Greyhound

by Piper, Steffan

  I tried hard to object, but he wasn’t having any of it. He told me to calm down when I tried to set it straight and correct him. He seemed to have made up his mind about me as Old John didn’t come across to him as someone who would have ever had a family.

  “My mother’s not French,” I answered. The judge just laughed, and the sheriff just stood there watching and combing his mustache.

  “Don’t you fret, youngun’. No shame in being an immigrant. My great-great-grandpappy came over to this country from Bulgaria a long time ago. We’s all a transplant at some point.”

  The sheriff finally interrupted. I thought he was going to clear it up for me. “He did say Old John was comin’ over to see him too.”

  “Well…now that’s peculiah! Old John?” he called out, with a mild tone of sarcasm. “Up in here? I’ll eat my hat, Sheriff. I will indeed. I will eat my hat.”

  I got the feeling that Old John, or rather my grandfather, was not a very likable person and had a foul reputation. The longer I sat there waiting, the greater the embarrassment I felt. I was praying to God, desperately, for him not to show. We’d already been there for close to an hour, so the pain of having to deal with Charlotte’s family once again was already half over.

  After the sheriff and the judge had left, both disappointed that they didn’t get to see Old John stepping foot into the diner-cum-depot, Marcus and I slowly drifted back to our conversation from before.

  “Your grandfather seems to be a delightful fellow, judging from how much everybody just loves him,” Marcus pointed out.

  “He’s not my grandpa, he’s my mother’s father,” I replied unhappily.

  “Well, chief…hate to break it to ya, but even if you’re not too fond of him, he’s still your grandpa.”

  “I wonder why they called him Old John?” I asked Marcus.

  “Probably because it would cause too much of a scene continually calling him Old Asshole, which is about how it sounds,” he responded. “But I guess we’ll never know if he doesn’t keep his appointment.” Marcus checked his wristwatch again. His back was to the wall clock, which was in my direct line of sight. It was already closing in on six-thirty.

  “Do you think it’s good to have a reputation like that?” he asked me.

  “No. That’s pretty simple to tell.”

  “Well, to you and me it is, but Old John must either be oblivious to it or just doesn’t give a damn about other people too much. I’d expect it to be the latter of the two, y’know?”

  “Yeah, me too,” I sighed. “Why is everyone in my family so messed up?”

  “Messed up? Nah…I think you mean selfish.”

  Marcus laughed out loud. He threw his head back and leaned against the back of his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground. “It does seem to be a pattern though, huh?” He spoke through his chortling, trying hard to be reserved, but not doing such a good job of it.

  We sat there for another forty minutes, uninterrupted, until the bus finally showed a few minutes late. I was relieved when it pulled up in front and blocked out our view of Mount Vernon, almost as if it were a sign that the suffering was now over.

  When I stood up and slung my bag over my shoulder, I glanced at my two cases and considered leaving them behind. The only problem was that the people here knew who I was. They would see to it that Old John got the cases, and he would then begrudgingly pay money to pass them on to my mother, and all would be for naught.

  Marcus and I each grabbed a case and headed outside. Our new driver already had the storage compartment doors lifted and very adroitly took my luggage and stowed it. If Old John showed up now, I’d just say “sorry” and get on board anyway. I pulled out my ticket, and the driver gave it the once-over before handing it back to me. Before I climbed up, I gave a long look in both directions down the street just to make sure Old John really wasn't coming. Not a soul in sight. It was like the last day on earth, and Greyhound was collecting people for the rapture or something worse.

  Once inside the bus, I felt happy again. I made my way toward the back of the bus, heading for my old seat, never even looking to see if it was open or not. As I looked around the seats, most of which were empty, I saw the usual collection of old people, fat people, young soldiers, an old woman with a sleeping child, and single men all headed back East. The back three rows were empty on both sides, and I knew that Marcus and I would stretch out a bit, looking to get a few hours’ rest to unwind from the stress of our excursion into Mount Vernon. It had been a complete waste of time and two more hours on the journey for no reason. When my Aunt Sharon left me stranded in Los Angeles, I remembered how upset I had been about it. Now I was thankful to be forgotten. It shouldn’t have made sense like that, but it did.

