And who were they?
Then my fingers felt a hard surface, and before I could slow down, I walked into it, face-first into the brick wall of Union Station. The doors I’d come through stood only five feet to my left. When I walked back into the station, I felt embarrassed, like everyone had seen me bash my face, and I went straight for the bathroom. I passed the grounds crew drinking coffee on the long benches, and their slurps sounded like snickering. The station seemed unfamiliar and slightly hostile now. For a moment I wondered if I was in the wrong place.
That damn bathroom snapped me back to reality. I’d just cleaned the place at ten forty-five, and an hour later it was vile. Someone had dumped handfuls of paper towels into one sink, then wet the mess until it turned to mush. Why? What the hell joy did it bring? There’s a specific
kind of guy who does this gutless vandalism, either in sinks or toilet bowls. I always imagine he’s got a weak chin and a crooked spine.
The floors were murky with slush, so I mopped. I cleared the paper towel mush from the sink and checked the stalls. When I reached stall three, I opened the door slowly, afraid to find someone had snuck in through a window and vomited across the tiles. Thankfully, no.
But someone had added new graffiti. Two sentences, scratched into the paint with a blue pen.
“Suck a dickrub.”
“Buttsex happened here.”
As I got on that twelve twenty-five
P.M.
Greyhound bus, I felt absolutely no regrets.
NO REGRETS
until about fifteen minutes into the ride. We left on time, which was a surprise in the middle of a snowstorm, but the driver didn’t seem like a time-waster. Not the friendliest dude you ever met, he snatched tickets from people’s hands as they boarded, but better that kind than the one who’d laze around the station chatting with the other drivers. Soon as he pulled out the station, the driver became our concentrated captain, his entire focus on the snowy terrain.
We weren’t a full busload, maybe three quarters. I had a small Hispanic woman next to me. Me the aisle, she the window. She’d fallen asleep before the driver started the engine, and I wondered what she might be escaping or what mystery she might be moving toward.
I became so curious I felt like shaking her awake and asking, because the insanity of my own choice became clearer with each block we left behind. I watched the streets I’d crossed every morning on my way to the station, Railroad Street, Broad Street, North Genesee, and felt as though I were saying good-bye to three of my coworkers. And that’s when I really understood: I quit my job.
I quit my job.
I was screaming inside my skull, I quit my job! I am forty years old and I just quit my job! What the hell was I thinking? I grabbed the arm rests and squeezed them so hard the plastic should’ve cracked.
I just felt so damn scared.
But it had only been a few minutes. We weren’t even on the highway yet, though I could see the on-ramp in the distance. Flurries of snow
slapped against the windshield, and the driver turned the wipers on just as he approached a red light. The driver stopped at the crossroads, and I shook in my seat.
Just get out now and go back. Cheryl won’t even have noticed. Tell her you left for lunch.
But then the bus moved again. We reached the on-ramp. But, even now, there was still time! The bus skulked at the top of the ramp as the driver waited to merge. The snow came down so thick it could’ve hidden an eighteen-wheeler.
So I had one last chance to escape. I could holler to be let off and go back to the safety of a regular paycheck. I found myself on my feet before realizing I’d even moved. I grabbed the headrest of the empty seat in front of me, stepped one foot into the aisle, but then a voice shouted behind me.
“Negro, sit down!”
Who else could the voice be talking to? There were other Negroes on the bus (if you want to use that term), but none were on their feet. And do you know the craziest part? The most shameful part? I listened. I sat down.
As soon as I did, I became angry, at myself really, and turned around to snap at the speaker, but lost my voice when I saw the Negro who’d done the shouting. (I refuse to say African-American, it just takes too damn long.)
“Sit down and hear some truth,” the man said, squinting in my direction.
This guy. He was three-quarters bum and, unfortunately, one-quarter legal ticket holder. He stepped into the aisle, grabbing the headrests on either side of him for balance.
“We are at war, you people. America is in a fight!”
And with that, thirty-seven passengers groaned as one. Those of us who were awake looked toward the front of the bus, at the driver, for help.
But the driver had abandoned us. He leaned forward in his seat and held the steering wheel even tighter, as if to say, Can’t you see how hard I’m working?
