inside for instructions. The response came back pretty quickly, and Monty swung the doors open.

“Alrighty, folks…” Monty had stood up and was addressing us without the aid of his intercom.

“Everything’s fine inside, but apparently a little busier in the lobby than we thought. If this is the end of the line for you here in Phoenix, then just wait outside on the platform for your bags before headin’ out. Be safe.”

“Short, sweet, and to the point,” Marcus commented. Everyone was now steadily getting off.

“He didn’t say how long the layover was,” I responded. I slowly paraded behind Marcus, following the crowd outside. When we were finally off, I asked Monty how long we were stopping for.

“Fifty minutes,” he answered, never looking up from unlocking the baggage doors on the side of the bus. “Save me a seat in the café, boys,” he shot back.

“You got it,” Marcus replied.

We made our way inside. Unlike Blythe, Phoenix was crawling with people, like another version of Los Angeles. An old homeless man, wrapped in clothes made entirely from American flags, was jiggling a small Styrofoam cup in the entryway.

“Spare some change, spare some change, spare some change,” he repeated. Another man in all black, with a black cowboy hat and a long black beard, stood frozen just inside the terminal doors with a very unpleasant look on his face. I could see him from a distance as the doors slid open. He was a stark contrast to his companion outside. As I passed the old man dressed like Uncle Sam, he put a hand on my shoulder and asked me for some money.

“Spare some change, little man?” he asked with a toothy smile. He smelled of booze.

“Okay…’nuff a that,” Marcus interjected, ushering me away.

The man in black said nothing at all. He just flicked, or rather bounced, a stack of quarters in his palm, slowly and rhythmically, as we passed, never breaking cadence. He didn’t smell of alcohol like the old man, but he stank like sweat, rotten milk, and poop. The smell made both Marcus and me recoil unexpectedly. It was unbearable.

Inside the lobby, a few policemen were standing erect and on guard, sipping coffee and conversing next to a cluster of Greyhound employees who were scrubbing blood from the floor and wiping down the seats of the vinyl chairs. Everyone’s eyes kept darting quickly in that direction, wondering if they were going to see anything else, but it was clear that whatever had happened was over long ago.

Above, the radio played “I’ve got a peaceful, easy feeling,” but the atmosphere was rigid and tense. The mood was anything but peaceful or easy. Up ahead, the main gift store was still open. It was connected to the Grey Café. I was eager to get inside and see if I was going to get lucky.

“I need to go inside the gift store and get something, okay?”

“Cool,” Marcus replied. “Don’t get lost. I’ll go grab us a seat inside. You want something to drink?” he asked. I realized he was just being polite.

“Cup of coffee, please,” I rejoined. Again, he looked at me in complete shock, as if I had just caught him off guard.

“Cup of coffee?” he repeated quizzically. “C’mon, man.”

“I’m being straight,” I pleaded. Marcus grinned as he vanished inside to get a table.

As I slipped through the doorway of the gift store, the teenage girl behind the counter was watching me intently. The shop space was small, but it was filled with magazines, books, candy, cold soft drinks, gum, and travel-size amenities. When I looked back, the girl was staring into a mirror and applying makeup. She pushed the black eyeliner pencil slowly under her lower eyelid. When she was done, she capped the pencil and put it into a small makeup bag next to the cash register. As I approached the counter, she looked me over one more time. What I wanted was locked inside a glass case under the counter.

“What do you need?” she questioned me abruptly. The music that was playing behind her on a small silver radio was loud, but her voice was louder and more immediate.

“Can I se-se-se-see one of those tape players?” I asked. My voice cracked, exposing my nervousness. She just looked me over without moving from her seat and started smacking her gum at me. I was looking at her now for a response.

“What do you need?” She repeated the same question as if the last few seconds hadn’t existed, but spoke louder and sounded more annoyed. I scratched my temple, intimidated.

“I want to see…”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time, kid. You can see the merchandise through the glass.” She spoke at me as if she didn’t give a damn.

“Well, I…I…”

“Look, you little fucking shoplifter, I ain’t got all night. You want something, pay for it. Otherwise, beat it. I’m not your mm-mm-mm-mommy, and this ain’t in-in-information.” She was openly taunting me. I took a deep breath. I was used to it.

“How much is it?” I blurted out, a little upset now.

“How much is what, retard?” She flicked her feathered blond hair from her round face and blinked at me several times.

“The black Walkman,” I answered her steadily.

Completely annoyed, she finally got up from her stool and bent over to unlock the case. “If you’re jerking me around, kid, I’m going to beat the living hell hell hell out of you.” When the small door slid open, I pointed at the box near the front. An unboxed Walkman was standing front and center as a display.

