Greyhound

by Piper, Steffan

  “Wow, this place is a real throwback,” Marcus whispered in my ear. “What do you mean?”

  “Smells like bingo balls, Reader’s Digest, and hot coffee up in here,” Marcus said. I couldn’t smell any of it. My nose was still recovering from the vents that had been blasting poisons at me for the last eight hours.

  “Smells like old folks,” I muttered, evaluating the mustiness of the place.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Marcus remarked.

  We wandered over to the gift shop, which was also very different from all the other gift shops. Most of the merchandise for sale was Greyhound-related: small die-cast metal replica buses, Greyhound T-shirts and sweatshirts, Greyhound hats, Greyhound maps, and even Greyhound uniforms.

  “Damn, this place looks like the Greyhound Command Center,” Marcus joked.

  My eyes continued along the shelves past the Greyhound shot glasses, bumper stickers, and dinnerware. A small book rack stood near the cash register but was filled with only one book, The History of Greyhound. I wanted something to read during the trip, but I just wasn’t ready for that. I would have to take a rain check on Harley Earl’s brief history of bus riding, as it seemed like the last thing that anyone in a Greyhound Terminal would want to do research on.

  Along the back wall of the gift shop were plain white T-shirts, plain white socks, plain white underwear, and shower kits. Marcus was looking through the clean clothes for something in his size.

  “They have pay showers here, and we got about an hour and a half. I think it’s about time I got myself straightened up,” he admitted. “How ’bout you? You got another two days almost?” he asked me.

  “How much are they?”

  The man from behind the ticket counter had now crossed over into the gift shop and was watching us both. We were his only customers.

  “Showers are a dollar fifty in quarters. Fifty cents if you purchase a shower kit. T-shirts and shorts are all a dollar a pair. The socks are fifty cents.”

  “Water hot?” Marcus asked.

  The man beside the counter smiled, leaning very casually with one hand on the register and another gripping a white Styrofoam cup. “That water will burn the road-weary right off ya faster than bird shit through a butthole!” When he was done speaking, he lifted his small white cup up to his chin and spat in it.

  Marcus held up a shower kit and some clothes, indicating that he was going to take him up on his offer. “Fresh drawers. Should feel good to have a shower.”

  “I know it would. How long you boys been travelin’?” he asked. His name badge on his shirt pocket read Harley. I wondered if it was Harley Earl himself. He was looking right at me for a response.

  “Stockton,” I replied.

  “California, huh? Y’all come in on that forty-foot Buffalo?”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus replied. “Got on in Los Angeles. They switched out our last bus back in Gallup after…” he hesitated. Harley’s eyes squinted a little in recognition.

  “I done heard about that over the radio earlier today. Damn shame.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus replied.

  I walked over to the wall and grabbed a shower kit, which consisted of a small Greyhound towel, a plain white washcloth, and an individual bar of soap. I also grabbed up clean socks, underwear, and a Greyhound sweatshirt. I did the math in my head and tallied up another eight dollars and change that I would have to part with. I was running out of money, but I still had plenty of café vouchers.

  The old man laughed when I set my shower kit down near the register. “Lemme guess,” he started. “Young man travelin’ alone, deer in the headlights look about ya. You must be Sebastien Ranes.”

  I just stood there, shocked, remembering that Leigh Allen had approached me in much the same way.

  “Take ’er easy, young fella,” he spat again, never letting up on his grin. “I got a call from Bob Hastings in Lows Angle-eeze ’boutcha. Told me to keep an eye out fer ya.”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered accordingly. “I’m Sebastien Ranes.”

  “I betchyu are. You French or sumethin’, boy? Got a name like that, must be.”

  “No, sir, I’m not French,” I answered.

  “He didn’t say you’d be travelin’ with this here Neegra fella,” he said, motioning to Marcus, who didn’t seem to take any offense to the old man at all. The old man’s tone seemed calm and genuine. I couldn’t feel any tension. He looked at me squarely for a second time.