  9.

  SAINT LOUIS, MISSOURI

  As we found our way quickly back onto the interstate, I busied myself by taking more notes. In close to three days of traveling, I had taken so many notes that the small cardboard-encased flip-ring notebook was now almost full. I had started off by jotting down only single words and phrases that stood out, along with prices and slogans that had repeatedly popped up, like Go Greyhound and Have a Coke and a smile. Now I wrote entire pages, one after another, about everything that happened. For the record, I had now done both, and while a cold can of soda always sounded good, I had had enough Greyhound to last me a lifetime.

  The world outside was changing again. It was getting greener, denser, and more populated. The huge farmlands that went from one horizon to the next were getting smaller and fewer. Houses dotted the roadway, surrounded by restaurants, gas stations, and fast-food joints, which had a vested interest in changing the landscape permanently, one lighted sign at a time.

  The passengers had changed as well. California had supplied a constant crop of men in military uniforms, and the desert had unending senior citizens traveling for a day to go see other senior citizens or shop at big-city malls or get their prescriptions filled someplace cheap. Now, the bus was mostly occupied by inner-city working black folks heading east. The volume of talking had gone up, as had the level of laughter in almost equal proportions. As I watched a lot of the riders conversing, it looked as if everyone knew one another and hadn’t seen one another in a long time. Even Marcus was barely in his seat for a good part of the morning. Someone had a thermos of coffee and was kind enough to share a cup of it with him. A little while later, he returned with a small paper cup from the dispenser in the bathroom, full of hot coffee for me.

  “He ya go!” he said. “On the house.”

  “Thanks, Marcus,” I whispered, taking it. I could feel the hot coffee through the thin paper cup.

  “Well, I think it’s official now. You and the driver are the only white folks on the bus,” he whispered back, as if letting me in on a secret joke or something I best keep quiet about.

  “Too bad Monty isn’t here,” I answered, carefully taking a sip of the hot coffee. It tasted just like the stuff from the Roach Coach back in Albuquerque. No sugar really did make a difference.

  “Yeah…Monty was alright. Miss that old man already. Don’t forget, we got to check and see if there’s a message from him when we get to Saint Louis.”

  “I know,” I nodded. I had thought about Monty and the secret pact we had made the day before. Two words went through my mind: Daryl Hall. The thought of being chased across the country by Leigh Allen didn’t seem to compare to how I felt when I got off the bus in Mount Vernon. The only thing that bothered me about Charlotte’s family was how I would’ve felt if I had been hoping to see them. If my hopes were up and they had let me down, I know it would’ve hurt and I would’ve been scarred. So naturally, sitting there in the back of the bus, taking more notes, the thought of them just burned me up inside.

  “You want something to read?” Marcus asked, holding out his copy of The Panther and The Lash. “You can borrow it if you like.”

  I took it happily and thanked him. Even though I finally had something worthwhile to read, I
stared at the back photo of Langston Hughes for some time. It was my first time getting such a close look at him. He had freckles around his eyes, which were deep set. I imagined he was on the verge of saying “Hey now, Sebastien Ranes!” It felt as if he was watching me just as much as I was looking at him. I smirked when I saw the background of the photo. It looked like an airport or the outside of one of the many bus terminals that I had already passed through.

  Marcus slipped away and was now sitting next to a woman. She was probably the one with all the coffee. I flipped through the book, not knowing where to start, but abruptly stopped on a blank page in the back. Someone, maybe Marcus, had neatly written out a poem in pencil. I read it slowly.

  Tomorrow

  We have tomorrow

  Bright before us

  Like a flame.

