Greyhound

by Piper, Steffan

  By the time we pulled into Oklahoma City, it was twelve twenty-five in the morning, and the lady driver, who was now a passenger and sitting in the front seat, looked frustrated and exhausted. She just grabbed her stuff and walked off the bus in a huff with absolutely no announcement, no thank you, no “sorry about the burning bus in the middle of nowhere,” nothing. The Trailways driver followed close behind her, vanishing into the terminal.

  I grabbed my Greyhound coat and my bag and peeled myself up off the seat, determined to do my best to secure a pillow without having to pay for it. I couldn’t afford one, but I knew that if there was one lying around in the overhead bins, I was going to grab it.

  As I started down the aisle, the last one off again, I quickly did my best to search all of the overhead compartments. I had to step up on the seats, one by one, to either pry open the lids or peer inside the few that were either left ajar or didn’t have a door. I was feeling pretty stupid by the time I got toward the front of the bus and still hadn’t found anything but empty potato chip bags and lint balls. A few seats from the front, sitting unused in a still-sealed plastic bag, was what I was looking for. Without hesitation, I grabbed the pillow and shoved it under my jacket.

  Just as I was stepping down the stairs, I saw the Trailways driver coming back with the porters to unlock the luggage hold. Two ladies in janitors’ outfits met me at the bottom and smiled. They were armed with mop buckets, brooms, and cleaning supplies and, to my astonishment, pillows. A feeling of uselessness washed over me for stealing what I could’ve gotten just by asking.

  “You the last one?” the woman asked.

  “It’s empty, all yours,” I replied. “Can I have a pillow?” I asked, wondering if it really was that simple.

  “Sure, baby.” She picked a small Greyhound pillow from her cart and handed it to me with an extremely seductive look. I wondered if she’d actually looked at me that way or if it was just me.

  When I caught up to Marcus a few moments later, he was sitting at a table in Grey’s Café with the two men from the Navajo Nation.

  “I wondered where you had gotten off to. I saw you searching the overhead bins when we got off.”

  “I got you this,” I answered, as I handed him the Trailways pillow.

  “Alright, a souvenir!” he replied, happy with the gift. The two Navajo men were stoic, both grasping their coffee cups. The way they both had fixed their gaze on me made me feel nervous.

  “Nice gift,” the old man noted, nodding his head yes.

  Marcus shoved the pillow on the seat beside him and continued staring at the menu and stirring his coffee.

  A man in a white shirt and black pants came over to the table and set a menu down in front of me.

  “You want something to drink?” the man asked me. “Juice, milk, something in a toddler cup?”

  I didn’t know what he meant by that or even if he was serious. They were all looking at me now, waiting to see what I was going to say.

  “Coffee.” I didn’t even say please. The old man must have caught all of it, because he chuckled under his breath, bobbing in his seat a little.

  “That stuff will either keep you up all night or close to a toilet,” he informed me, concerned.

  “No one ever let me drink coffee before. I kind of like it.”

  “It will make you into a man, fierce and alert. It is a gift from our Grandfather in the far away South,” the son spoke earnestly.

  “Well, you’ll definitely be alert, that’s for sure,” Marcus remarked. “What time does your bus leave?” he continued.

  “We pull out of here in thirty minutes,” the son replied. “We should be in White Earth by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Are you taking a different bus?” I asked naively.

  “We must all take our own paths,” he said.

  “There’s such a place called White Earth?” I wondered.

  “There is such a place. My sister is getting married the day after tomorrow to a Chippewa. There will be a lot of good food and dancing.”

  “I’ve never heard of White Earth,” I said, fascinated by the name. It sounded mystical, like the center of everything or where another world might exist.

  “We are all living on a White Earth,” the old man replied with a sort of halfway grin. “A land where real magic is pushed into the ground and forgotten. When you’re a man, they’ll sell you back your dreams that they’re about to steal from you now.”

  “You can say that again,” Marcus remarked.

