Greyhound

by Piper, Steffan

  “Amarillo. Thanks everybody,” was all the driver announced after she turned the key into the off position. She grabbed her clipboard and thermos and opened the door. Everyone on the bus got up to get off, as it was looking to be the last big stop of the day and probably one of the last places to get something good to eat. The rest of the stops would probably be just vending machines, if they even had those. We wouldn’t hit Elk City until just before ten o’clock tonight, but the schedule said it was only another ten-minute stopping point. That usually meant that if the terminal didn’t radio the bus that a passenger was waiting, we’d keep right on going. Oklahoma City was listed as a stop at almost midnight, with a forty-minute layover, and then Joplin, Missouri. Mount Vernon wouldn’t have to be dealt with until five in the morning. The closer we got, the more I just wanted to get there and get it over with.

  The lady driver smiled at me from under her umbrella as I touched down onto the ground and stood at the bottom of the metal steps. I was always the last person off, and after twelve hours of driving, she’d already figured it out.

  “Nice jacket, honey,” she said, admiring my would-be Greyhound uniform.

  “Thanks,” I answered, following close behind Marcus, heading for the terminal doors. As we crossed inside, the standard bus arrival call greeted us from above.

  “1364 on aisle 1, to Springfield and Oklahoma City. Departure in thirty minutes.”

  I was expecting more Eagles again on the radio for some reason, but instead a song that I actually recognized came on. It was Hall and Oates, and it was the first time I’d heard the song not wearing my headphones. It was the second song on side two: “I Can’t Go for That.”

  “They’re playin’ our song!” Marcus said with a grin.

  “How appropriate,” I answered.

  All I really wanted to do was make my phone call and talk to Grandma, but I needed batteries. Standing with Marcus in the gift shop, I felt frustrated and just wanted the whole damn trip to be over. I’d seen enough, sat enough, listened enough, and talked enough. I was really missing being home and was feeling anxious about it.

  I went through the slow process in the gift store of buying batteries and making sure that I paid for my own, not letting Marcus continually pick up the tab. I asked the girl behind the counter if she had change for the phone, and she gave me a dollar in quarters, which I had calculated on the bus would give me more than enough. Marcus brought a book down from a tall wire book stand next to the register and paid for it.

  “Ever read this?” he asked. I craned my neck to get a better look at the title.

  “What is it?”

  “The Catcher in the Rye,” he answered.

  “No. What’s it about?” I engaged him, looking at the books on the rack. They were all used and well read. The majority of them were Westerns or Harlequin Romances. I only recognized the romance books because my grandma read them nonstop. Even though I was looking over the book he had in his hand, my brain was disconnected and elsewhere again. On the way in, I’d seen the only pay phone, unattended. I felt magnetically attracted to it. I was just hoping Marcus wouldn’t go into a long explanation about the book, but I knew I needed to act.

  “I’m going to go make that call,” I said quickly, interrupting what he was about to say. I headed for the phone in a mad dash, worrying that someone was going to step in front of me at the last moment and get in the way. When I picked up the receiver and put it up to my head, I was immediately slapped hard across the face by the lingering odor of cigarettes and beer. The phone looked and smelled heavily used and hadn’t been cleaned in some time. There were several stickers for the same cab company plastered all over the sides of the metal housing. When I heard the hum of a dial tone, I dialed the numbers and then dropped in all my coins in a steady procession, listening to the clicking of them being registered and counted. After I dropped my last nickel in, the tone changed, and I waited. I thought it was about to ring. Instead, the line went dead and all my change dropped through the machine and deep into its bowels, not into the change slot like it should have. The machine had ripped me off and left me penniless. I gripped the handle and wanted to start beating on it, but I knew that was probably the worst thing to do, as the ticket counter lady was watching me with a grimace. I tried to stay cool, but I wasn’t happy. I dialed zero.

  “Operator?” a voice beckoned.

  “Hello, I just put four dollars and twenty-five cents into the phone, and it took my money.” I unfurled my tale of woe.

