One Hound Way
As I enter the Greyhound bus station, I make a note of it’s averageness, pretty standard, not dirtier or cleaner than any other bus station in California; though I haven’t been in many. The lower levels smell thick of urine and must. Walking through rows of benches filled with transients covered by blankets; the air is warm and damp, as if I had walked past a steam vent. I try to hold my breath as long as I can to avoid inhaling the caustic fumes in my path. Ahead, I see a swarm of tiny flies, I let out my held breath to refill so as not to refill in the middle of the swarm. I have a weak upper respiratory system, which doesn’t allow me to keep air in for long before my lungs begin to burn. I let the breath out as I surface to the terminal level by way of wet, concrete stairs. Unsure if it’s water, pee or beer, I continue up cautiously, so as not to slip.
There it is, gate 3.
A glance at the clock reveals 12:30pm. Future passengers are lined up in front of gate 3, like race horses waiting for the gun. I don’t see why they’re so worried about where they sit, the whole bus is surely going to be smelly, hot, and uncomfortable. Even still, I get in the line, this way I’ll have some say in where I’m sitting. I don’t want to be sitting next to the guy who no one wants to sit next to; he smells, he snores, he takes up two seats; whatever it is I don’t want to sit next to that guy. I wait in line.
In the very front of the line is a young couple who can’t keep their hands off each other. They sit on top of their bags. Waiting. Cuddling. I make a note of their “sex hair” and wonder how long ago it happened. 12:40, I haven’t seen or heard one word come out of either of their mouths and I’ve been watching them for a ten minutes. They’re in love, they don’t have to speak to communicate, only press their faces hard into the other’s. I look at the clock again, 12:45.
I follow the line to see who else is here: a girl with orange and pink hair sits on her bag behind the lovely couple, she keeps her head turned from them unamused by the overwhelming affection, behind her an older man of about 60 wears a combover, glasses, and button up plaid shirt with a pocket in the front; his bus ticket hangs out of his pocket. I want a pocket in the front for my ticket. Instead, I have to keep my ticket in my purse where I keep checking every five minutes to make sure it’s still there, even though my purse has remained zipped since I put the ticket in there 30 minutes ago. What if it fell out last time I checked to see if it was still there, I think, I better check again.
Unzip. Still there. Zip.
As I look up I see a man handing out little orange pieces of paper, he silently approaches me handing me an orange slip and continues on. I turn the orange paper over to read the front, “Happy Holidays, Hello. I am a deaf person. I am selling this deaf education system card to make my living. Will you buy one? Pay any price you wish! Thank You.” The inside of the card has the signs for the alphabet, and several words: good, bad, perfect, chance, friend, OK, I love you & I like you (which are the same), girl, boy, thanks, and sweetheart. The printing quality isn’t very good, but it’s a fine idea. As I look around for the deaf man, I catch the clock again, 1:05.
The man comes back around, to collect I presume. I hand him a dollar which he takes with a smile and signs, “Thank you.” I nod and sign back, “Thank you.” Since the card did not contain the sign for, “You’re welcome.” I put the card in my pocket and continue to wait, watching the deaf man as he makes his way back to the front of the line. He’s scolding other passengers who must not have read the card and didn’t know he was going to come back around for money. Some look frightened and puzzled, handing the card over as he does his best to yell at them for trying to keep the card without paying. He digs through one woman’s plastic bag for the card; he could see the orange slip through the transparent bag, once retrieved he waves his hand at her, and says, “NO KEEP!”
“Last boarding call for bus 6874” an announcement came from the speakers above us, at least that’s what it sounded like it said. The announcer needs to take his/her mouth away from the mic a little bit, so the words have the chance to separate. I look around at the other passengers, wondering if they were able to make sense of the message. Similarly they all look puzzled. Down at the ticket counter, the staff is lounging around, chatting and sipping water, another announcement, “Wah wah wah an hour to and hour and a half delay.” I wonder if that was about our bus. A concerned passenger runs to the ticket counter, and stands in front of a sign that reads: Please wait here for the next available ticket counter. I know this because I stood before that very sign as I waited and waited to purchase a bus ticket. The staff behind the desk all acted as if they had something wrong with their computers, clicking and scanning the screens, typing in words and saying things like, “Hmm. Nope. That didn’t work.” “Let me try this one thing,” and, “Now, what is going on with this machine? Jeff!” calling to someone far off, “My machine is broken!” Then asking me to, “go ahead and step back into line and someone will be with you shortly.” Mr. Concerned over there seems to be having the same experience. After a few minutes he comes back and climbs onto a bench in the middle of the terminal, “Excuse me… Excuse me” he raises his voice louder the second time. Everyone looks at him, “Our bus is delayed about an hour to an hour and a half… So it looks like we won’t be taking off until about 3:30 this afternoon.” He says it apologetically, as if it was his fault. “Oh god.” “Come on!” “Shit” exclamations come from the group around me. "Of course, this is fucking bull shit!” One angry passenger storms away mumbling profanities to himself, which makes me laugh. After a moment the line disassembles, everyone pulling out their cell phones and it seems that time and space has shifted, one minute I was in a quiet bus station and the next I’m on a wall street trading floor, “3:30!” “12:30!” “90minutes!” “Help me out here!” Then, just as quickly as it had started it was over, I stand confused as I look around me at the empty terminal. I cue a gust of wind in my mind and it blows garbage around like tumble weeds. I look up at the clock 1:15.
