Greyhound
SUNDAY, May 2nd
Go to Greyhound station with Mummy and Daddums and 'ittle booby brother. Arrive at 5:30 in the afternoon.
Play trivia on cell phone with Family while we wait for the bus. Unfortunately the trivia site is apparently run by morons who think Billy Wilder is still alive and Pete Sampras is dead. Perhaps they had him confused with non-celebrity Oklahom-ite Pete Sumter, husband of equally unfamous Belle Forrest Sumpter Gullett, whose name I've written here only for the enjoyment of typing out Belle Forrest Sumpter Gullett, which I've now done twice; it's Coen-esque, isn't it?
In any case Pete died back in '79 and Sampras was born in '71, so maybe they were thinking Sumpter but actually meant _Donald_ Sumpter, who was Claudius in the fim version of 'Rozencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead', which everyone who is anyone should check out cause that movie kicks mothertruckin' ass, though Donald also appears to be living so maybe they didn't mean him and now I'm certain I've carried this on too long.
The bus is supposed to arrive around 6:00 but due to weather and rinky-dink driving skills doesn't get there until 7:00, which gives my parents more than enough time to piss each other off. And, as usual, I am the catalyst for assholedom to occur.
Me: Anymore?
Father (tired of waiting for bus but isn't going to leave before i get on): No, don't think so.
Me (to Mother, who looks antsy): You wanna see something really scary?
Father: Twilight Zone- The Movie
Mom: I was going to say it!
Me: Dick! I was asking her, I knew _you'd_ get it!
Father (to Mother, dismissively): You wouldn't have gotten it.
Mom: When Dan Akroyd pulls his face off, that's one of the one's I would have gotten!
She gives him the manipulative look she knows he hates, he says something mean and stalks off.
Little brother, as usual, doesn't give a shit as to what's going on. I love him.
It is at this time I switch my attention to the house across from the bus station (which is about as big around as the living room in your house, and I know this because every living room I've ever been in seems to be the exact same circumference if not height, or possibly because I've been in your living room before and you still don't know about it) and realize that it reminds me of the country home of death and cannibalism in Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the original. It's made of dull pink stucco, though, and on an overcast day like this one it doesn't quite capture the backcountry squalor and despair of the TCM house.
It also reminds me of Dean Koontz, because stucco always makes me think of Dean Koontz.
Dad comes back and makes nice like always, and I've mixed feelings. Boredom of waiting in a bland part of town for a bus, frustrated with parents but already unhappy that I'm not going to see them everyday, hopeful at the idea of not being present every time they bitch at each other, psyched/afraid of college and driver's license fast approaching, and discomfort weighing in my belly at the thought of hearing my benefactor's dull southern twang again, only this time for quite a bit longer than 2 weeks.
The bus comes at 7:00 like I said, but one more thing about this Greyhound station.
It's run by a short, slightly obese fifty-something white woman with cancer voice and Nick Nolte's mugshot hair and an horrendously fat, pasty-faced teenage boy I'll bet my sister's boots is either her son or her sex slave. He's orca-fat, two-John Gooman's-in-a-blanket fat, Victor freakin' Salva fat. He's large. He also has dead eyes. There doesn't seem to be anything behind those eyes, and I'm certain he's a very violent predator. If and when he snaps, those eyes will fill with rage and whoever sees them last won't be around to tell anyone how they rolled to black like shark eyes before the kill.
Before the bus comes 'Victor' jogs his fat ass off at an admirable pace, and I wonder where he is going. When I go back in the tiny station a couple minutes later to get a Coke to go with my Sprite and Snickers bar (Father looks at me like after all these years he still can't believe how dumb I can be and says "One soda?") , the lights are off and the few remaining black people are sitting there in the dark. The woman appears at my left, like an ugly senior citizen-ninja pouncing for the kill.
"We're closing."
"Oh."
And like a flash, a Bible passage I quoted in an unpublished Buffy porno fic came back into my head.
A foolish woman is calmorous: she is simple, and knoweth nothing.
