Greyhound Read online

  My mother had told me that my Aunt Sharon would give me some money and I shouldn’t refuse it if she did. I hadn’t seen my aunt in almost three years, but I never thought of her as generous. My mother had taken my older sister and me to go live with her one summer when she lost her job in the city and couldn’t continue paying the rent. At the time, my Uncle Gerald had a pig farm in Lodi, near Stockton, but now he was driving a truck, and they were living in Los Angeles. Aunt Sharon was a lot like my mother, smoking cigarettes constantly and angry anytime I spoke up or said absolutely anything around the adults. She was my mother’s eldest sister, but not any nicer, and I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her. I reckoned that she would probably just tell me what a bother I was to have to come downtown for and that there was something wrong with me. She always told me that I was slow and that I was a mistake. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant. After I retold this to my grandma, she told me not to listen to any of that nonsense.

  The two-hour bus ride to Bakersfield went by quickly, even though I was bored silly. I felt determined to grab something to read once we stopped again. Driving to the Bakersfield station from the freeway off-ramp took longer than I expected. I had to use the bathroom, but it seemed eternally occupied. I had already reconsidered going inside and closing the door on one occasion because the smell was so awful that it made me turn away. The smell was horrendous, and my body had instinctively curled away before my brain had caught up. I was just trying to hold it until we got to the terminal, but I didn’t want to wet my pants either. The only change of clothing I had was packed away underneath the bus. After winding around numerous city streets and standing still at eternal red lights, we pulled into the Bakersfield Greyhound Station.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome to Bakersfield. We’ll be stopped here for approximately twenty minutes. For all those permanently disembarking, thank you for choosing Greyhound.”

  Jim slowly pulled the bus around the terminal and angled it into its spot on platform 1. Looking out the window, I noticed that instead of being called platforms, the word aisle was painted down the metal stanchions that supported the awning above. I was the last rider to disembark, and Jim and all the other passengers were already headed inside the terminal. A Mexican lady with a broom and a mop bucket was waiting for me to get off so she could clean the floors and lavatory.

  Bakersfield was a lot hotter than Fresno, and it seemed that most of the people wanted to be inside. Heading through the sliding doors, I noticed the tall, bald man in the suit watching me. He was curled around a pay phone, talking in a very low voice. He waved, but I moved too quickly through the entryway to wave back. I found the men’s restroom without delay and was shocked to see only one urinal affixed to the wall. All the others were either ripped out due to construction, vandalized, or leaking water from the pipes. Several large puddles had formed on the floor, making the place seem dangerous. A soggy copy of Reader’s Digest floated around in the slop. The bathroom was in bad shape, but I was thankful that no one else wanted to use the toilet. I wouldn’t have been able to hold it if I had to stand in line. I felt relieved as soon as I started to pee—it must’ve been all the coffee going through my system. I could smell it as it blasted against the porcelain bowl. The aroma of ammonia and burnt coffee rose up strongly from the urinal below me.

  “This bathroom’s closed!” a voice barked from behind me. I turned my head to see a large man in a gray uniform glaring at me. “Didn’t you see the ‘out of order’ sign on the door?” he snapped, one hand holding the door open.

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  “Hurry up and let’s go then, I ain’t got all damn day,” he blustered, ushering me out of the toilet and locking the door behind me. I felt bad for anyone who would’ve been caught short and really had to go.

  Everything inside the Bakersfield Terminal was closed. The Grey Café was shut tight, the lights were dark, and the place had a chain-link fence blocking the entryway. A sign affixed to the fence read: Closed until further notice. It looked as if a bomb had gone off.

  The only thing to eat or drink was made possible through an endless row of vending machines. My nightmare had become a reality. I was confronted by a glowing bank of colorfully lit, well-stocked machines. They sat waiting for me, evenly spaced along one whole wall inside the main terminal. I counted six Coca-Cola machines, two that dispensed only coffee, three that vended sandwiches and fruit, and five machines that spat out candy bars, gum, and potato chips. It looked like a cafeteria from the not-so-distant future. There was a smell of something rotting, but I couldn’t follow it home, as it seemed to fade behind the monstrous display in front of me. It was like knocking at the door of Oz.

