Greyhound

by Piper, Steffan

  “If only…too bad I have to leave…” My words were more like fragments as they left my lips. I didn’t believe that I had actually said them either, as much as thought them. I was magnetically attracted to her in every way. She must’ve been having a slow day, because she just stared at me. I didn’t have a chance in the world with her, but she laughed at what I said regardless.

  “Why don’t you step to the doorway to your left?” she suggested. I immediately wondered what I had gotten myself into. It was then that the typing in the background suddenly stopped and the other lady looked up with a smirk.

  “Okay,” I replied. The door she had mentioned was the same dark wood as the counter but had a frosted pane of textured glass and gold letters that read Private Office. I stepped lightly over to it as it opened. Jackie stood there with the door ajar, holding the knob and beaming at me. She motioned at me with her index finger to come closer. When I did, she noticed my Greyhound jacket and brushed the sleeve. I was very thankful that I had bathed back in Albuquerque and didn’t smell.

  “Nice coat. You worked for Greyhound long?” she asked, moving her hand across the fuzzy collar. She was standing so close to me now that I could smell her perfume. I had never been this close to a real woman before. It was exhilarating, and I thought my heart was going to stop working. Her dark chestnut hair was wavy and long but was held back with a clip. I was trying to look at her completely but was easily overwhelmed.

  “Somebody gave it to me,” I replied, almost in a whisper, transfixed.

  She looked past me out into the lobby for only a brief second and then leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. I was breathless and couldn’t blink. She grabbed my hand and put it on her hip, which was soft and warm and everything I always thought a real woman would feel like. She then moved in again and kissed me on the lips. Her other hand had a firm hold on my collar, and I was lifeless under her control.

  I felt her lips peel away from mine and her hot breath exhale across my face. I momentarily worried that my breath smelled like coffee.

  “Are you French, Sebastien Ranes? That sure is a nice name.” Her words hit me like waves on a beach, and I noticed that every one of them slowly began to get farther from me as she pulled away. What I was feeling now must have been longing, because it was painful.

  “Everyone always asks me that. Sometimes I wish I was.”

  “You sure are a strange boy, but you sure are something to look at.”

  “So are you,” I replied.

  “A strange boy?” she joked. “Don’t worry…I know,” she answered back with a wink. “Sorry you didn’t have a message. Was it important?”

  “No, not really,” I answered.

  “Alright, sweetie. You have a safe trip home, okay?”

  “Thanks, Jackie,” was all I could manage. When she closed the door, the words Private Office took on a whole new meaning for me. I stepped away slowly and back toward the phone booths in the center of the lobby. I turned back to see Jackie watching me from the corner of her eye as I left. She waved. I thought she was going to blow me a kiss, but she didn’t. I felt like a zombie from a late-night movie as I floated across the tiled marble floor toward the bank of pay phones, without a single thought in my head but the smell of her perfume and the memory of her figure. I stopped outside of the one Marcus was in and rested against it, semi-bewildered.

  He was talking into the receiver but paused when he saw my face on the other side of the glass. He pulled the phone away, rested it on his shoulder, and slid open the glass door.

  “I just want you to know, I witnessed that whole damn thing…and I’m proud of you,” he laughed. His eyes seemed to examine my face for some reason. “You seen yourself lately?” he asked, closing the door again, going back to his conversation.

  I caught my bare reflection in the clear glass of the open booth next to Marcus. It was hard to tell, but my lips looked red and smeared. What was completely obvious, though, was the red lip print that Jackie had left on my cheek. My face was covered in lipstick, and I didn’t have any way to get it off. Marcus was now completely engrossed in his conversation and would most likely tell me to go into the bathroom to wash it off.