  “We’re all living on a White Earth,” we all repeated in unison like a knee-jerk. It was late, and we were all partially delirious. When the waiter came, I ordered a BLT and fries. The coffee was stone cold in my cup, and after one sip I had no desire to finish it.

  “What’s wrong?” the younger man asked. He was sitting directly across from me and had noted my grimace when I sipped it.

  “The coffee’s cold and I think it’s burnt.”

  “For someone who’s not allowed to drink coffee, you sure have a good tongue for it,” the old man spoke. They were all looking into my coffee cup for the answer.

  “You’re not going to drink that, are you?” Marcus asked.

  “I don’t think so…”

  Marcus raised his hand and got the waiter’s attention. Within a minute he appeared at our table with the same pot of cold coffee.

  “Is everything alright?” he asked.

  “Coffee’s cold. Have you got any hot?” I spoke just above a whisper. I thought he was going to ask me to repeat myself, but he just stared at me. He looked thoroughly annoyed and made a sound. Marcus nudged me under the table and cleared his throat.

  “Can you make some more?” I asked.

  “Okay, I’ll make a fresh pot,” the waiter whined, turning away and taking his cold, burnt coffee with him.

  “Good job,” the son praised me. “You’re paying for it. Make sure it’s worth it.” The old man grunted something and agreed. No one was drinking their coffee now. I thought maybe I was just being picky and difficult.

  When the waiter appeared the third time with our food, not only had he brought fresh coffee out, but he had four new cups as well. After he had put everything down and poured everyone a cup, the old man told the waiter that he was very thoughtful for replacing the cups.

  “It’s okay, just doing my job,” he replied. “Besides, it’s not often we get a visit from the United Nations,” he said. They all laughed together, but I didn’t get it. At least not right away. I got the distinct impression, watching the whole thing unfold in front of me, that maybe what had happened was supposed to have happened. It was something that I was supposed to see. Had someone served Charlotte and Dick cold, burnt coffee, they both would’ve flown into a rage. Instead, everyone stayed calm and it was easily remedied.

  Traveling made me hungry. I had been eating more food than ever before. I wasn’t prone to eating so much, so often. I wasn’t complaining, though. It was a nice change being able to eat whatever I wanted and not having to worry about going without, or only ordering a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because someone wanted to buy cigarettes with what little money we had. It was always that way whenever I ate with my mother and sister. I ate my fill and wasn’t afraid to eat something different every time. I paid with my café vouchers and slowly sipped my coffee as we all waited for our buses and digested our food. Listening to the overhead music in silence was more than enough.

  When the first boarding call went out for the 2326 to Minneapolis, the two men got up to leave and headed out to the bus platform. Marcus said he wanted to smoke, so we all got up together and drifted back outside. We were met once more by the sprinkling of rain on our faces and the chilly night air. It didn’t feel like May at all. I looked up and saw the light rain passing by the overhead lamps that hung down from the awning, illuminating the fine misty spray. Nighttime on the bus was easily the best time. Everything slowed and became quiet. The world became dark and didn’t seem to exist past wha
t I could see. Everything felt smaller, safer.

  I stood staring up the platform at the long row of buses that were all simultaneously in the terminal. It was the most buses in one place I’d seen thus far. Signs in the top left portion of the wind-shield listed their destinations or the next major terminal. We were standing next to a bus that was going south to Dallas. You could read the lit signs easily from the platform: Minnesota, Tallahassee, Omaha, Columbus. Columbus was our bus; from there, a change was necessary to get us to Pittsburgh, which was only a few hours later. After leaving Los Angeles, our bus had periodically changed its sign—from Phoenix to Albuquerque and then to Oklahoma City. Finally seeing Columbus like that gave me a sense of relief. Home was no longer out of view, at the other end of the world. It was somewhere a lot closer than before and getting nearer. Oklahoma City was well past the halfway point, and we were already into the third day.

