Greyhound

by Piper, Steffan

  “You going to eat?” he asked. Marcus finally came back to life and moved on his stool.

  “I’m going to have two eggs over medium, two strips of bacon, toast, and hash browns.” Marcus spoke his words directly. His words sounded more like a challenge than an order for food.

  “I was talking to the kid, not you,” the cook growled.

  “I’m going to have the same, actually,” I replied, maneuvering myself in between the two of them and the bewildering tension. Now several other people were watching us, and as I glanced behind us, it seemed as if they were frozen too and that only the three of us were moving. But I could tell that what was going on at the counter wasn’t exactly wholesome. I had the feeling that the cook didn’t like Marcus because he was black. I never thought I’d be in this kind of situation.

  “Do you see that sign, boy?” The cook was now slightly turned and pointing up at a small sign on the wall behind him that read The Management reserves the right to refuse service to anyone.

  “Yeah, I see it,” Marcus responded. “You’re refusing service to me or what?”

  “No, I’m refusing service to the both of you.” He grabbed Marcus’s coffee cup, dumped the coffee on the ground beside him, and threw the cup in the trash. I thought Marcus was going to say something back, but he kept cool, grabbed his newspaper, and got up.

  “Let’s go, kiddo.” We both got up and walked out the front of the terminal in disgust. As we stepped out into the morning air, our footsteps hit the sidewalk simultaneously as thunder cracked above us. The sky had clouded over, but the sunlight was still escaping through the gaps and briefly making it down to earth.

  Gallup was made up of one long street, which hugged the roadway with flat-faced buildings on both sides. A small sign jutting up from the sidewalk designated the main boulevard as Historic Route 66.

  Off to the far right, wrapping a corner at the end of the block, was a Woolworth’s Department Store. Marcus spotted it first.

  “Woolworth’s! Maybe we’ll be able to get something to eat there, or…we might just be surrounded by a bunch of redneck cracker asses!” His voice warbled, and he sounded a bit upset.

  We walked across the wide street together, both with our hands thrust in our pockets, heading for the diner. I thought about what I had said to the police officer about it being my birthday. Of all the birthdays I’d had so far and could remember, this one was much more than I had bargained for. It didn’t feel like it was my birthday, but birthdays with my mom were never that much fun either. Half the time, she’d forget or confuse it with my sister’s. There were never any parties, no presents or cake or anything else that usually went along with the occasion. I’d never been to anyone else’s birthday party either, so I knew I had low expectations. Since we moved so much, it was a given that I just wouldn’t be invited to anyone’s birthday.

  As we passed by one of the shops, I happened to catch a glance at the window display. I wanted to turn away and ignore it, but it was too late. Four dummies were perched close to one another in a group. They were all decked out in hunting attire. It was supposed to be a family. The fake family was all dressed in red plaid button-down shirts and orange safety vests and hats. It was a mother, a father, and two children. The mother looked ecstatic, like she had just won the lottery, and had her hands at her sides as if she was going to fly away in delight. The kids could’ve easily been Beanie and me. The male child was the youngest figure on display and was staring directly at me. They all looked happy. The father had a shotgun leaning over his shoulder and a devil-may-care attitude. He looked on the verge of lighting a cigarette. It was too much. I just wanted to block it out.

  “What are you thinking about?” Marcus asked. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  I glanced over at him, breaking my gaze from the window. “Nothing. Nothing, really,” I answered.

  “Don’t say nothing. Give me a better answer than that,” he smiled, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  I hesitated for a second. I looked back at the window again, wondering if I should tell Marcus. Telling him about the fake family would be weird. “Today is my birthday, but it doesn’t feel like my birthday. I’m traveling across the country on a bus. I woke up in a pool of blood next to a dead girl, was interrogated by the police, and discriminated against by a ‘redneck cracker ass’ with a lazy eye. I just don’t think it can get any worse than that,” I said, shaking my head. “You know what I mean?” I added, in frustration.