  Looking up at the large clock affixed to the marble wall, I could see it was closing in on two o’clock, and I still hadn’t called back to Altoona yet, or gone to the restroom, or got a snack from the gift shop. I rationalized that if I walked away from one of the only open phone booths to go wash up, I’d probably miss my opportunity. I slowly slid the door closed and parked myself on the triangular bench with the receiver in my hand. After listening for the tone, I dialed the numbers and waited for the automated payment response to come on.

  “Please insert…one dollar…and seventy-five cents…for the first…five minutes.” The line began beeping after the message ended. I dropped in the entire two dollars in quarters and waited.

  “Thank you…you have…twenty-five cents credit,” then the line started ringing.

  “Hey-loww?” Unexpectedly, it was my grandpa. I was glad that I hadn’t decided to call collect.

  “Grandpa…it’s me, Sebastien,” I announced.

  “Well, hello, Sebby. Are you all right? Your grandmother tells me you’re traveling the country solo these days.”

  “Yeah, what can I say, Grandpa?” I responded back in kind. “At least the coffee’s been good.” He laughed at the remark.

  “Hopefully not better than what I make. I usually like a bit of whiskey in mine, but don’t tell your grandma.” I knew he was just joking with me.

  “Me too. Don’t worry, though. The last place I was at they burned the coffee pretty bad.”

  “What time you getting in?”

  “The schedule says 6:45 a.m. We were a bit late coming into Saint Louis this afternoon…so probably a little later.”

  “You in Saint Louis? Did you get to see that Arch?” he asked.

  The automated operator cut in, “One minute remaining. Please insert more coins…now.” I had to wait a second before the line came back on.

  “Only from the window, Grandpa,” I answered.

  “Probably better that way. I wouldn’t go up there if they paid me,” he commented.

  “Me neither,” I remarked.

  “Well, you be safe and hurry on home,” he urged.

  “Will do, Grandpa.”

  “Okay, I love you. See you in the morning.” It clicked back to dial tone and all the change dropped through the torso of the phone and into its hollow belly. I made my way through the lobby and into the men’s restroom to wash up and try to make it to the gift shop before getting back on the bus. I had a strange feeling now going into the men’s room by myself that I didn’t have before. Overhead, the music stopped and made way for my boarding call.

  “First call, first call…now boarding the 1684 to Columbus, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and New York on aisle 20. Departs 2:15. First call…first call.”

  There it was. I had to hurry and get out of the terminal if I was going to make it back on the bus to grab the backseat and hold it. Marcus had vanished while I was talking on the phone. I stood at the sink and washed my hands and face. The water was blistering hot, and the cold wasn’t working at all. I did my best with the paper towels and lack of soap. I had to step carefully as I made my way around the bathroom, as it was covered in half an inch of water coming out of the toilet stalls. Not wanting to wait around to see what was blocking the toilet, I got out of there, not seeing any reason to press my luck.

  Outside, I stood by myself on the platform, watching business as usual unfold around me while waiting to get back on the bus. Saint Louis was an interesting place. As far as big cities went, it had an entirely different look about it that wasn’t easy to define. It felt different too. The air was cleaner, and there seemed to be constant movement everywhere I stood. Maybe it felt heavier, more dense, something unexplainable. I was mystified by the Arch that loomed up into the sky at an odd angle. No matter where I stood on the pla
tform, I could see it either directly or in the reflection of something like a newspaper machine or a plate-glass window. The closer you were to it, the stranger it became. It gave me the creeps as the clouds eerily slipped around it, engulfing it and grabbing at its sharp edges. The Arch looked like an artifact from another world or something that was being used as a transmitter to make intergalactic phone calls. I laughed to myself, realizing that I would rather be lost on earth somewhere and not know my place rather than be lost in the universe, trapped in some strange city with only this peculiar object to call home or keep me company. But at least the Arch would tell me that I wasn’t alone. The more I contemplated it, I realized that there just wasn’t much difference in the two. From longer distances though, the Arch looked normal. It gave you the feeling that it was something designed by the same guy who devised the golden arches for McDonald’s, but that he only gave the city half the supplies needed to construct it. Maybe two arches would’ve just looked silly. No one else on the platform seemed bothered by it. Everyone else was too wrapped up getting from one bus to the next or collecting their luggage from the porters and struggling to get out of there as fast as their crumpled bodies would carry them. Everyone looked wounded.