  I interrupted myself in midsentence, pulling quickly away from the page, and flipped to the back photo of Langston Hughes, and stared at the square ring on his finger, contemplating that tomorrow was going to be like a flame. I took another look down the aisle for Marcus, who was sitting in the frontmost seat on the aisle, reclining with his legs crossed and talking. I could see his hand moving in small gestures as he spoke to the woman beside him.

  Flipping back through the book, I opened upon another short poem that caught me with its hook. I stopped in the middle of it, realizing exactly what it meant. I thought of only one person.

  Out of love,

  No regrets—

  Though the return

  Be never.

  It felt like a message from Mr. Hughes directly to me. Maybe this was what drew Marcus to keep reading this stuff. It was immediate and direct. I felt uncomfortable about it and put the book down on the seat next to me. I felt surrounded by both Langston Hughes and my mother all at once. Though the return be never reverberated in my head, calming me.

  I dug my Walkman out and put on the Hall and Oates tape. I had already listened to it several times and knew most of the lyrics of every song. A few songs I didn’t like at all and had to repeatedly fast-forward past them. Sometimes I just turned the volume down for a few minutes instead, so as not to waste the batteries. “Everytime You Go Away” and “I Can’t Go for That” were my favorite songs. I remembered hearing “I Can’t Go for That” over the lobby radio back in Albuquerque and had made a note about it in my book.

  The bus meandered around downtown Saint Louis for some time, going down side streets and sitting at red lights. It was a sprawling and fast-moving city. A few people actually jumped off the bus as we sat at a couple of long red lights. The driver wasn’t bothered by it at all, and as they were luggage-free, it was just a matter of pulling the handle to let them off. Maybe it was just easier to let folks do as they needed to rather than arguing about it. The rules clearly stated that there were no “unscheduled stops whatsoever.” But I could testify in court that most of the rules I’d read on the bathroom door had so far been ignored, more of them violated by the Greyhound drivers rather than the passengers themselves.

  Watching the huge Arch of Saint Louis from off in the distance slowly getting closer was the most impressive sight so far on the trip. The top of the big silver giant was enshrouded by nimbus clouds that drifted past it continuously. Rain was still falling, making traffic slow, but the people in the streets outside moved around under a throng of black umbrellas, skirting the sidewalks, skipping over puddles, and darting in between the cars. The pedestrians seemed to stretch out and bound across the crosswalks in packs, like it was an Olympic event. I watched several people making huge strides to get clear of the intersection and slip into a shop or an unmarked building.

  Just before one-thirty, a few people commented that we were close, and several folks got their stuff ready and started to button up and pull on hats. The majority of the passengers were already standing when the driver pulled into the terminal and read off his message.

  “Welcome to Saint Louis, everybody. It’s almost one-thirty in the afternoon, and as you can see outside, it’s wet and rainy. Be careful disembarking after we stop, and all those continuing east, you’ll need to transfer to the 1684 to Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and New York. Thanks for riding with us, and stay safe.”

  Yet another style of delivery in the overhead announcement, I thought. His message was full of caution and genuine-sounding concern, but I did notice that he never once mentioned the word Greyhound. Pulling around the massive stone structure that was doubling as a terminal, we sat and waited for a moment for another bus to pull out before taking its parking space.

  “You gonna get over to the information counter and check that message?” Marcus wondered.

  “Yeah, I guess I better,” I replied.

  “I have to make a few phone calls, so I’ll be a bit busy. You alright?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to take off with any strange police officers. Besides, I have to call my grandma and let her know what time I’m getting in tomorrow.”

  Marcus dug into his pocket, counted his change, and then gave me eight quarters.

  “It’s okay, Marcus. I’ve got money.”

  “But you don’t got any change, do you?” he pointed out.

  I searched my pockets. All I had was thirty-five cents and some lint.

  “You can give me two dollars if it makes you feel any better,” he said. I quickly pulled out the cash and handed it over.