  “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do on this end of the phone line. Would you like to make a collect call instead?”

  “What about my money?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to call a local number and get in touch with a technician where you’re located.”

  “But I’m in a Greyhound bus station in Amarillo.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Would you like to make a collect call instead?” she repeated.

  “Yes…I guess,” I answered, dejected.

  “What’s the number?” she asked. I slowly and carefully read it off, doing my best not to stumble over it or chew on my words. I read it off like it was today’s date or something from the Bible.

  “And who’s calling?”

  That was the part that I stumbled and stuttered over every time somebody asked that question. My name. It was the absolute hardest phrase for me to speak clearly. Why? I didn’t have a clue. But saying “Sebastien” paralyzed me.

  “Uhm…it’s like, ah…like…”

  “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Like, uh, Sebastien,” I replied.

  “Michael Devin?” she repeated.

  “No! Sebastien,” I spat back, annoyed. Dealing with the operator was quickly becoming humiliating, and I hated it, but it was something that I just couldn’t escape, no matter how hard I struggled. Fighting an inner urge to stutter only made it worse. I always thought maybe it wouldn’t be like this if I just changed my name.

  “One moment, please,” she stated. I heard noises in the background, and after a moment, the phone on the other end started ringing. On the third ring someone picked up.

  “Hello?” my grandma answered. It was her, finally.

  “Would you accept a collect call from Michael Devin?”

  “Ah…Whooooo?” my grandma’s voice swayed over the line, confused.

  “Grandma, it’s me!” I interrupted the operator.

  “Sebby, honey? Is that you? Yes, I accept,” she said.

  “Thank you,” the operator responded and then clicked off.

  “Who in the heck is Michael Devin, honey?” she asked me immediately.

  “No, Grandma, she misheard me. It’s good to hear your voice,” I replied, speaking loudly into the booze-soaked receiver.

  “Where are you, Sebby?”

  “I’m in Amarillo, Texas, Grandma.”

  “Is everything alright? Are you having a good trip out so far?” she asked. I could hear the obvious concern for me in her voice.

  “I guess,” I replied, immediately seeing the error of saying that now. “Everything’s fine. Just can’t wait to see you, that’s all,” I added.

  “How’s your mother? Is she alright? Has she been feeding you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess she’s alright?”

  “Honey, whattya mean you don’t know? Is she feeding you? Is she there with you now?”

  I was confused now. “No, Grandma. She’s supposed to be in San Francisco getting married to Dick Brown.”

  “Whaaaaaaat? Where’s your mother? San Francisco? She told me the other day that she was coming out with you on the bus!” I could hear the terror on the other side of the line, and it wasn’t what I was expecting.

  “No, Grandma, it’s just me,” I supplied. It was the very last thing that she wanted to hear.

  “Aww my gaawwd, Jesus, Sebby. Your mother’s going to give us all a heart attack over here!” She was flabbergasted, and I could hear her talki
ng with my grandpa, who was probably standing beside her in the kitchen. “He says he’s by himself and that Charlotte’s in San Francisco.” I very clearly heard my grandpa swearing in the background, calling my mother names.

  “Sorry, Grandma. I didn’t mean to call and upset you.”

  “Awww, honey!” she cried out. “Don’t you feel bad now. When are you getting into town here?”

  “Day after tomorrow, real early I think, but it depends…” I started.

  “On what?” she asked, really beginning to worry now.

  “I think my mother’s family is going to meet me at the bus station in Mount Vernon, Missouri. They might want me to stay a few hours and catch a later bus. I don’t know.”

  “Oh my gawwwd, Sebby. You do know how to make your grandma worry, don’t ya, sweetie?” She chuckled a little at the mention of my mother’s family. I could hear her smiling on the other end, trying to make me feel better.

  “Will you call me from their house if you stop?”

  “I will, Grandma. I promise,” I shouted into the plastic handset.

  “I love ya, honey,” she said. It was the one thing that I needed to hear the most. I paused, unable to respond right away.