For she sitteth at the door of her house, on a seat in the high places of the city,
To call passengers who go right on there ways:
Whoso is simple, let him turn hither: and as for him that wanteth understanding, she saith to him,
"Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasent."
But he knoweth not that the dead are there; and that her guests are in the depths of hell.
While this isn't exactly the same situation, I feel as if this Greyhound station is a portal to hell and the near-featureless figures just sitting there in the dark, with the only light coming from the now deeply grey overcast sky outside, are lost souls ready to burn.
I walk out quickly.
Father gives me a glance of curiosity, 'where's the rest?', his eyes say. I shake my head and look away. But I can feel his eyes on me and I know he's thinking I'm not ready, I won't make it on my own, not if I can't even acquire a single goddam soda.
The bus pulls in and I'm worried about losing my luggage, which is really just one big blue gym bag. I'm not quite as worried about my carry-ons. I want to spend a while saying goodbye but there isn't any time. I rush on and look back while walking up the steps and they're standing there, looking like they didn't want this to happen; they didn't want me to leave, and while I'm sad to leave them I'm glad to see that they'll miss me.
Everyone in my family (immediate and otherwise) who's ridden a bus had their own negative opinion to give me.
"Have you ever been to a bus station? They smell horrible."
"Piss everywhere."
"The people smell awful. Probably cuz' they're mostly blacks."
"It's not like Amtrak; it's going to be slow and awful."
"Be careful, and watch out for the black people."
Yes, the general sentiments of bad smelling, dangerous negros went far and wide throughout my family tree.
Except for my sister, who didn't say anything about it one way or the other.
The bus doesn't smell at all.
It's pretty full and I sit one seat from the back next to a darkly-tanned Mexican, who's deep in conversation with a black guy not out of his twenties. He's attractive, looks a lot like the camera guy from Scream 2 who has that Will Smith/Jada Pinkett Smith show on UPN now.
The black guy is sitting by himself at the extra-length last seat, which I learn later is standard on all Greyhound buses.
The bus pulls out and we're gone.
Go to Greyhound station with Mummy and Daddums and 'ittle booby brother. Arrive at 5:30 in the afternoon.
Play trivia on cell phone with Family while we wait for the bus. Unfortunately the trivia site is apparently run by morons who think Billy Wilder is still alive and Pete Sampras is dead. Perhaps they had him confused with non-celebrity Oklahom-ite Pete Sumter, husband of equally unfamous Belle Forrest Sumpter Gullett, whose name I've written here only for the enjoyment of typing out Belle Forrest Sumpter Gullett, which I've now done twice; it's Coen-esque, isn't it?
In any case Pete died back in '79 and Sampras was born in '71, so maybe they were thinking Sumpter but actually meant _Donald_ Sumpter, who was Claudius in the fim version of 'Rozencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead', which everyone who is anyone should check out cause that movie kicks mothertruckin' ass, though Donald also appears to be living so maybe they didn't mean him and now I'm certain I've carried this on too long.
The bus is supposed to arrive around 6:00 but due to weather and rinky-dink driving skills doesn't get there until 7:00, which gives my parents more than enough time to piss each other off. And, as usual, I am the catalyst for assholedom to occur.
Me: Anymore?
Father (tired of waiting for bus but isn't going to leave before i get on): No, don't think so.
Me (to Mother, who looks antsy): You wanna see something really scary?
Father: Twilight Zone- The Movie
Mom: I was going to say it!
Me: Dick! I was asking her, I knew _you'd_ get it!
Father (to Mother, dismissively): You wouldn't have gotten it.
Mom: When Dan Akroyd pulls his face off, that's one of the one's I would have gotten!
She gives him the manipulative look she knows he hates, he says something mean and stalks off.
Little brother, as usual, doesn't give a shit as to what's going on. I love him.