  I waited alone, blending into the concrete along the terminal wall, watching the porters load all the bags into the underside of the bus. Some people were carrying suitcases, some people had boxes, and one man only had a guitar. Several people though, more than most, had all their belongings stuffed into black plastic garbage bags with stickers on the outside of them, identifying who they belonged to. The trash bags were the first things loaded and were tossed hard, bag by bag, into the rear compartment in an obvious attempt to save space. Next, the duffel bags and the musical instruments, then the heavier luggage and boxes, were all placed carefully in the midsection. My two cases were some of the last bags loaded. I stared at them the whole time, contemplating their demise and how that was going to come about. They still had mud caked along the bottom corners from the night before and now had multiple tags hanging from the handles, which weren’t there when they were loaded back in Stockton. Someone had even gone so far as to slap a red Trailways sticker on the outside with the word PITT in bold black letters just below the famous white logo.

  Several passengers had already boarded. So far, no one with kids had gotten on, so I hoped that Marcus and I would once more, and for the last time, have the backseat to ourselves. I hadn’t seen him since the phone booth earlier and began to wonder where he was.

  I decided to board early, as the overhead call had already sounded. Once I got up the stairs, the driver was seated and expecting me to show him my ticket. I dug into my pocket for the stub. He was carefully examining my Greyhound jacket with a grin.

  “You Sebastien Ranes?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I responded mechanically, as I found my ticket folded in the back pocket of my jeans. After a cursory glance, he gave it back to me.

  “Nice jacket. Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift from someone in Albuquerque. No one was using it anymore, so he said I could have it.”

  His face tightened, wondering if I was lying to him. “A gift from whom?” he asked bluntly.

  “A man named Harley Earl,” I said. Just the mention of Harley’s name changed everything about the man.

  “Wow…old Harley gave that to ya? Man, I should’ve guessed it. I haven’t seen him in a while. They switched me off the 1364 a few months back. How is old Harley?”

  “He’s a really nice man,” I answered, minding myself carefully.

  “Yeah, kid. He sure is. Alright, you seem to be in the right place. Go have a seat.”

  As I made the long walk back, I began to recognize a lot of the faces from the bus that Marcus and I had gotten off earlier in Mount Vernon this morning. We had caught up to them due to the extra-long layover in Saint Louis. Several people recognized me and smiled. A few people even said hello. There were some passengers who had been on the bus since Los Angeles and were continuing on to Pittsburgh. But so far, no Marcus, and nobody was yet sitting in the back three rows. It was the Greyhound Wasteland for sure. I felt an incredible sadness not seeing him there and hoped that something hadn’t gone wrong. Maybe the police were looking for him but hadn’t said anything to Monty about it.

  When the driver started the bus, I panicked. I wanted to run back up to the front to tell him to wait, but I reluctantly sat down in Marcus’s seat knowing that it was futile, that he wouldn’t listen. I was a kid traveling alone. Maybe the driver would get mad and make me sit up front next to him or just take me off the bus for causing problems. Just as I was starting to boil in my frustration, I saw Marcus’s figure running through the terminal, dodging people and cars, running along the busway, coming for us. He was carrying something in his hands and trying to wave at us all at the same time. The driver was going for the handle to close the doors.

  I launched from my seat and stepped down the aisle. “Driver, wait!” I yelled out excitedly. I caught his concerned gaze first in the long mirror. Annoyed, he turned around to address me. I was waiting for him to tell me to sit down, shut up, and not interrupt him.