  “Ahh, well, I’d say that’s a whole lot more than nothing. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I just didn’t think I’d be having my twelfth birthday in Gallup, New Mexico,” I said, as we quickly skirted the flat sidewalk past evenly spaced parking meters and a variety of different shops. Some of the stores had large mural paintings on the outside walls. The most elaborate was an Indian Jewelry Trading Post that had a scenic vision of a wagon train crossing the desert under a red-and-purple sky. It looked impressive, larger than life, and covered the entire face of the building.

  Marcus took note of the giant painting, laughed, and patted me on the back. “Check it out…that’s you,” he began.

  “Huh…” I replied.

  “Early American settlers, pioneers, travelers, nomads with no home. Loners. Living life against the odds,” he said with a bright tone, smiling.

  “I don’t feel like a pioneer, though.”

  “Well, look at it this way,” he suggested. “Neither did they. In fact, I bet they were all downright miserable, hungry, and panic-stricken.”

  “Well, that sounds about right,” I joked. “Do you think that cook back there was a pioneer?”

  Marcus grunted disapprovingly at the man’s mention. “Hmph. He was probably an outlaw or a drifter. They probably shot his ancestors in a town square somewhere. People like that are miserable and want to make everyone around them miserable, that’s all.” His words trailed off as he stopped talking about the cook and probably began thinking about him.

  Just as we got to the front of the Woolworth’s, I grabbed at the metal door handle and questioned him jokingly. “You’re awfully quiet. What are you thinking about?”

  “Nomads…loners. They’re like the twisted roots of a dead tree,” he laughed. His words had more meaning than I first realized. My mind skipped like a record as his words registered in my subconscious.

  Woolworth’s was busy for almost eight in the morning. Several people were already in the small restaurant area eating breakfast. Frying bacon, eggs, and coffee pungently assaulted us invisibly. The smell of food was pleasing. The sounds of talking and soft shopping music had a welcoming pitch to them.

  Marcus had a concerned look on his face as he quickly scanned both the store and restaurant. He looked relieved when he saw a middle-aged black woman working the cash register, waitressing, and Monty sitting alone at a table eating breakfast, holding the newspaper.

  “There y’all are. I was wondering what the ‘heyll’ happened to the two of you,” he called out to us from where he was seated.

  “We got turned around a bit and found ourselves south of the Mason-Dixon, if you know what I mean,” Marcus replied, as we joined him. Monty was swabbing up his egg yolk with his toast, which sure looked good.

  “Lemme guess…” he began. “You two went over and copped a squat at Roger’s in the terminal?”

  “How did you know?” I replied.

  “Hmph,” Monty responded, finishing his mouthful of food. “Guess I should’ve warned you ’bout that. With all the grief on the bus earlier, I didn’t have a quick minute. Somebody needs to tell that fool that the South surrendered long ago.”

  A young, skinny black waitress with long, puffy hair that hung down past her shoulders like a curly triangle approached with coffee cups and a full, fresh pot. She looked me over and hesitated giving me a coffee cup. “Well, well…look who’s travelin’ in style. Good morning, sweet stuff.”

  “Good morning,” I responded, beaming.

  “Can I
take you home? You sure are cute,” she added.

  Monty laughed and said something that I couldn’t make out. She ignored both of their snickers and sighed. “Men is all the same.”

  “You never that nice to me, Jeannie!” Monty answered.

  She addressed me again. “You want some breakfast, baby?”

  “Please.” I couldn’t stop staring at her. I thought for a second that she must’ve been the most beautiful woman in the world. Maybe it was the constant assault of ugliness on the bus, or maybe she was that beautiful. Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop staring at her.

  “Bacon and eggs?” she asked. Her long, thin fingers touched down on my shoulder. I was thankful that I had taken off my brown puffy jacket. I just nodded yes endlessly, like a fool.

  “Same for you, I suppose,” she added, noting Marcus.

  “Over medium.”

  She scribbled some notes on her pad and walked away. I watched her slip away behind the counter. All of us were fixated on her. She was better to look at than what we had been staring at for the past few days.

  “Now, that’s a woman,” Marcus whispered, winking at me.