  “I love you too, Grandma. I miss you.”

  “Don’t you worry…you just hurry on home now.”

  “Alrighty,” I answered, and then got off. I could hear my grandpa in the background still stringing out the expletives. Even the barest mention of my mother upset him. My heart sank with the release of the receiver. My chest deflated, my head spun, and my legs got weak. I was still over a thousand miles away and would have to just suffer through the rest, trying to stay positive.

  I was thankful that I had Marcus to wait with me in Mount Vernon. My secret hope was that my mother’s family wouldn’t show up and we’d keep right on going. With the way things already were with my Aunt Sharon in Los Angeles, anything was possible.

  I found it disturbing to realize my mother had outright lied to my grandmother, tossing me on the bus and hightailing it away. I knew she never had any intention of coming, as I’d been subjected to listening to wedding plans for months. I also knew she was just appeasing Dick by sacrificing me to the wolves. I was her loose end, and she would do whatever was necessary to get rid of it. As I walked back out to the bus, I knew I couldn’t hate anyone more than I hated my own mother.

  7.

  OUTSIDE OF ELK CITY, OKLAHOMA

  As soon as we left Amarillo, the world started to change. The bus pivoted toward the north and slowly began twisting between hills and climbing in elevation. Traffic thickened, and more people, more semi trucks, more everything was all around us. The two men from the Navajo Nation had drifted off, but the old man kept talking in his sleep. At times I couldn’t tell if he was talking or singing. Slowly, the red desert gave way to modest vegetation, trees, and the return of sprawling farmland. Huge barns dotted the landscape and could be seen rising from the horizon over great distances. Truck stops, roadside diners, small burgs with hay and grain warehouses with painted advertisements all became more frequent in the few short hours of driving through the northern portion of Texas and into Oklahoma.

  Marcus reclined in his seat, leaning against the bathroom wall with his head stuck in the book he had picked up in Albuquerque. Langston Hughes was somewhere deep in his backpack. I felt an urge to ask if I could read it for a while. He hadn’t said a word in almost two hours and only listened to his Walkman for a total of twenty minutes. A few times I wanted to make my way up the aisle and ask the driver to turn on the air-conditioner. I had gotten hot and had to peel off my new jacket and sweater. When I put my hand over the metallic vent below the window, I was surprised to feel the ice-cold air blowing up. It carried with it an odor of toxicity and charcoal. For some reason, it was definitely getting warmer in the back of the bus.

  Behind us, and only separated by a metal wall that had been covered over in cheap wood laminate, the grinding and groaning of the engine became louder and made noises like an overworked farm tractor.

  “How’s the book?” I asked.

  “Good,” he responded in a daze, miles away.

  “I thought you already read it once before,” I interjected, trying to provoke him into talking.

  “Mm-hmm,” he answered. “A few times,” he uttered, as he kept on reading. Outside, the sun was setting on the end of my second day traveling by bus. Although it had been a little less eventful than it was earlier, I was thankful. As the afternoon passed, we covered a lot of ground and breezed through place after place. I had already made this same trip twice now, and each time I thought it seemed different but it probably wasn’t. In this instance, I could say that it was. The year previous, traveling with my mother and my sister, Beanie, I had foolishly managed to trap my left hand in a set of automatic doors in Washington, D.C. Concerned that my hand was broken, the terminal manager had called an ambulance and rushed me to the nearest hospital, forcing all of us to miss our bus. We were waylaid for a night waiting for X-ray results that never showed up. I felt an urge to tell Marcus the whole story, but looking over I could see that he was still heavily engrossed in The Catcher in the Rye.

  “Is that book about baseball?” I asked.

  “No,” was all he said.

  “What’s it about?”

  He finally pulled himself from its pages, giving me a long, thoughtful look, and smiled.

  “It’s about a young man who has trouble fitting in.”

  “Is it interesting?” I continued, digging.

  “What do you think? Obviously, if I've read it more than once.”

  “How many times have you read it?” I wondered aloud.