  “He’s alright? Been keepin’ an eye out for ya?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s my friend,” I confirmed.

  “Well then, seems like everything’s shipshape.” The old man laughed a little, spat in his cup, and began to ring us up.

  “Back when I was in Italy, during the war, a young Neegra fella, ’bout your age,” he motioned again toward Marcus, “pulled my bacon out of the fire. 1942. Anzio front. Saved my life.” Harley spat into his cup one more time. “I’d still be over there pushin’ up the daisies and those pretty I-talian girls as well if it weren’t for that fella holdin’ off them Gerries with that old Chicago Typewriter.”

  “Chicago typewriter?” I asked, confused.

  “Heh, heh,” he laughed under his breath. “Thompson automatic machine gun, son. Mow ’em down like yatta county fay-re. Marines always called it a ‘Trench Broom,’ but that’s another story.”

  “You were in the army?” Marcus asked.

  “Served twenty years in the United States Army. Retired out there in White Sands a few years back. Hard not to put on a uniform in the morning, if ya catch my meanin’.” He talked to us as if everything he said had a happy ending. It was hard to know if he had an unhappy day in his life by the way he carried on. “Some things are ’bout as natural as buckshot into the back end of a turkey.”

  Marcus held out his hand to the old man.

  “Marcus Franklin. Nice to meet you, Harley.” Harley quickly gripped his hand, which was darkly tanned, spotted, and thick.

  “Harley Earl. Always a pleasure to meet nice young boys like yourselves. Where y’all headed?” he asked.

  “Going out to New York. Got some family to see,” Marcus responded. Harley acknowledged it with a sort of faraway look.

  “Been there once. Was in love with a woman, but she just didn’t feel the same,” he said, reminiscing. “I always thought she felt just fine though!” he hee-hawed.

  “Pittsburgh,” I answered, when he turned his gaze my way.

  “That’s right. Gon’ out to see yaw grams. She’s got a French name too,” he said with a devilish smile.

  “Don’t worry. She called here askin’ ’bout ya earlier this morning. Checking to see if you were fine and if you were in on time. What was that last name again? Beau…”

  “Beauregard.”

  “That’s right. That’s what it was. Beauregard,” he rejoined, motioning his Styrofoam cup at me.

  “Well, y’all bess get unda that hawt whata instead a standin’ ’round jaw-jackin’ it with me all dang day.”

  “Did my grandma say anything else?”

  “She did. She said to call her later on when y’all get up to Amarilla’. She’ll be waiting ’side the landline for ya.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Earl.”

  “Just call me Harley. Everyone else does,” he smiled.

  The restrooms and showers were located down the hallway from the gift shop. Several men were coming and going from the toilet section, which was connected, but no one else was taking a shower. The shower room consisted of a long tiled wall of shower-heads and knobs on one side, a long wooden bench in the middle, which was bolted to the floor, and lockers against the opposite wall. An open area between the lockers had pegs hanging from the wall to hold towels or clothes and whatnot.

  I was more than slightly apprehensive about stripping down and getting buck naked in public. I’d showered many times at school, in gym class, with all the other boys, and I eventually got past whatever shyness and the awkwardness of it, but this wa
s different. After Flagstaff, stripping down to my birthday suit wasn’t high on my priority list, but at the same time, I was filthy and I needed to bathe. I maneuvered myself to the benches and examined a large sign that hung on one wall: Please return all towels into the linen basket when done.

  I sat down on the bench, nervous, and set my shower kit beside me. My clothes felt as if they were stuck to me with the sweat and grime that had been blowing through the vents. I knew having a shower was a necessity and had to be done.

  “Yo, I’m gonna go sit over there and see a man ’bout a grave, got me?” Marcus joked, stepping away back into the adjoining bathrooms through the connecting doorway.

  “Alright,” I answered.