It is at this time I switch my attention to the house across from the bus station (which is about as big around as the living room in your house, and I know this because every living room I've ever been in seems to be the exact same circumference if not height, or possibly because I've been in your living room before and you still don't know about it) and realize that it reminds me of the country home of death and cannibalism in Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the original. It's made of dull pink stucco, though, and on an overcast day like this one it doesn't quite capture the backcountry squalor and despair of the TCM house.
It also reminds me of Dean Koontz, because stucco always makes me think of Dean Koontz.
Dad comes back and makes nice like always, and I've mixed feelings. Boredom of waiting in a bland part of town for a bus, frustrated with parents but already unhappy that I'm not going to see them everyday, hopeful at the idea of not being present every time they bitch at each other, psyched/afraid of college and driver's license fast approaching, and discomfort weighing in my belly at the thought of hearing my benefactor's dull southern twang again, only this time for quite a bit longer than 2 weeks.
The bus comes at 7:00 like I said, but one more thing about this Greyhound station.
It's run by a short, slightly obese fifty-something white woman with cancer voice and Nick Nolte's mugshot hair and an horrendously fat, pasty-faced teenage boy I'll bet my sister's boots is either her son or her sex slave. He's orca-fat, two-John Gooman's-in-a-blanket fat, Victor freakin' Salva fat. He's large. He also has dead eyes. There doesn't seem to be anything behind those eyes, and I'm certain he's a very violent predator. If and when he snaps, those eyes will fill with rage and whoever sees them last won't be around to tell anyone how they rolled to black like shark eyes before the kill.
Before the bus comes 'Victor' jogs his fat ass off at an admirable pace, and I wonder where he is going. When I go back in the tiny station a couple minutes later to get a Coke to go with my Sprite and Snickers bar (Father looks at me like after all these years he still can't believe how dumb I can be and says "One soda?") , the lights are off and the few remaining black people are sitting there in the dark. The woman appears at my left, like an ugly senior citizen-ninja pouncing for the kill.
"We're closing."
"Oh."
And like a flash, a Bible passage I quoted in an unpublished Buffy porno fic came back into my head.
A foolish woman is calmorous: she is simple, and knoweth nothing.
For she sitteth at the door of her house, on a seat in the high places of the city,
To call passengers who go right on there ways:
Whoso is simple, let him turn hither: and as for him that wanteth understanding, she saith to him,
"Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasent."
But he knoweth not that the dead are there; and that her guests are in the depths of hell.
While this isn't exactly the same situation, I feel as if this Greyhound station is a portal to hell and the near-featureless figures just sitting there in the dark, with the only light coming from the now deeply grey overcast sky outside, are lost souls ready to burn.
I walk out quickly.
Father gives me a glance of curiosity, 'where's the rest?', his eyes say. I shake my head and look away. But I can feel his eyes on me and I know he's thinking I'm not ready, I won't make it on my own, not if I can't even acquire a single goddam soda.
The bus pulls in and I'm worried about losing my luggage, which is really just one big blue gym bag. I'm not quite as worried about my carry-ons. I want to spend a while saying goodbye but there isn't any time. I rush on and look back while walking up the steps and they're standing there, looking like they didn't want this to happen; they didn't want me to leave, and while I'm sad to leave them I'm glad to see that they'll miss me.
Everyone in my family (immediate and otherwise) who's ridden a bus had their own negative opinion to give me.
"Have you ever been to a bus station? They smell horrible."
"Piss everywhere."
"The people smell awful. Probably cuz' they're mostly blacks."
"It's not like Amtrak; it's going to be slow and awful."
"Be careful, and watch out for the black people."
Yes, the general sentiments of bad smelling, dangerous negros went far and wide throughout my family tree.
Except for my sister, who didn't say anything about it one way or the other.
The bus doesn't smell at all.
It's pretty full and I sit one seat from the back next to a darkly-tanned Mexican, who's deep in conversation with a black guy not out of his twenties. He's attractive, looks a lot like the camera guy from Scream 2 who has that Will Smith/Jada Pinkett Smith show on UPN now.
The black guy is sitting by himself at the extra-length last seat, which I learn later is standard on all Greyhound buses.
The bus pulls out and we're gone.