  Most of the chairs in the lobby were full of people who looked like permanent fixtures. For the first time, I got the feeling that most of these people were homeless and didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  I stuck a quarter in the soda machine and pushed the red button for a can of Coke. I heard the thing come to life and the metal can seemed to tumble around in its guts until it dumped into a small tray toward the bottom. The journey it took was a violent one. I thought twice about popping the top, as it might explode in my face after such an expedition. I decided to save it to have with the sandwich and the orange Jenny had given me.

  I wandered around the lobby, hunting for something to read before being herded back on the bus. The sound of static coming from the pay-television sets was deafening. It was hard to imagine how the people in front of them could manage to stay asleep. The intercom came on numerous times, alerting passengers not to loiter, leave baggage unattended, or park personal vehicles in the bus aisles. Boarding calls repeated endlessly, one after another. The place was quickly getting to me. Intense white lights above flickered in despair or warning. I couldn’t determine which. I gave up my search for a book and headed back toward the platform outside.

  In front of my bus, a man was yelling at the Greyhound driver, but it wasn’t Jim. I wasn’t expecting this, but I probably should have. A shift change had occurred, and they had switched drivers. The new driver was younger, had black, oily hair and large, dark sunglasses. He looked like Frank Burns from the television show M*A*S*H, but real, in the flesh, and without the soft music and laughter. His face was snarling at a passenger below him on the platform. He stood on the steps, blocking the way with his arms crossed.

  “You cannot get on this bus without a boarding ticket. I don’t give a damn what your story is, pal!” he said, snarling at the man below him in utter disgust. I wondered what had happened to Jim as I watched this man in action. I searched my pockets for my ticket, hoping I hadn’t left it in the seat compartment in the back. The man who was arguing with the driver had been on since I got on back in Stockton. Every time I saw him, he was either sleeping or reading his book. He was pale, in his early twenties, and had long red hair. He was wearing a green army jacket but didn’t look like a soldier.

  “All my stuff is on the bus, you asshole!” he yelled at the driver, who stood unmoved.

  “How about your ticket? Is that on the bus, too?”

  “I already told you, buddy. What the hell is your problem?”

  “I don’t like your attitude, Mister Man! You better settle down now before I eject you from this station!” He was pointing his index finger directly at the middle of the man’s forehead, almost tapping at it. Frank Burns had a stern look on his face, but he seemed to be enjoying what he was doing. From behind his dark sunglasses it was hard to see how he really felt. I imagined he had a lazy eye or long girly lashes and was teased a lot for looking like a woman. Then I imagined that he had no eyes at all, just black sockets instead. The last thought creeped me out so bad, it made me shiver.

  “If you let me get my book, man…I can show you my ticket,” the young man continued.

  “Fine,” Frank Burns from the netherworld snapped. He pointed his index finger at him again from the elevated steps. “But you can board last after everyone
else gets on. Got it, buddy?”

  “Jesus Christ, who the fuck are you? The Reverend Jim Jones?” The young man growled in frustration as he dejectedly turned away and headed for the back of the line.

  “Keep it up, pal,” Frank Burns shot back angrily, as he turned and got settled in his seat. Most of the passengers were a little shocked and hesitant now to get on.

  “Let’s go, folks. 1443 to the City of Angels.” People started milling toward the door frantically, pulling out their boarding passes. A frenzy of bus riders searched their pockets in fear. I didn’t have a good feeling about him at all. I was one of the last to board, and as I got to the top of the stairs, I held out my ticket. The driver just stared at me without noticing the stub.

  “What the hell is this, kid?”

  “It’s my ticket, sir.” The words stumbled out of my mouth.