“I’m not talking about Iraq. I’m talking about the battle here! On our soil. In our souls.”
We were on our own. Just us.
Once this became clear, the hobo paced the aisle. When he passed me, I got to see him better. He stooped when he walked, even though he was clearly younger than me. A slim body, but a puffy face, the blown-out nose of a lifetime drinker. I’ll bet you could get tipsy licking the
sweat on his forehead. I’m sorry to say this, but the man looked like a goblin.
“What kind of fight am I talking about?” he continued. “I’m talking about faith, people. Faith and belief.”
Oh, no. One of those.
I would’ve liked it better if he’d just panhandled. Give him a few dollars and he’d be satisfied, but the religious types required a different reward.
Dealing with such folks goes in recognizable stages. First you appeal to authority, but the driver had refused us. So next you try and ignore. Most of the passengers slipped into an imitation of sleep. It was our best defense. Row after row, eyes closed and arms crossed. Some even faked loud snoring.
“Y’all think you can ignore me, but you’re proving my point! Our nation is at war, but we’re fighting in our sleep. How do you know whose side you’re on if your eyes is shut?”
“I wish my ears was shut!” a man shouted from the front.
The last stage, in such situations, is when folks just lose their patience.
“Who said it?” the bum asked, stamping forward.
“I’m at war with your big mouth!” another passenger, a boy shouted from the back.
The bum stalked the aisle now, looking for one set of open eyes. I saw him through the cracks in mine. As he bopped down the aisle, he became more aggressive. He never hit anyone, but bumped every chair in the row, throwing his one hundred fifty pounds like a round of haymakers.
“To be an American is to be a believer!” he shouted. “But y’all don’t even understand what you believe in.”
Now the brakes on the bus huffed and groaned. We were on the highway, but hadn’t traveled too far. The driver brought us to a full stop on the shoulder, then got out of his seat.
That woke us up. Even the loudmouth got quiet. The Hispanic lady next to me craned her neck so she could see over the seat, then looked back at the bum with a smirk. She’d heard everything.
The driver pressed a button on the dashboard, which opened the bus door. Wind rushed in like water floods a sinking ship. People snatched their coats on. Snowflakes shot into the cabin, a blast of confetti that melted on the floor.
The driver clomped down the few steps and walked outside. Maybe he wasn’t responding to the bum at all. Did we have a flat? Next came the squawk of grinding metal. The driver had opened one of the luggage bays.
Now many of the passengers got out of their seats. Even one old woman whose snore had been louder than the bus engine. I’d thought for sure she was asleep, but she stopped in the middle of a snort and got up to take a peek.
Even the nut leaned over an empty seat to take a gander.
The old woman smiled at him. “I
believe
you’re getting kicked off.”
“It don’t matter,” he said. He sneered to seem defiant, but already his voice had weakened. It looked cold out there.
The bus driver disappeared inside the luggage bay. Only one foot stuck out, and it kicked around as he searched. As if the bus was devouring him. Then a brown suitcase flew out, onto the shoulder, like a bit of indigestible beef.
At that, the passengers applauded. Me too, I must admit. The bus driver shut the bay door, another grinding squawk, then made his way back inside.
The bum dragged himself toward the front right away. I thought he might protest the excommunication, but there was nowhere to appeal. On this bus the passengers were all archbishops and the bus driver was our pope.
The guy spoke as he moved. “Who gets God? That’s all I’m asking. Who gets welcomed to the table?”
“Just get off,” a raspy woman growled from the rear.
The driver climbed the three steps into the bus and stood there, saying nothing. The snowstorm outside was so white, so bright against the windshield, that it turned the driver into a dark blue silhouette. A silent shadow pointing toward the exit.
The bum stopped before he reached the driver. His knees dipped even though we weren’t moving, and he grabbed at the luggage racks for balance. He sighed deeply, a little theatrically, as he turned back to survey us. His eyes were as yellow as masking tape.
“Human beings are no damn good,” he said. “We even worse than animals. We like …”
He trailed off, cleared his throat, but his voice hardly reached a whisper.
“We like monsters,” he said.