  As the three men stood there conversing and smoking cigarettes, I took notes and busied myself with my thoughts. A feeling of dread overtook me as I began to worry once more about the luggage. I wished the cases had burned up in the fire, but I wasn’t destined to be so lucky.

  “2326 to Minneapolis. Now boarding aisle 11.”

  “You two have a safe trip, and enjoy the ceremony.”

  “I’m just looking forward to the food,” responded the old man, stomping out his cigarette butt on the concrete platform below.

  The son straightened his hat and looked around, taking a final assessment of the rain. “Should stop by tomorrow,” he said. “Good luck on your journey to your grandmother’s. Go safely,” he spoke to me, concerned and thoughtful. The thought entered my mind that maybe that was how a father spoke to his departing son.

  “I will. Thank you,” I answered. He shook my hand and grabbed my shoulder at the same time. He looked directly at me, bent down a little to face me, and said “Aho!” loudly. The old man said the same thing, almost as if it was an answer or an echo.

  “Aho!” the old man repeated.

  “Aho!” I stated.

  “You’re learning,” he said again, nodding his head. They both headed off down the platform and disappeared up inside the bus to Minneapolis. After they had left, I realized that I had never once asked their names. I forgot to ask the old man how he knew about the bus as well. I never got the chance, but every time there was an opening in the conversation, I felt too intimidated to bring it up. I had never met anyone like them before, and I never would’ve guessed that I would have been eating dinner with them in the middle of the night either. So far, the majority of the people that I’d met on the trip had all been very good to me. The conversations with my mother were very different and often ended in her getting upset or angry, and arguing was always her way of explaining everything.

  When the boarding calls for the 1364 began again, I was happy to get back on the road and continue putting down miles. For the first time, the bus started to fill up, and a lot of the seats were now occupied. Even being after midnight, it was a lot noisier and even a little warmer, despite the air-conditioner going full blast and it being a new coach. Marcus and I had been the first to get on, and yet again the driver gave our tickets the once-over.

  “You the boy traveling alone?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Well, sit up front like you’re supposed to so I can keep an eye on you. Regulations.”

  “No, thanks. I’m sitting in the back where I’ve been the whole trip,” I answered, defiant. I even shocked myself.

  “Fine, get on,” he replied curtly. Maybe he meant well, I don’t know. I didn’t have any desire to be bossed around or babysat. After we reclaimed our seats in the very back, Marcus started laughing.

  “You sure weren’t going to take any funny business from him, huh?”

  “No way am I sitting up front. No thanks.” I was adamant about it. As far as I was concerned, Marcus and I were traveling together from now on. The new Greyhound man could go to hell if he didn’t like it. Maybe I was supposed to feel this way now that I was twelve. I knew that I had different responsibilities to myself. Being bossed around by strangers had ended.

  “Welcome to the 1364,” the driver announced. His voice crackled loudly over the PA system, brutishly interrupting my thoughts. “Service continuing through to Columbus, Ohio. Please respect the no-smoking curfew on the bus. No drinking alcoholic beverages, no fighting or playing loud music. Please keep all children restrained and quiet at all times. No illegal substances of any kind. A violation of this policy will get you removed anywhere along the drive. My name is Germaine, and I’ll be your driver between Oklahoma City and Saint Louis. Enjoy the trip.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes at the length and volume of Germaine’s message. “Germaine, huh,” he commented. “I’ve never met a ‘Germaine’ before,” he spat.

  “Me neither,” I parried, siding with him in earnest. We both placed him in the category of Greyhound drivers we disliked. We were both well past rookies.

  Once more, we pulled off into the night and out onto the highway. The rain immediately intensified. The sound of it crashing down on the roof and coursing past the windows obscured everything and fogged up the glass.

  I did the only thing I could do and closed my eyes, hoping to get some sleep and possibly to oversleep, missing Mount Vernon in the process. I wasn’t looking forward to the morning. I sure wasn’t looking forward to meeting John F. Kennedy.