  “Man, you must really be bored,” he laughed. “A few times,” he admitted, flipping the corner of the page over marking his place. He quickly shoved the book into his jacket pocket.

  “Are you warm back here, or is it just me?” I asked him. He glanced around, assessing the climate. The look on his face seemed to confirm my suspicions. I watched him take off his leather jacket, fold it up, and put it on the seat between us.

  “Feels hot, huh? I’m gonna start sweatin’ if they don’t kick up the air-con.”

  “It’s already on,” I replied, running my hand over the vent again.

  “Don’t be messin’ with me, now…” he stated. “Is it really on?”

  “Feel for yourself,” I answered, pointing a finger at the chrome air vents next to me. He leaned forward, reached out, and held his hand just above the vent.

  “You ain’t lyin’!” he admitted, a little surprised.

  “Told ya.”

  Marcus got up and made his way to the front of the bus to have a word with the driver. I peeked out of the seating section and down the aisle to see him kneeling next to the new lady driver, who had replaced the previous lady driver. She had both hands on the steering wheel and was looking straight ahead. I thought Marcus was going to just say a few words and then come back, but he stayed gone for some time. I saw him sitting on the floor at her feet, just past the thin white line that was painted on the floor where a sign said: No passengers beyond this line while in motion. Neither of them seemed to mind as they were still chatting away twenty minutes later.

  The heat in the back was like a warm cocoon around me. The vibration of the engine rattled the seat, slowly putting me to sleep. Having gone almost three days without any real rest, my body felt like it was shutting down and warping my thoughts while I was awake. I didn’t want to think about what it was doing to them while I slept.

  I didn’t have a clue as to where I was when I opened my eyes. All I knew was that I was standing somewhere in an awkward position and unable to move my arms or legs at all. I didn’t know what registered the loss of movement first, the moment I couldn’t feel my legs or my arms, or the stiff muscle in my neck locking into place. It was dark, but not entirely black. It was difficult to see. All around me the lights were off, and somehow I knew it was night outside, bu
t I knew I was inside by the feel of the air-conditioning breezing by my ears and blowing across my motionless face. Strange shapes and other figures were all cast in dark gray. When I tried to turn my neck but couldn’t, I panicked. Not having control over any portion of my body was massively disconcerting. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I became horrified when I recognized the surroundings.

  Large circular racks of clothing evenly spaced across a vast and well-ordered department store only pointed out the obvious. It was after hours, and I was inside of Macy’s, JC Penney, or some other department store. In the far distance, against a wall, a red illuminated sign near the ceiling read exit.

  My eyes darted through the darkness, landing on other human figures. They were elevated above the racks of clothes and merchandise, well posed and casually staring down from the lofty displays. Unmovable and nicely dressed. I was able to gain control of my head and neck slowly and looked down at my wooden arms stuck out in front of me as if I was holding some invisible object; my leg was stepping forward, but I wasn’t moving. My brain relaxed when I realized that I was dreaming that I was a mannequin.

  But the dream seemed as real as the pin-striped suit and tie that I could feel against me. My only thought was the desire to move, to step off the elevated stage I’d been placed on and get the hell out of there. I tried to convince myself that it was just a matter of moving quickly enough to the exit.

  I was frustrated and betrayed by my own body, even though I began to regain slight movement in my limbs. I felt wooden. I could feel the metal rods embedded in my hands, as I kept them clinched in tight-fisted, agonizing balls. The sensation of long, metal rods shooting up through my legs, locking my knees, and forcing my hips into an immovable position filled me with terror. As I looked out across the department store, I thought I saw one of the other figures jump down from his platform before disappearing into the sea of clothes and slowly start heading in my direction. I was frightened, and my throat was tense and constricted. I struggled even harder to move but couldn’t. I was sweating now, and I wanted to scream, but it felt as if my head was under a glass jar. I looked down and saw a hand reaching out for me from below. I had no air in my lungs or strength in my body for any type of necessary reaction. Brittle and beginning to buckle, I felt myself splintering from the inside out.