Then he stepped off the bus.
Our driver pressed the button on his console, and the door shut with a low hiss. Outside, the guy lumbered over to his suitcase and righted it, then buttoned his coat.
“He don’t even have a hat,” the Hispanic woman next to me said.
The bus idled there, as if the machine were making up its mind too. The bum walked anyway, back in the direction of the on-ramp. On a
clear day he’d have been in Utica in twenty minutes, but it might take an hour to get there in the snow.
That old woman, the one who’d faked a good snore, got up from her seat and walked down the aisle. She bent forward and spoke into the driver’s ear. The driver looked at her, then looked away, into his side mirror. Then he pressed the silver button and opened the door.
The old woman hopped down each step and went outside. The bum hadn’t even walked the length of the bus yet. She reached him and slapped at his arm. When he turned, she gave him her scarf, a purple puffy snake, and took the matching knit hat right off her head.
Then she returned to the bus.
But I guess the guy felt underwhelmed by the gesture. Maybe he thought she’d invite him back in. I thought she might have too. I wouldn’t have been happy about it, but I would’ve understood. Instead, all he got was some accessories. So the guy looked up at the bus, squeezed the knit hat and scarf into a ball, then threw both right over the side of the highway.
He looked at us and refused to move, even as the blizzard nearly tore the buttons off his coat. A showdown, a staring contest.
One we lost.
After the old woman got back to her seat, the bus driver hit his button and shut the door. He put the bus in gear and we moved. In all this drama I’d forgotten that this was my last chance to go back too, and returned to my seat. That shabby man remained, scowling from the shoulder. For all I know, he died right there.
YOU DON’T JUST BRUSH OFF
an episode like that. In fact, you may feel pretty terrible about it for a good long while. When I went to use the bathroom on the bus, I walked with my eyes at the floorboards. Everyone moved through the bus that way. The only relief came when we reached a new station and some passengers disembarked. They ran off the bus so fast they nearly tripped one another. And those left behind changed seats a few times, as if our chairs caused the pain.
Albany, Worcester, Newton, Boston, Hanover, White River Junction, Montpelier, and finally Burlington. A twelve-hour trip that took sixteen with snow delays. I didn’t recognize anyone else by the end. Even the driver was different. I can’t say I felt less guilty, but there was no one left to remind me of my shame. This wasn’t a resolution, but it was a relief.
When we arrived at the Vermont Transit bus station in Burlington, I recognized the place. Not that I’d been there before, but places like it. This wasn’t Utica, with its marble columns and historic landmark status. More similar to the stations in Kingston, Elmira, and Troy. By which I mean sleazy, greasy, and small.
Sleazy
is a little harsh. The Burlington station was just a forest-green one-story not much bigger than the private homes across the street.
The bus pulled in, only a handful of us on board. I saw two cars parked in the lot, but the snow had piled so high there might’ve been more buried. I should’ve arrived at a little past midnight, instead it was four in the morning. When I stepped off the bus, it didn’t seem as if the sun would ever rise, the sky frozen in blackness. I wondered who, if anyone, would still be there to meet me.
On the last mile of my trip I envisioned my arrival. I imagined balloons and streamers. Or cops with guns. I only found a quiet station where a couple of white people waited to meet a couple of other white people. That’s it. And I was one black guy standing by the snack machines in a daze.
But I didn’t want candy. I wanted a hit.
A hit, a hit, a hit.
Can’t be scared when you’re sedated. I leaned against the snack machine, pressed the clear plastic buttons helplessly.
“Ricky Rice?”
I heard a man’s voice, but when I turned around, all I saw was his belt buckle. Had to lean back, really curl my spine, to see the eyes far above mine. Talk about a titan! Maybe my confusion added a few inches, but not many. This white man stood about seven feet tall. And just as wide. His mother must’ve been a polar bear.
“Are you Ricky Rice?” he asked again.
He was prepared for winter. Brown Carhartt jacket and matching snow pants. Logger boots and padded gloves. Even his face came covered with a graying beard that flowed down to his collarbone. I’ll bet you could sleep in a snowdrift when you’re outfitted like that. Me, I had on a peacoat and skullcap.