  I sat in silence, drinking my coffee, watching the waitress in her red-and-white uniform quickly moving around the tables. She didn’t have a name tag on either.

  “Mmmm. Someone’s in love,” Monty pointed out to Marcus, who smiled and laughed at me.

  “Did we get a new bus?” Marcus asked Monty.

  “They’s gassin’ it up right now…as we speak.”

  “You two got the rundown, huh?” It was more code that I didn’t understand.

  “What’s the rundown?” I blustered.

  Marcus debriefed me. “When you get the twenty-question routine from John Law.”

  “Ohh…he only asked me how I knew her name,” I replied.

  “How did you get to know her name? Y’all get to socializin’ back there? I thought she was sleeping the whole damn time,” Monty questioned me.

  “No. I actually didn’t know her name.” Monty looked at me, confused, but Marcus was leaning back in the booth, smiling. “Is that what you told the cop?”

  “Uh-huh,” I nodded affirmatively.

  “Heh!” Monty spat. “You did good then, kid. Never tell the man nuthin’. Let them find it out on their own. They’s getting paid to find out, and they don’t cut no check for squawkers.”

  I sipped my coffee, not having any answer, soaking in Monty’s logic. Monty and Marcus continued talking. I pulled out my notepad and started taking notes. I wrote down several words and phrases that I’d heard come out of Monty’s mouth. I tried to recollect what I wanted to say about Phoenix and maybe even a few words about Leigh Allen and Flagstaff. The food came quickly but hung in my throat and sunk into my stomach like a rock. So far, it was some of the worst food I had eaten on the entire trip. I did my best to eat and not let on.

  “Well, boys…this is our last meal together. I’ll be steppin’ off up here and someone else’ll be taking y’all onward.”

  “You’re the best driver I’ve had so far, Mr. Monty.”

  “This boy does got that ol’ silva tongue!” Monty remarked to Marcus. “I appreciate that, youngun’. Fo’ sho’. Just remember, I don’t eat with all the passengers on the bus. You just get on up to Pittsburgh with Marcus safely, hear?”

  “I do,” I replied. I finally understood everything he said. I guess it was just a matter of time. With that, Monty stood up and started putting all of his stuff back in his pockets, just like the last time I had watched him. He dug into his wallet, pulled out some money for the entire breakfast, and put it on the table.

  “C’mon now. You don’t need to do that,” Marcus urged.

  “No, no, no. It’s alright. I spend my money my way, hear me?” He laughed as he stuck his wallet in his back pocket.

  “Thank you for breakfast, Monty,” I said.

  “I’ll see y’all up at the bus. I gotta go punch out,” he replied, as he stuck a toothpick in his mouth and headed for the door. He waved at the young waitress on the way out, giving her a long look.

  Marcus and I sat in Woolworth’s restaurant for another ten minutes and finished the last of our coffee.

  “Sebastien, I want to tell you something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That girl dying like that bothered you a bit, huh?” Marcus sipped his coffee and was watching out the window of the diner. The rain had intensified and was beating against the glass like it was target practice and the glass was just in the way.

  “A bit,” I answered. “I’ve never seen that much blood before.”

  “You ever see a dead person before?”

  “No. I haven’t. Have you?”

  “Yeah, seen plenty. Saw a lot more in prison, but I was ’bout your age when I saw my aunt sleepin’ on the couch. I just thought she was resting. She looked so peaceful. She looked the same at the funeral.”

  “I’ve never been to a funeral either.”

  “That’s a shock. I’ve been to more funerals than I have weddings,” he admitted.

  “I’ve been to a lot of weddings though,” I supplied.

  “Well, that’s the way it probably should be.” He considered his words carefully.

  “Marcus, why did that woman, Amber…I mean Luanne, have surgery to take her baby out?”

  “Who told you about that? The cop?”

  “Yeah, he said that was how she bled to death.” The waitress passed us one more time with the coffeepot, offering a refill. We both were done and said “No thanks.”

  “Well, you can rarely believe the word of a cop, but he was probably telling the truth.”

