Greyhound

by Piper, Steffan

  “Not where I’ve been, kiddo,” he laughed. The world seemed perfect for a few minutes. Maybe it was the smell of food, or being clean, or just being somewhere completely new. I realized that when we got to Pittsburgh that would be it, and we’d have to say goodbye. I couldn’t help but feel a little sad about it.

  “Cigarettes, por favor?” Marcus asked the lady. When the tacos came, he handed me two of them. They were wrapped side by side on a piece of tinfoil and warm to the touch. I watched Marcus open his, pick up the lime wedge hidden inside, and squeeze it all over the food. When he looked over at me to see if I was eating yet, I did the same. They were good. I could’ve eaten four more. He paid the woman and never even asked me for money. I couldn’t object with a mouth full of food. I felt bad for not paying my own way so many times. Marcus really was looking out for me, even though no one had asked him to.

  “We better head back to the bus before we get left behind and made permanent residents,” he stated. “Gracias,” Marcus told them, as we dashed out into the rain, leaving the safety of the awning behind us.

  “Right behind ya,” I rejoined, as we quick-stepped it back inside the terminal. After almost two days, I’d been through the routine of making quick stops and immediate bus reboardings so often that I tried to block out the monotonous but headache-inducing boarding calls that crackled out of the public address system above us.

  The forty-foot Buffalo rumbled in its place against the platform. A few more seats had been vacated, and the bus was now the emptiest that I had seen it yet. The two Native American men were still riding with us and were in the same seats in front of us. The older man smiled and greeted us as we came up the aisle.

  “Aho!” he cried out. His son joined him by raising up his McDonald’s coffee cup.

  “McDonald’s, eh?” Marcus commented.

  “We found the place down the block. I didn’t think my father and I would’ve survived whatever it was they killed and were serving in that café,” he joked.

  “Yeah, we got something off the Roach Coach instead. I just didn’t have the courage for that place either,” Marcus replied.

  “Roach Coach!” they both announced loudly, like a toast, raising their coffee cups into the air. I didn’t say a word and took my seat next to the window, but I had the feeling that they had more than coffee in their cups. My grandpa often put brandy in his morning coffee. I suspected it was the same for them. Marcus and the younger Navajo man kept making cracks about the food they were serving in the café.

  “I’ve smelled dead horses that were more appetizing,” the old man added.

  “Well, I’m sure someone on the bus ate at the café,” the younger man admitted. “It’s just a matter of time now,” he laughed. I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow to the obvious pain that they were alluding to.

  “Looks like we have front-row seats to the show,” Marcus added, leaning forward and motioning toward the toilet.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” began the old man. “I may not have brought enough sage.” They all started guffawing as the bus started moving. The back-up alert sounded, and the bus began its slow rolling out into the lane for one more safe departure. Soon Albuquerque would be just another memory, reduced to a few lines in my notebook. The face of Harley Earl would be gone, but I’d always have his kindness and the jacket. Maybe I wouldn’t remember how good the tacos were, but I would remember that it was the first time I ever ate from a lunch truck.

  The weather outside looked ominous, and I had to settle in for another full day’s worth of driving. Thankfully, the seats weren’t as uncomfortable as they looked. Our new driver turned on the fan but not the air-conditioner, as it wasn’t needed.

  “Good afternoon, welcome aboard the 1364 continuing to Amarillo, Springfield, and Saint Louis. No alcoholic beverages, loud music, or standing in the runway. Thank you for choosing Greyhound.”

  I was shocked at the heavenly quality of the old bus’s overhead address system. It didn’t click, pop, hiss, or create unnecessary static. The driver’s voice just floated down to us from nowhere, like warm water. Her message was ordered and polite. She was the first driver to call the aisle the runway, and she thanked us for “choosing” Greyhound, as if there was some other choice of transportation that I wasn’t aware of. It was interesting enough that I felt obliged to make a few more notes.

  “You writing a book over there?” Marcus uttered softly. I was fixed firmly against the raindrop-strewn window glass.

  “Nah…just taking some notes, y’know?”