  “Look, someone’s coming!” I pointed out the window. The driver turned and looked outside, trying to spot whatever I was making such a fuss about. Marcus was sprinting through the outer terminal several buses down, clearly visible and trying to wave for us to wait. He was having trouble gesturing with his hands full. Once the driver saw him, he pulled the doors back open and watched him run to get on.

  When Marcus appeared at the top of the steps, a few people clapped that he had made it, and Marcus tried to smile through several out-of-breath pants. He was clutching his ticket beneath the white-and-red paper bags in his arms, which were covered in raindrops. The driver examined his stub and let him on.

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  I smiled from ear to ear once he saw me. “Wow, that was too close!” I said.

  “You ain’t kidding!” he agreed. He lifted up the two bags, showing me where he’d gone and what it was that almost made him miss the bus.

  “McDonald’s!” he announced. “I thought you might be hungry. I was trying not to spill the drinks the whole way back. Someone in the terminal said that it was only a block over, but it was more like two.”

  “I can’t believe it!” I responded, shocked. I was surprised, but found it funny that he’d gone for McDonald’s. “I’m starving to death, Marcus. How did you know?”

  “Buddy, that makes two of us.”

  We ate the food as the bus pulled away from the Greyhound Terminal and out of downtown Saint Louis. Like clockwork, the driver came on the overhead and addressed us.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the 1684 to Columbus, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and New York. We have an approximate drive time of eight hours and fifteen minutes. This is the afternoon express, so we’ll only be stopping in Indianapolis long enough to refuel. There will be an adjustment to time as we cross into Indiana and the Eastern time zone of one hour. According to the latest reports, the rain should slow this afternoon and finally break by this evening. With any luck, we should be pulling into Columbus with clear skies. Other than that, all posted rules apply. Thank you for riding with us.”

  Both Marcus and I listened with rapt attention as we ate our cheeseburgers and drank our ice-cold soda.

  “That was informative,” he said.

  “Easily the best yet. Weather report, time change, schedule announcement, and no rules.”

  “Yeah, I think I’m pretty clear on what not to do on a Greyhound bus at this point,” he replied sarcastically.

  “Well, they never said anything about half the stuff that we’ve seen in the last few days.” My words came out in between bites and chews of French fries and hamburger.

  “This is it, buddy. The final stretch. You’re almost home,” he pointed out. My mind could now see the distance between Pittsburgh and Altoona. It
was a matter of continually dwindling hours before I’d have to switch to the last bus, taking me into Altoona. The schedule said five-thirty tomorrow morning in small black numbers.

  “Thanks for the lunch, Marcus.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’ll let you pick up dinner tonight in Columbus with your vouchers. You still got some left?”

  “Sure do,” I answered.

  “Alright. Then we set,” he affirmed, enjoying his French fries. “I’ve gotta say, that was the coldest May rain that I’ve been caught in in a long time,” he continued.

  “Eight years,” I said thoughtfully, or rather without thinking.

  Marcus stopped his eating and looked over at me without saying a word. “That’s right, eight years. A long time.” His words were a little darker now, more contemplative.

  “Were you able to get a hold of anyone back home?” I asked. We hadn’t spoken about our phone calls, but it seemed like a good time to ask.

  “I did. I’ve spoken to my moms. She said she’ll be glad to see me.” His voice trailed off behind his words. Anyone paying attention, including myself, could’ve been able to tell that something was wrong. Marcus’s expression altered. He drank his soda and looked away from me. He was making slurping sounds as he got to the bottom, finishing it.

  “Some people don’t want to see you anymore because you were in prison?”

  He sighed. “Something like that. For me, my moms is the only person who ever stuck by me. She sent me packages all the time when I was on the inside. Letters, pictures, candy, magazines, cigarettes, even though she don’t smoke herself,” he said, leaning in closer. “She kept my spirits up, helped me to remember that there was always still something for me outside of that place, that life would always be there and that folks thought about me and cared. Prison would’ve been very different without her.” He looked at me closely. “That’s what a moms is supposed to do.”