  8.

  MAY 13, 1981…

  MOUNT VERNON, MISSOURI

  The bus pulled off the main highway, twisting around the narrow, tree-lined streets leading directly into a small town square that was surrounded on all sides by ominous-looking red brick buildings. Each one had darkened windows and fading signs. The cast-iron streetlamps dotting the sidewalks still shone down a semi-visible glow as the sun started to rise somewhere off in the distance in the dark morning sky above.

  The bus stopped in front of a small coffee shop, which was at that hour the only open business. The driver stepped down onto the pavement below and buttoned his yellow raincoat. The rain was sheeting down in buckets.

  “This is it?” Marcus queried, peering out the window, trying to stir me from my seat. By the time I came around, he was already standing in the aisle, buttoning his jacket and slipping his backpack over one shoulder.

  “Time to face the music,” I whispered, as I got up and followed him down the aisle of the bus. Most of the passengers were still sleeping, but a few people were awake and trying to figure out where they were.

  As soon as we were off, we hurriedly stepped closer to one of the buildings and under an awning. I’d never seen it rain so hard before. The driver was under the compartment lid and reaching for my two suitcases. I hadn’t seen them since Los Angeles in the daylight, but seeing them again on the sidewalk gave me butterflies in my stomach.

  “You’re disembarking as well? I only had the boy in the notes,” he shouted over to Marcus. The driver was a little flustered trying to avoid the rain and get the bags out lickety-split.

  “I’m getting off here. Don’t worry, I don’t have any other luggage,” Marcus answered. The driver nodded and slipped away to secure the storage compartments. He slipped his key in the round locks, closed everything up, and moved with purpose. He stepped under the awning next to us and offered Marcus a cigarette.

  “Smoke?”

  “Thanks. It’s early, it’s cold, it’s wet.” Marcus listed off the various obvious complaints.

  “It’s Mount Vernon,” the driver joked. “Rustic, quaint, and, well…” He just shook his head.

  “Do you usually stop here?” I asked, trying to shield myself from the downpour.

  “Only for five minutes. This is just a place I usually pick up some old granny either going to Springfield for the weekend or to Joplin to go buy another cat.”

  “Is there another bus coming through here?” I rejoined.

  “There’s a bus ‘passing’ in almost two hours, but h
e won’t stop here unless he’s instructed to. Someone getting on or off, that is.”

  “Can you radio back and have him stop for us?” Marcus chimed in politely.

  “This ain’t the end of the line for y’all, is it?” the driver asked.

  “No. My family has a way of forgetting about me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that no one’s here yet.” I had to speak loudly to be heard over the intense downpour. I looked around the street for anyone at all, any sign of life. There was nothing but the cold and damp in the half darkness. “Are we late?” I asked.

  “No, right on time. We picked up all our lost time slingshotting past Tulsa. I had to do eighty most of the way. I’ll get gas in Springfield and try to get ten more minutes ahead of schedule if I can, just to be safe.” The driver inhaled his cigarette like it was a piece of candy. He finished in a few short drags. Even Marcus watched him suck it back with gusto, a little shocked.

  “We are both getting off in Pittsburgh. If you could holler back to the other bus, we’d be grateful,” Marcus announced.

  “Will do. I’ll make sure he knows,” the driver announced. Marcus and I thanked him and watched as he climbed back aboard and closed the door. We stood there unmoving as we watched our old bus pull away into the cold morning without us.

  “Well, I guess we had ol’ Germaine figured wrong, huh?” Marcus considered.

  “I just hope he radios the other driver,” I answered.

  Beside us, the neon sign of the coffee and donuts store blinked off and on in rhythm. A small metal sign with the blue-and-red Greyhound logo painted on it was attached to the brick wall above my head. It was the only thing that noted the location as a stopping point. Marcus and I each grabbed a case. I hefted mine with two hands and went inside, escaping the downpour.