  “No. I don’t know,” he smirked.

  “It will be good to talk to my grandma,” I said.

  “That’s right,” he remembered. “You’re going to call her when you get to Amarillo?”

  “What time do we get in?” I asked.

  “Later today, sometime around supper…maybe four, five o’clock,” he estimated. “You got enough change to make the call?”

  “Thanks, Marcus. I’ve got enough money,” I replied firmly.

  “I know you’ve got enough money, Sebastien. But do you got enough change? You can’t just start stuffing dollar bills into the telephone. It ain’t a burlesque girl, y’know?”

  I checked all my pockets, rounding up and counting all the dimes, nickels, and quarters in my possession. “Three twenty-five,” I answered.

  Marcus calculated the phone call in his head. “Should be about four minutes, maybe five if you’re lucky.”

  “That’s it?” I guffawed.

  “Ain’t cheap, man,” he replied, stretching out.

  I thought about what I was going to say in the few minutes that I would have her on the phone. She was the only person I really wanted to talk to.

  “I don’t think I’ve told you, but I might have to get off the bus tomorrow morning,” I said to Marcus darkly. He just stared at me strangely, squinting with a half smile and half something else. I hadn’t seen that expression on his face before.

  “Why would you be getting off the bus? You’re supposed to go all the way through to Altoona. Is there something that you’re not telling me?”

  “My mother’s family,” I blurted out. I didn’t know how else to say it.

  “And…” he replied, waiting, his face now showing concern.

  “My mother’s family is going to meet me at the bus stop in Mount Vernon, Missouri, early tomorrow morning.”

  “Wait, are these some of the same people who were supposed to meet you back in Los Angeles but left you just danglin’ in the wind?” His voice had a tone of incredulity.

  “Yeah,” I answered sheepishly.

  “So what…they’re coming down to the bus station in the morning? What time?”

  “Five in the morning.” As soon as the words left my lips, Marcus burst out laughing.

  “Really? I’ve got to see this. You mean to tell me you’ve got some family that’s going to crawl out of bed at four a.m. just to get a quick glance at a passing twelve-year-old in the rain? Who are these people? And don’t say ‘my mother’s family,’” Marcus replied, riled up, excited, and laughing. He was grabbing his side and shaking his head he was laughing so much.

  “They’re my grandparents…my mother’s parents, actually,” I answered. My words must have hit Marcus hard as he quieted.

  “Your grandparents?” he asked. I nodded. “Have you ever met them? You guys tight or anything?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have. What I’ve heard about them from my mother was that she didn’t really get along with them and that they were always arguing on the phone.”

  Marcus contemplated my dilemma silently for a while to himself. After a few minutes, I spoke up, needing to break the silence.

  “I don’t want to get off the bus in Missouri, but I have to call my grandma in Altoona and tell her that I might have to stay over for a day and visit with them. If I get off, though…that’ll be it, won’t it?” My voice broke apart. I didn’t have the words to say what I was thinking again, but
I guessed Marcus already knew. It wouldn’t be the same without him.

  I became distracted by the old man as he started singing the same song as earlier and waving his green plant in front of his face again. This time, a light amount of wispy smoke was coming from it. It wasn’t on fire, but it was smoking. It smelled damp, earthy, but not nearly as bad as the constant billow of cigarettes from the bathroom that now smelled worse and was doubling as a death trap. I caught the eyes of the driver looking up at us in the long mirror. She didn’t seem pleased by it all but just kept on driving without making any announcement. She had probably seen this type of thing before and knew better than to interfere.

  Marcus leaned over and whispered a few words to me. “I spoke to the old man earlier. He said the bus told him that the spirit was getting ready to pass up to Great Grandfather and be free of the machine that held it.” Marcus was smiling as he told me this.

  “Are you serious? He said that?”

  “He said the bus talked to him earlier this afternoon in a dream. The bus told him that its job of carrying people was no longer necessary.”

  “Uh, what did you say?”