  “‘It’s my ticket, sir,’” he repeated mockingly. “You sound like Oliver Twist.” He looked behind me, but only to check out the redheaded guy waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

  “Hey, no smoking on the bus, freak!” he shouted directly at me, but obviously meaning it for the man behind me. After a brief amount of grunting and fumbling in his seat, he focused his sunglasses at me.

  “Are you traveling alone, Twist?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, hoping for my interaction with this man to end.

  “Look, you’re supposed to tell me immediately. Didn’t they tell you that at the ticket counter?” He looked at my ticket stub quickly, but I doubted that he even read it. It seemed as if he was still watching the man behind me.

  “Make sure you sit up front where I can keep my eye on you.”

  “All my stuff is in the back,” I lied. “And it looks as if all the other seats are taken.” He glanced in the long mirror, quickly surveying the seating situation.

  “Fine, just go sit down. If I catch you vandalizing the bus, I’ll throw you off,” he grumbled. His name tag said Frank. Maybe it was a message.

  A tall, wiry man with darkly tanned skin that looked like leather was watching me as I came up the aisle. He had sharp, beady eyes like a falcon’s. His neatly pressed, dark olive green uniform looked like a businessman’s suit. He grabbed my arm as I shuffled past.

  “Son, if that shit-for-brains gives you anymore grief, I’ll personally stick those sunglasses of his so far up his ass, he’ll think I’m making room for the rest of his gay ensemble.” His voice rolled like gravel across a cast-iron skillet. He smiled as he let go of my arm, all the time keeping part of his gaze on the driver.

  “And if that son of a bitch tries to throw you off, I’ll personally see to it that we leave his sorry ass on the side of the road to hitchhike home to his momma’s basement.” The old man smiled at me, unfazed by the evil Frank Burns, but he was the only one.

  “Thanks,” I responded. Everyone mumbled quietly among themselves, wondering what had become of Jim. Ironically, the new driver reminded me of the sort of man that my mother would’ve fallen in love with and brought home to try to be my new father.

  I made my way toward the back of the bus, just hoping to get my seat. Several of the passengers talked quietly about the new driver. They all had a different name for him, not one of which was Frank, Jim Jones being the most popular.

  Once I took my seat, I popped the top on my soda and began to eat the lunch Jenny had given me. I decided to save the orange for later, just in case I got hungry in the next terminal during the layover. After the ruckus between the driver and the man in the green jacket subsided, the bus pulled out and away from the station, accompanied by the customary beep-beep-beep while in reverse.

  “1443 to Los Angeles.” That was it, and nothing followed. I felt cheated for information. Jim’s address was a soothing message, whereas this was nothing more than an extension of the reverse-beep signal. Everything with this guy was an instant travesty. Even though the air-conditioning was working perfectly, the air in the bus quickly began to smell like an ashtray. The driver, perched, elevated, and quiet behind his dark sunglasses, chain-smoked as he pushed the bus to breakneck speed down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic and smaller cars. He had already come over the intercom once to let everyone know that smoking on the bus was prohibited. The bus swayed dangerously several times. I hadn’t stopped to question anyone about whether the driver was permitted to smoke, but it was clearly printed on the ticket that passengers were prohibited from smoking inside the bus and the restroom. Frank Burns wasn’t playing by the rules at all, at least not the ones from all the pamphlets and overhead announcements. He was operating within some unseen loophole that was hard to distinguish. I doubted anyone wanted to challenge him.