  “Thanks, Marcus.”

  “No, thank you, Sebastien Ranes. You doin’ alright? Are you still rattled about stopping in Mount Vernon?”

  “Nah…I’m over it,” I answered quickly. “I’m actually relieved. At least I won’t fall for the ‘let’s go live with my parents in Missouri’ when that one comes up.”

  “Don’t wanna fall for the okey-doke? That’s my boy,” he smiled.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Inside of the Saint Louis Greyhound Terminal, everything was bigger, much bigger. It was easily the largest terminal I’d been in so far. It was the size of a museum or an airport terminal. The high ceiling was decorated, ornate, and painted. Large columns rose up both sides of the brightly polished marble-floored depot, supporting it. The air-conditioner pumped out chilly air. Everything didn’t just appear to be clean and well cared for—it looked like it up close. It was one of the nicest Greyhound stations thus far. The gift shop was massive in size, and from only a passing glance, it looked as if they sold anything and everything a person traveling might need, including a huge assortment of Greyhound paraphernalia, which probably no one needed.

  A long bank of metal-and-glass telephone booths, with black plastic seats and sliding doors for privacy, sat in the middle of the lobby in front of a large seating area. Marcus waved at me as he shut himself inside of one and picked up the receiver to call. I made my way across the lobby to a small office against the wall. Two ladies were busy working, answering the telephone and typing. I stood at the tall counter, barely visible, but one of them saw me and raised a hand, indicating it would be a minute as she was talking on the phone.

  I stood there for a few moments listening to her give someone directions. When she finished, she got up and came my way.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, leaning forward against the dark wooden counter to get a closer look at me. Her well-shaped bosom heaved forward as she crossed her arms in front of her on the counter and smiled at me. The other lady was still busy at a typewriter in the back, but I could only tell that from the sound. My eyes were locked on the woman in front of me in the white polka-dotted blouse.

  “Yes, I’m checking to see…” I began, hoping to get the whole thing out of mouth cleanly. But I hesitated.

  “Yes…?” she queried me, unflinching. My gaze went down to her chest again, and I probably blushed.

  “I need to see if I, I, I have a message? A message?”

  “What’s your name, sweetie? You’re awfully cute,” she said. I was terrified inside to answer for all the usual reasons. My body was
constricting and turning into wood as I stood there.

  “Sebastien,” I answered, disguising my nervousness through some coughing. “Ahem…Sebastien Ranes.”

  The lady turned to the woman at the typewriter. “Are there any messages for Sebastien Ranes?” she asked. I watched her as she turned and took a few steps away from the counter toward her desk. She was lovely to look at from any direction. She carefully placed a hand on her hip and canted her rear end. Her close-fitting black skirt drew the lines of her body like a roadmap I'd never thought to follow before.

  “The message book is on your desk, Jackie,” the other lady responded, never looking away from her work. When she bent over her desk and lifted up on her tippie-toes to stretch for the message book, my eyes became as big as teacup saucers. My mind stopped working, and I only hoped I wasn’t drooling. If I was, I just hoped that it wasn’t visible. She whipped her head around and caught the expression cemented on my face. Now I knew for sure that I was blushing, because she giggled.

  “One second, let me look through the book,” she announced, turning back to her desk. I thought I was dreaming when she ran her hand down her backside, smoothing the fabric of her skirt, but the thought did occur to me that she was going to lift it up for me as she touched the hem. It was an absurd and fleeting fantasy, and it hit me that, before this trip, I didn’t used to look at women and feel like this. She turned back to me and approached the counter one more time with the book, going down the pages, looking for my name. There must have been a lot of messages.

  “Sebastien Ranes. No, I’m sorry, honey. I don’t see anything here for you. Can I help you with anything else though?” she asked politely. She once more rested herself against the partition between us and met my bewilderment with a smile. She was pushing herself forward again, and I was trying desperately not to look.