  He punched me lightly on the arm. “What the hell was I supposed to say?” I did my best not to make a sound, but the pressure to giggle was intense.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll get off the bus and wait with you, just to make sure someone’s watching out for you. No sense getting off alone if they forget about you. Agreed?” It sounded like a fine idea as I listened to his explanation, and I wouldn’t have to be standing by myself in the cold rain either.

  “Besides, it’ll only put us off schedule by two hours,” he added.

  The thought of having to meet older, more bitter versions of my mother was intensely unappealing and honestly the very last thing that I wanted to do. I didn’t know them, and I didn’t want to. If they did show up at five in the morning, they wouldn’t be happy about it. Who would? My mother had once told me that they said I was a “bastard child” and that she should’ve gotten rid of me a long time ago because I was nothing more than excess baggage in her life. My brain kept repeating everything I knew or had ever heard about them, and I could tell that there just wasn’t any room for happiness in there. I crammed into the back corner of the bus, obsessing about it.

  “You doin’ alright?” Marcus asked me, after about an hour of complete silence and barely a movement. “I thought you’d turned into a statue over there,” he continued. His words were much darker to me than how he had meant them. My head pivoted mechanically on my neck to face him.

  “You’re serious about getting off with me tomorrow morning?” I asked, obviously petrified and hoping it wasn’t showing.

  “You betcha, kiddo,” he asserted. “I’m not going to leave my man hangin’ in Farmersville, U.S.A. Assed out in the cold all by his lonesome. You should know me better than that.” He was doing a lot to make light of the situation for my sake.

  “Thanks, Marcus,” I replied, quieted.

  “It’s cool. Just don’t blow a gasket over it. Understand?” he smiled, slipping on his headphones.

  I reached inside my bag and pulled out my Walkman and my Simon and Garfunkel tape. I spent the early morning and better part of the afternoon staring blankly out the window at the passing world that was getting drenched in rain. The two Navajo men in front of us had mentioned that it was going to flood and that we might get to see an accident on the highway. The old man said that he was going to sing a song to protect us and keep the old bus spirit company.

  Just after two in the afternoon, the old coach stopped very briefly in Tucumcari and refueled. No one got on or off, save Marcus. We were stationary just long enough to fill the tank and for the driver to smoke a cigarette next to the ticket window of the depot. Marcus ran to use the pay phone, but I couldn’t see if he had finally gotten through as he’d stepped inside the depot, which was doubling as a simple gas station and a detached bathroom building. Only a few moments had passed when Marcus appeared up the steps almost soaking wet from briefly crossing through the downpour. He stood near the door and tried to brush off as much water as possible. He was holding two cans of soda.

  “Damn!” he announced, coming up the aisle. “It’s coming down like hammers and nails out there!” The old man thought his comment was funny and laughed.

  “You got pounded?” he cracked, under a chesty laugh. When Marcus got to the back, he handed both of the cans of Coke to the son.

  “Here ya go. Thought the two of you might enjoy a cold one.” I was shocked that he gave the soda away, but I realized that his gesture meant more.

  “Thank you, Marcus,” the younger man responded.

  “Aho!” cried the father again in delight. It was his trademark call now. Marcus laughed and then thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and produced two more cans of cold soda.

  “You were beginnin’ to wonder, huh?” he remarked, catching the look on my face.

  The cold soda was refreshing, and we both drank it slowly listening to our Walkmans, mentally hundreds of miles away. I knew Marcus was thinking about getting back, and I didn’t ask about his phone call for a change. I just hoped he’d been able to get through. I realized that if he had, he wouldn’t have had time to buy us all soda.

  By three o’clock in the afternoon, we had crossed over the border into Texas. A large sign, shaped exactly like the state itself, welcomed us to the largest state in the Union. Marcus shook his head in disgust when we both caught a glimpse of it. The old man actually flipped the bird with his middle finger at the sign.

  “You’d think they’d take that relic down. It’s offensive,” Marcus spat.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, first off, Alaska is now the largest state in the ‘Union.’ And the connotation of the word Union only serves as a symbol to rednecks far and wide, and people like that fool back in Gallup, who maintain ‘Southern Pride,’ if you catch my drift. God only knows what kind of road signs we’re going to see driving through this next stretch.”