I make my way back down stairs to the street level, several people are standing outside, empty buses fill the sidewalk, a patch of sun falls on a bench by the street, it’s crisp out this morning and the sun spot looks like a warm sweater. I make my way to the bench setting my things down first and then myself, pulling my knees in close to my body as I lean against the back of the bench. I pull out a cigarette and light it, closing my eyes to enjoy the heat on my face.
“I like your boots.” I open my eyes to see a girl standing over me, “Thanks.” The girl continues, “Are they boots or are they just covers for your shoes?” She asks. Unsure of what “shoe covers” are I reply, “No they’re boots they just fold down.” “Cool…cool…” She stands awkwardly for a moment, then I offer her a cigarette because it seems like the appropriate thing to do “Thanks. I’m trying to quit.” She says as she pulls a lighter from her jacket pocket. “Yeah, me too.” I say as I take drag, we share a knowing smile and sit in silence, inhaling our transgression. When she’s done she flicks the cigarette into the road. “I like to flick em’…” I nod and glance past at the ash tray directly behind her. “It’s more fun than just putting it out in an ash tray.” I nod again but get a queasy feeling seeing her stub still smoking on the pavement. When I finish, I walk past her and put mine out in the ash tray and hope that she doesn’t take it as an offense.
I gather my things and start for the station, the woman follows and we make our way upstairs to the terminal. “Where are you headed?’ she asks, “Hollywood” I say and immediately regret, not because I don’t want her to know where I’m going but because no one says, Hollywood, “Cool. You live there?” My chance to redeem myself, “Yeah. In L.A.” “Awesome.” “Where are you headed?” I ask, feeling her desire to share. “VEGAS!” she squeals. “Awesome, for how long?” “Probably like a week..” “You might stay longer?” “Yeah, who knows!” she lets out this laugh that is a mix between a hyena and a crying baby. I let out a small laugh to cover up my discomfort, “Well you have a long trip ahead of you.” Her face loses it’s enthusiasm, “Yeah I’m not sure how long it is. My friend has our tickets… He’s right over there.” She points to a man by the concession stand and continues, “I thought I had the tickets in my purse but I was just looking for them and I don’t have them, but that’s my friend right there and he has them.” I have the sudden urge to check my purse for my ticket, what if it had fallen out when I got the dollar for the man out, I unzip my purse a tiny bit and stick my finger in, feeling the serrated edge of the ticket, relief, and return my focus to the conversation. After a few minutes of conversation I begin to feel as if she’s hiding something. Speaking fast and in circles, like people do when there’s something they don’t want you to know, going on and on concerning things you you really don’t care about, in an attempt to cover up the real thing, which is the thing they don't want you to know. This woman is strange and interesting and hiding something… I have nothing better to do so I stick around.
I was racking my brain for questions to ask but before I could even get the first out, she piped in, seeming to be finishing a conversation that had begun in her head, “Yeah I love riding the bus, this is my first time on the bus, but my friend, he rides the bus a lot. I’m loving seeing all the characters, you know?” You have no idea, I think. She continues, “Last time my friend rode the bus he said he sat next to this crazy lady who was thinking someone was trying to kill her and one of her tits was hanging completely out of her shirt the whole time, and this lady was tellin’ him all of that.” “What? That’s crazy!” I reply with complete sincerity. “Yeah” she says, "I didn’t catch your name,” “Penny” I say. “Penny. Cool, that’s like a unique name.” “Thanks, what’s your name?” "I’m Katie, it’s not so unique.” She says instantly. “So is that your boyfriend?” I ask, she gives me a look as if to say, HELL NO. “Just your friend then?” She gives me the same look again and confused I ask “Not friends either huh?” “We have a weird relationship.” She says. the subject seeming convoluted, I switch topics, “So what are you going to Vegas for? Do you know people there?” “No just for fun, and maybe some business while I’m there” she says confidently,“I’m a massage therapist. I don’t have my table with me but I’m sure there are places where I can rent a table. My friend says there are.” I have no clue about anything related to massage therapy but I agree anyway, “Yeah I’m sure.” I want to believe what she’s saying about being a massage therapist and about the weird relationship with the strange man by the concession stand but my head spins into darker scenarios: Is she a prostitute? Is she just a young girl being taken to Vegas by some guy? Is she a fugitive, fleeing to Vegas for it’s anonymity?
Her friend comes over with their bags, one is falling apart completely, held together by bungee cords, and smells heavily of pot. “Hey.” He says. “Hey.” I say back. “We just got these bags at a thrift store yesterday, they were real nice when we got em’ and when we took it home and put our stuff in it, it just fell to shit!” She laughs again, crying hyena babies. “I’m gonna get new bags when I get to Vegas. Maybe some designer bags. My friend told me he’d get them for me when we got there.” We sit in silence.
I look at the clock, 3:00pm. “Good luck” I say. “Yeah, you too. Luck be a Lady, right?” She says, a small smile from the side of her mouth. I nod and smile, gather my things and head toward the line, to the young couple in love, and the girl with the orange and pink hair, Mr. Concerned, the good Samaritan, and the old man with the combover and the ticket hanging from his pocket. I check my purse for my ticket, still there.