  Several people complained, some loudly. But he ignored them all and kept right on puffing. The old Marine looked back at me once as I watched another argument escalate between the driver and the hippie. It would’ve been nice if Frank Burns had turned on the radio through the overhead, but it just didn’t seem like he was the type of person who was likely to do us any favors. His presence made me feel as if we were all somehow being punished for something. I immediately thought about my luggage under the bus. The thick, acrid air that was recirculating through the vents made me think of my mother. I’d been trapped in worse fogs in the backseat of the car, inhaling poisonous gas with the windows shut tight, on more occasions than I could ever forget. Every time I cracked the window for fresh air, I’d be scolded immediately with a barrage of absurd statements like: “I’m not heating the outside. Close the damn window,” or “That sound is giving me a headache. Close the damn window,” and the ever-popular “Close the damn window, goddamnit!” Sitting against the window in the fetal position, my eyes would burn, my throat would dry up, and my voice would become rough. I would count the seconds until I could just get out of the car and breathe again. The air on the bus was less severe, but the smell was the same.

  A large woman in the front stood up and headed quickly toward the restroom. She was digging madly through her purse like an escaping prisoner looking for the key to the dungeon door. The thin lavatory door slammed hard and locked immediately behind her. Moments later, the intercom switched on.

  “Please be advised that passengers are prohibited from smoking on the bus or in the lavatory. Any persons not cooperating with this policy will be ejected from the bus and have their tickets confiscated.” I imagined the woman inside the bathroom being ejected through the roof like an aircraft fighter pilot while she was sitting on the toilet. I couldn’t believe the driver had that much nerve. After the message, the clamor on the bus died down, and the steady humming of the tires on the freeway below was the only audible sound. The lock on the bathroom door tripped, and several people turned around in their seats to see the frustrated face of the obese woman emerge as she skulked back to her seat in tears.

  “It’s just not fair,” she whimpered as she sat down.

  “Oh, shut up!” Frank Burns gushed belligerently. Moments later, the hawk-faced man in the uniform who had grabbed my arm stood up, glanced back at me, and winked, then quickly walked up toward the front of the bus. The driver, without the aid of the intercom, craned his head around and yelled at the old man to sit back down in his seat. I shifted over toward the center of the aisle to get a better view. The level of intensity on the bus had risen and was at a breaking point. Something wasn’t about to happen; something was happening.

  “I said sit back down, old man!” The driver yelled angrily.

  “I’ve had enough. You’re being relieved!” the man answered, almost with a laugh in his voice. “Pull this goddamned bus over. You’re taking your ass off this coach as of now!” The man in the olive green uniform spoke as if he was giving the driver an order. He stood erect, with his hands on his hips, towering over Frank Burns like a parent speaking to an unruly child.

  “Last chance to move, dickhead. Otherwise, it’ll be an early bedtime, and I promise you’ll wake up with a heada
che.” His voice boomed throughout the length of the bus. Every passenger was now fixated with rapt attention, watching the showdown in disbelief. The Greyhound driver moved in a spastic fashion, seemingly trying to pick up the mic for the radio.

  “I didn’t say pick that up, goddamn you!” The old Marine punched the driver hard several times across the face and reached for the wheel. The bus swerved in the lane as the Greyhound version of Frank Burns was shaken from the blows and became severely disoriented. Several people gasped, and a woman crossed herself and cried out to “sweet Jesus” a few seats in front of me. The man with the red hair laughed out loud. I was awestruck and froze. When I shook it off, I moved forward a few seats to get a better view. Everyone else seemed like department store mannequins. It was a singular moment of role reversal.

  “I told you to pull this bus over now, and don’t make me say it again!” he yelled. Something garbled came out of the driver’s mouth like a vicious feminine yawlp.

  “I said sit down, now!” The driver was screaming at the top of his lungs. It was completely off-putting and strange. The gravel-voiced man landed two more hard blows on the driver’s head, which seemed to incapacitate him and make his entire body go limp. The man had one hand on the wheel, and with the other he was yanking Frank Burns from his oversize seat. The bus slowed dramatically, but the old Marine had control and forced the bus to the side of the road and onto the soft shoulder. Everything was happening faster than anyone on the bus could process. The driver was slumped over like a sack of potatoes and whimpering for him to let him go, as he started to come around. It looked as if the military man had him by the scruff of the neck like a dog. The evil Frank Burns’s face was now beet red, and he was out of breath and exhausted.