  “But why did she do it?” I repeated the question, hoping he had some kind of answer.

  “Here you are in Gallup, New Mexico, on your birthday, halfway across the country with no family of any kind, travelin’ with an ex-convict and the driver’s license of a pedophile in your jacket pocket, and you’re asking why some woman doesn’t want her kid? I should be the one asking you. You’re the one with the insight, not me.” Marcus had a funny tone in his voice that softened what he was saying, but I felt the sting of it regardless.

  “Well, it looks different the way you put it…like that, I mean,” I stumbled, more mumbling my thoughts than speaking them.

  “My momma’s waiting for me in New York. Where’s your momma at? She waiting anywhere for you?” He put it straight at me.

  “You know that she’s not waiting for me.”

  He turned his coffee cup on the table with his fingers for a second. “Trust me when I tell you this, because it’s true. I’ve told you a few things now that I hope you keep in the front of your mind. This is one more, understand?”

  “What is it?” The words left my lips in a bare and cold whisper.

  “You may love your momma, that’s surely a natural thing, but nowhere is it written that she has to love you back. That’s something most people don’t want to know but I figure it’s time for you to get with.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Sounds harsh, huh? There’s no guarantees on something like that, buddy. They either will or they won’t. A woman who just offhandedly throws her child on a bus with thirty-five dollars just ain’t right. Got that?”

  I must’ve looked like a wilting flower because Marcus was right, but he eased up on me, watching me fade right in front of him.

  “It’s alright, though. It may be hard to hear it, but it will be a lot easier livin’ with it. This is the kind of thing that knowing it makes a man out of ya. No one ever told me any of this, had to be learned.”

  I cleared my throat. “I hope I never see her again, or Dick.”

  “Well, buddy, I hate to say this, but you probably will.”

  “What am I supposed to do then?”

  He shook his head, stood up, and left the tip for the waitress. Putting a hand back on my shoulder, he finished his thought. “Ain’t much you can do, is there? Just don’t be too bitter about
it, and always treat women with proper respect, got that?” Hearing Marcus telling me about Charlotte made me feel a lot better and less angry inside.

  “I’m cool,” I said. He laughed.

  “Cool, huh? You just might be from the ghetto after all.”

  “Have a nice trip, boys.” The waitress hailed us as we left. I caught a last brief glimpse of her from the other side of the window. She was leaning over, wiping a table, and smiling at us. I couldn’t help but look down the cut of her shirt. I knew I’d never see her again, but I hoped I’d never forget how pretty she was. I must’ve had a thing for waitresses now.

  The rain was unrelenting as Marcus and I waited with the rest of the passengers under the building’s overhang for the replacement motor coach to pull into place. We had passed a few porters who were standing inside the terminal with all of our luggage blocking the entryway. I didn’t see my bag, though I grabbed only a quick glance, but if it got lost, rerouted, or stolen, I wouldn’t be upset in the slightest. A light breeze pushed some of the falling rain against us, touching my cheeks in the cold morning air.

  “Why is it taking them so long?” I wondered.

  “Well, these dirt farmers ain’t in any hurry out here like the two of us. There ain’t a damn thing going on out here but the rent,” he answered sarcastically.

  We both glanced over at the automatic doors of the terminal as they slid open and Monty appeared. He saw us, smiled, and came right for us.

  “Well, boys,” he began. “This is it for the old man.”

  “Far as you go, huh?” Marcus asked. They shook hands quickly and then hugged.

  “Thirteen hours behind the wheel is long enough for me. I’ll be headin’ back after my mandatory eight hours off.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Monty. I don’t think all the Greyhound drivers are like you,” I told him warmly. I meant it too. It was pretty easy to surpass Frank Burns, but it would be difficult to meet someone like Monty again.

  “Either of you two want to tell me what y’all were up to in Flagstaff?” he asked. Something told me that it was bound to come up. I looked at Marcus, hoping he would explain it. He gave me the same look and then settled back on Monty. He pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and then offered one up to the old man.