“This one?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Forty-nine ninety-nine, plus tax,” she bellowed triumphantly.

My face fell. She must not have thought I had it, because she laughed and started closing the case.

“You filthy little brat, I knew it. Beat it.”

“I’ll take it,” I answered.

I caught her by surprise. “Excuse me?” she responded.

“I’ll take it, please.” I reached into my jacket pocket and quickly produced the money. I gave her three twenties. When the cash hit the counter and I pulled my hand away, she knew I was serious and changed her tune.

“You gave me too much,” she shot, after she picked up the money and counted it.

“I need some batteries for it as well.” I was excited but trying to stay calm. When she bagged it all up, before she gave me my change, she put one hand on her hip and pointed the other to a small display at the end of the counter.

“You’re also going to need a cassette tape if you’re planning on using that thing. They’re two ninety-nine. Go pick one, quick.” She had softened a bit, but her face still had a sour look on it as she ran her tongue across the front of her teeth in between gum smacks. I stepped over to the small revolving rack and examined all the titles. I’d never heard of any of them. Toward the bottom, I saw a tape that said
Daryl Hall and John Oates
. That was a name I knew from a song that had been playing on the radio in Dick’s station wagon.

“I got this,” I said, as I set the Hall and Oates tape on the counter. The girl looked me over again and finally smiled.

“Not bad. You ever listen to headphones before?”

“Headphones?” I said. “I didn’t see that tape on the rack.”

“No, headphones…what you just bought, silly child.”

“Oh…no. This is my first cassette tape.” The words sounded odd coming out of my mouth.

“Well…” she spoke, as she leaned under the counter beside her and quickly came back up with another cassette. “Take this. You can have it. We have multiples.” I looked at it carefully. “
Simon and Garfunkel Greatest Hits,
” I read aloud.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sorry I was so mean to you,” she remarked. Her expression had changed quite a bit.

“It’s okay. I get worse at home.”

“I bet,” she replied, as I turned away and headed for the café. The smell of food hit me as I crossed over the threshold of merchandise and into the world of perishable foods.

When I got to the table, Marcus and Monty already had their coffee. Monty had just sat down from the looks of things, as he was blowing off steam and stacking his wallet, keys, and a radio next to him on the table.

“You get yourself a bad back sittin’ on wallets like that. The secret of long careers behind the wheel: never sit on your wallet.” Monty was running his finger across his teeth and gums and getting ready to stir his coffee.

“What did you buy?” Marcus asked, curious as to what was in the bag.

“Let me show you.” I pulled out the box to show him.

“Woo-hooo, lookey look,” Monty exclaimed. “Looks like somebody’s havin’ a summertime Christmas.”

“Looks like you bought yourself a Walkman.” Marcus looked it and me over with that all too familiar gleam. It was the same Walkman that he had. Model WM-7.

“Did you get batteries for it?” he asked. The waitress set down a cup of coffee in front of me.

“I did. Music, too.”

“You boys eating today, or is it just coffee?” she checked. Monty was lighting a cigarette. “Slice a pie tonight, Dee. That’s ’bout all I need.”

“I know what you’re getting, old man. How ’bout you boys?” she queried us with a thick Southern accent.

“I’ll have the same, please,” Marcus rejoined politely.

“Same, please. À la mode,” I stated. Monty laughed and slapped his hand on the table.

“À la mode…” Monty laughed between a little hacking and coughing on his cigarette. Marcus and I did our best to ignore it, but we were both smiling.

“Hall and Oates? Mmm mmm,” Marcus noted. “That ‘Sara Smile,’ now that’s
the cut
,” Marcus remarked, as he looked carefully at the back of the tape.

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Monty began, “I heard that white boy on the radio. Swear to God I thought he was blacker than my mama’s iron skillet. He’s the whitest brother I ever heard in soul music.”

“Fo’ sho’,” Marcus laughed. I listened to the two of them talking about Daryl Hall. Marcus even sang a few lines of the song that I had heard on the radio.

“Every time you go away…you take a piece of me with you…”

“That song sends a
chill
up my spine every time I hear it,” Monty began. “Gets me thinkin’ ’bout my ol’ lady, y’know?”

“All I’m saying,” Marcus interrupted, “is that Daryl Hall, boy…he’s as cold as ice.” Marcus sipped his coffee; Monty pulled at his pie with his fork. I’d heard the song only once and could vaguely remember it, but looking down at the tape, I could see it was listed as the third song on the second side.