  “Well, it is the Wild West, right?” My mind locked onto a few fleeting images of Clint Eastwood standing in the middle of a dusty street, wrapped up in a poncho, chewing on a cigar.

  “No. It’s not the Wild West, Sebastien. Hell, we ain’t even in the West!” he admitted, laughing. Marcus spoke loud enough that the old man had heard our conversation. He lifted himself up and leaned over the seat, jokingly beating the palm of his hand against his mouth, making that whooping war cry that all the Indians make in movies. I couldn’t help but laugh at it, and the old man smiled at me.

  As we drove across the unending asphalt and rolling plains toward Amarillo, I kept thinking about the conversation I had with Marcus back at the Woolworth’s diner. He had told me bluntly that there didn’t have to be any guarantee on a parent’s love for their child. I wondered if my sister, Beanie, had already figured this out. Maybe that was why she had refused to leave Altoona or my grandmother’s house ever again. If she knew, why didn’t she bother to tell me, or stop me from leaving last summer? Looking back on it now, I was just being foolish. I was wrong for believing that everything was going to work out and be different. I was actually mad at Beanie for not coming with us. At the time, I thought I had to give Charlotte one more chance. I heard her words from the night before echoing in my head.

  “It just wouldn’t be fair to Dick, having to raise another man’s son. Can’t you understand?” I couldn’t understand, and nothing around me made any sense. Having Leigh Allen’s driver’s license in my inside coat pocket kept my brain bouncing around angrily. I kept asking myself how she could have put me on the bus by myself without any thought for my safety. It seemed that both my sanity and my happiness only extended to the edge of the glass window that I was leaning against and no further. I wanted to scream out at the top of my lungs until I either turned blue in the face or was lying in a crumpled and exhausted heap on the floor. I knew I couldn’t make a scene,
and I wouldn’t embarrass myself like that. I just sat perfectly still without saying a word and listened to Simon and Garfunkel. Maybe that’s what “The Sounds of Silence” was. I would do nothing about it at all…just as Marcus had said in Woolworth’s. I didn’t understand why, but he had also told me to always be respectful toward women, which I didn’t see as related. Maybe at some point I would understand. Maybe it was important.

  “Yo,” Marcus tapped me on the shoulder, trying to get my attention. I took off my headphones and hit stop on the Walkman, ignoring the hot-line button altogether.

  “Hey, Marcus, what’s up?” My voice sounded hollow again.

  “You alright? Deep in your head somewhere?” he asked.

  “I was,” I answered honestly.

  “Are we cool?” he asked with a worried tone.

  “Of course. You’re not upset with me, are you?” I wondered. I’d had my headphones on all afternoon, essentially blocking out everything around me. The old man, his singing and his strange plant, the groaning of the bus, the toilet and its strange smells, all of it. Marcus had spent a good part of the afternoon talking with the old man and his son.

  “When we pull into Amarillo in about twenty minutes, I’m going to go inside to the gift shop to buy some batteries. You going to come along or hold our seats?” he asked.

  I pulled out my wrinkled bus schedule and examined it carefully for a moment before giving an answer. I ran my finger slowly down a long list of stops that we had already passed.

  “It says that we’re going to be here for thirty minutes. I have to call my grandma, but we can go to the gift shop first. Maybe they can give me some phone change,” I finally replied.

  “Works for me. Must be another fuel stop. We’ll probably get ourselves a new driver as well.”

  “Time flies on the bus.”

  “Smooth sailing from here out, hopefully.”

  Amarillo was apparently the twenty-second bus stop on my route between Stockton and Altoona. I counted from Stockton down to Los Angeles and then out to Amarillo. When we merged into the city—the freeway drove directly through it—we very abruptly slowed and pulled into a small, blue-painted station that looked not just out of place but unlike any of the other buildings around it. The Greyhound Terminal resembled a converted church, with painted stucco and a neon sign, but no cross. A large rotating elongated greyhound dog turned above us.