  “Don’t use up all the hot water, now!” he announced, as he vanished around the corner. Nervous about the whole situation, I saw it as my opportunity and quickly got undressed, leaving my dirty clothes in a crumpled pile that should’ve been burned instead of ever being put back on.

  Naked and clutching my hand towel, the individual-size bar of soap, and two dollars in quarters, I hurried over and quickly dropped the coins into the car-wash-style apparatus that was affixed to the wall.

  By the time Marcus came back, I was already dressed and running a comb through my hair in the mirror. I had thrown away my old socks, underwear, and T-shirt. The Greyhound sweatshirt fit me nicely. I examined the red-and-blue logo behind the sprinting canine mascot that was printed across the front.

  “All you need is a name badge now and you can get on the payroll,” Marcus remarked, getting undressed.

  “All the café vouchers you can handle,” I joked. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” I announced, as I made my exit, leaving him in peace to shower. It probably looked like I was rushing out of there. Anyway it got sliced, I was.

  I waved at Harley Earl as I passed by the ticket counter. He was still gripping onto his Styrofoam cup and spitting into it.

  “Got all straightened up there, I see,” he said, examining me carefully, with eyes squinting in the lights, spying my Greyhound sweatshirt. “Your jacket’s done run ya a bit small in the arm, huh?” he asked, taking a closer look at my brown windbreaker.

  “It’s in pretty bad shape,” I admitted, raising my arms a few inches, showing how tight the coat was in the underarm and how short it was in the sleeve. It looked threadbare and well worn.

  “Well, let’s see if we can outfit ya in something from the lost and found, now. Couldn’t hurt.” Harley walked down to the end of the counter and pulled out a midsize cardboard box and slid it with his pointed cowboy boot into the lobby. We both looked through it and quickly surmised that there wasn’t much to be had. Harley scratched his head a second and thought to himself.

  “Let me see…wait right here.” He kicked the box back under the long shelf and disappeared through a door behind the ticket counter. I stood near the vinyl seats waiting for him to come back. He reemerged a few moments later holding a dark-blue Greyhound uniform jacket, like the kind that I’d seen the porters wearing outside on the platforms. The jacket looked almost new.

  “Since you’ve already got that sweatshirt, might as well go full bore and sport a crew coat as well. How ’bout that?”

  I was surprised, as it was a really nice jacket. The name patch on the front said Hank.

  “Won’t ‘Hank’ be looking for his coat?” I asked.

  “That ol’ thing’s been hangin’ by a hook for a couple months now. Some fella that just stopped showin’ up one day must’ve left it behind.”

  “It’s really nice,” I admitted, as I tried it on over my sweatshirt.

  “A damn sight better than that road-worn garment you came in with, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

  “No, I guess not. Thank you,” I said. Looking up, I saw that he was smiling. He could see that I liked the coat a lot. It was a bit big in the sleeves, but it made it all the more comfortable.

  “I guess this nasty thing should find its proper place,” he said, holding my old jacket out in front of him with two fingers, like it was a rotting carcass. “Normally, I’d burn somethin’ like this, but I think the trash will just have to do.” He was already behind the counter with it and getting ready to drop it down into a larger trash can.

  “Wait a minute!” I shot. I forgot about the license. “I left something in my pocket,” I admitted. Innocently, Harley quickly went through the empty pockets of the jacket until he pulled out Leigh Allen’s driver’s license.

  “Well, what’s this?” he asked, with piqued curiosity. I was reluctant to answer. He was reading the information slowly and rubbing his chin. I felt that I was on the verge of blowing the whole thing and would have to come clean.

  “Leigh Allen,” he read off, concerned. Then it hit me.

  “It’s my father’s. My mother gave it to me before she put me on the bus. It’s the only picture we had of him. She told me to keep it.” I was lying through my teeth, trying hard to be convincing.

  Harley Earl’s face was all squished up, and he was squinting through the reading glasses that he’d pulled from his pocket, trying to get a better look at the photo. “He don’t look much like any kin to ya,” he rejoined.

  “Everyone says that,” I replied, downcast. “I only met him once. I didn’t know who he was until later.”

  “Damn, that’s one bad piece of work, son,” he replied, handing me back the license. “Best put that someplace safe then.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Earl,” I said, slipping the license into the inside pocket of my new coat. The pocket had a zipper, unlike my other jacket, which only had snaps. Harley Earl opened the top of the trash can near the counter and dropped the brown Salvation Army coat inside. He brushed his hands and smiled after the coat had vanished for good.

  “That’s that then, I guess,” he stated, picking up his Styrofoam cup and lifting it once more to his chin to spit.

  A moment later, Marcus appeared, walking up the hallway and running a comb through the thin beard that was forming around his face. “Nothing finer than a hot shower,” he remarked. He noticed my new jacket and gave it a closer look.

  “Hey now, I didn’t see that for sale in the gift shop. We really gotta get you on that Greyhound payroll.”

  “Mr. Earl…I mean Harley gave it to me. Said I can keep it, fit so nice,” I replied.

  “It’s a step up, that’s fo’ sho’, Sebastien…I mean Hank!” Both Marcus and Harley laughed a little.

  “I don’t look like a Hank though, do I?” I asked.

  “We got a little more time. What say you about getting a quick bite to eat before getting back on?” Marcus asked. Harley looked at the clock above the counter and interjected.

  “Between us,” he spoke low, “I’d probably pass on anything from that damn Grey Café. You might get yourself a bad case of the Hershey squirts. Not fun when you gotta hit that cold steel toilet over an’ over.” It was just before eleven a.m., and he gave a second look to the clock.

  “If y’all hurry, just round the side of the building you can catch the Roach Coach. The food’s a damn sight better and a whole lot safer,” he advised us, rubbing his stomach.

  “What’s the Roach Coach?” I asked.

  “Nothin’ to worry ’bout,” Harley replied. Marcus got the exact directions for the best way to get outside quickly, and then we said our goodbyes. I thanked Harley one more time for the jacket and shook his leathery and muscled hand. We found our way around to the side of the building, where we spotted the Roach Coach parked where Harley said it would be. It was still raining, and several men in Greyhound uniforms were sheltered under an awning connected to the truck. Another group of men was huddled next to the building under the lip of the roof, keeping dry, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee. The two of us slipped beneath the truck’s awning as a few other men shifted over and made room.

  “C’mon now,” Marcus hurried.

  We both examined the menu. It was all Mexican food, and I didn’t have a clue as t
o what I wanted to order. Marcus ordered almost immediately.

  “Dos tacos al carbon, por favor.” He spoke to a man inside the truck through a small window above us. The cook was Mexican, and it seemed that his wife was the one who handled the money, as she approached us wearing an apron, a change belt, and a big smile.

  “The same for you, honey?” she asked me. I didn’t understand it at all. Marcus spoke to her for me.

  “Sí, sí. No hot sauce para el niño, por favor.”

  “What did you just say?” I asked.

  “It’s all good, partner. I got your back. Ever have tacos before?”

  “Only from Taco Bell.”

  “What’s Taco Bell?” Marcus wondered, slightly bewildered. The woman looked at him strangely after hearing his response. I tried to figure out a quick answer, maneuvering myself under the awning, trying to keep dry at the same time.

  “It’s like McDonald’s, only they serve Mexican food,” I explained. Marcus seemed surprised about the whole concept. He was unaware of Taco Bell.

  “Is it any good?” he asked. The Mexican woman snickered.

  “It’s alright,” I answered. “My mom likes it a lot.”

  He laughed. “Well, from what I know, that’s really not the best endorsement, is it?”

  “No, I guess not,” I laughed.

  “Maybe we’ll pass one before we get to Pittsburgh. We can check it out.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve never heard of Taco Bell, Marcus,” I replied. “They’re everywhere!”