Oliver, part one.
2,464 miles; almost three days on a bus.
I woke up that morning and quickly realized it was nearing 10:30. Greg was awake and I honestly think he would have let me miss my bus if he'd gotten the chance to because he didn't want me to leave yet. Obviously, Shea was running late. I called him right away and he didn't waste any time apologizing and letting me know he'd be there in a matter of minutes. It was hard to be mad at him. Not only did he bring me a little Tupperware container with twice-baked potato leftovers in it for my trip, but he got me to the Greyhound station in twenty minutes flat. After a tight hug, I ran in and my bus had already loaded everyone onto it. I just made it before they were about to back up and leave without me. I was able to nab a window seat since it there was hardly anyone on it, thankfully, and I leaned my head against it heavily. I was scared being all by myself. Without Kara, I felt like what I imagine children who lose their parents at the Grand Canyon feel like. Plus, I was on my way to meet some gorgeous straightedge vegan girl from the Internet who I was pretty sure would be disgusted by how much more unattractive I was in real life. Along with all of that, I wasn't sure if my body and mind would be able to withstand almost three straight days on a Greyhound bus. I could hardly stand less than a whole day on one on our way to Indiana the month before. I tried to convince myself that stress, fear, and leg discomfort were better than facing the boredom and heartbreak of going home and being homeless and loveless. Whatever awkward situations, disappointments, and general annoyances with the bus were to come, I figured it's really one or the other: chaos or boredom; rejection or loneliness; physical discomfort or emotional discomfort.
Because Greyhound is cheap and tries to make as much money as possible rather than attempting to convenience their boarders and extending the number of buses they provide, they stuff a lot of different routes into one. Therefore, I didn't start my ride by heading west. Instead, we went north towards Arkansas and then Missouri. I slept for the ride to St. Louis despite there being no air conditioning whatsoever, no working overhead fans, and people yelling about the unbearable heat. When we had our layover in St. Louis, I sat on the ground and ate my twice-baked potato with my pocketknife. The next bus I got on was packed to capacity, so I lost my window seat luxury. I got to watch a baby get their shitty diaper changed on a mother's lap, which was pretty disgusting. A Hispanic mother who spoke in broken English traveled with me almost the entire time with her three annoying children. Little did she know, she became the person on the bus that everyone else bonded in hatred over. She did little to nothing to watch or discipline her children. Of course, none of us knew her story, like why she was traveling cross-country on a bus by herself with her three young children, but it didn't stop us from hating her. I was more or less always near her kids on the ride for some reason and they made sure to give me reasons to hate them. They screamed together almost all day and night the first day on the bus. I don't even know what they were screaming about, but they somehow managed to function and muster the energy to be rambunctious and loud with no more than two hours of sleep between them, which they waited until 3am that night to get. Until then, they made sure to scream, run up and down the aisle from the bathroom to their seat, while the mother sat there lifelessly, either oblivious or resigned to the terror of her kids. One of her children decided to spit juice at me through their straw.
Meanwhile, we went all the way through the state of Kansas, stopping in Kansas City and Salina on the way. It was exactly what one would expect to see: long stretches of vast, empty, golden space, every now and then speckled with bails of hay or black cows. One of our drivers for this experience was a mumbling old man who made it no secret that he was one of the notches on the Bible belt we were riding along. At one of our stops, he made sure to say over the loudspeaker, "I pray all God's best for you and your family." Changing buses, I then got to sit in a seat that was broken. I couldn't apply too much of my body against the back of it because it would lean all the way back. There was no handle to remedy this, just a thin bar missing the rubber nob that's supposed to be at the end. This made it even harder to sleep while the kids continued to scream, sob, and jump around. The next stop, the same driver said, "May you know the love and the trust and the hope that come with the trust in our lord, Jesus." It was really over the top. I tried an apple soda that night imported from Mexico. It was disgusting and tasted like watered-down, carbonated apple juice. A large black man on the bus showed off a lot of really bad tattoos that looked like they were done at home or in prison. One said "Spank Dogg" next to a horrendous sketch of a dog and the other said "Americinn". Riding through Colorado during the daytime was beautiful, the rocks surrounding mountains positioned in impossible patterns and figures. Sometimes, it's hard to imagine that nature alone has created such artwork.
I started reading a book called The Man Who Quit Money and watched a movie on my laptop. Wyoming was long and repetitive. If you've seen one hour of the state's long drives, you've basically seen the entire thing. We had a long layover in Salt Lake City. There weren't any outlets, so I unplugged their change dispenser to charge my phone. The only company I had on the ride was the screaming children and the text messages I exchanged with Kara. I checked in with her every time I got on or off a bus. The weather outside was really warm even though it was night, so I sat outside of the station and found an outlet to charge and use my laptop with. There wasn't any wifi, so I mostly just wrote notes down for this entry. Meanwhile, I babysat a nice old woman's cellphone for her and had to witness a white redneck bro argue with an older homeless woman who was very obviously schizophrenic. He boasted himself a marine and was confused by her babbling conspiracy theories and claims.
"I'm the third Kennedy daughter!"
"I'm Marilyn Monroe's daughter!"
"This is crack corner!"
Even though nothing she was saying made any sense and it was very clear it was better to just ignore her as she rambled, he was immature and bored enough to act like he had a duty to respond to her, swearing at her and threatening her, patting himself on the back the entire time while trying to show off to strangers who were also waiting to get back on the bus. One guy said he'd been robbed outside of that station before, which made me worry about my laptop and cautiously peek inside at my pack inside, which was supposed to be saving my spot in line for me. Another homeless man pulled up near the doors in his wheelchair, which had plastic bags hanging from it and a piece of cardboard on the side saying he was a Vietnam vet. He was quiet the entire time until he said, "She's completely insane, if you didn't know." That set her off again.
"I'm insane?! I've got twenty-two years of college, I'm so insane! You have to be insane to be an architect!"
Next thing I knew, some other asshole, this time an overweight woman with sloppy tattoos and a wannabe gangsta drawl, decided to start going after her verbally, telling her to shut the fuck up and making threats of shutting her up herself. No one could scare the crazy woman, though, of course, and responses and attention of any kind only provoked more outbursts.
"I killed a Kodiak bear, so I can take you!"
"Mah daddy stabbed me thirteen times! Your knife don't mean shit to me!"
"I'm here undercover!"
"And when I found the fifteen kilos of cocaine, I tasted it. I was curious!"
After another gangsta decided they were tough enough to threaten a crazy homeless person, a cop was finally called. But all they did was kick the homeless woman out. I felt like a coward for not trying to defend the woman. On one hand, it was refreshing to see so many different people striving to be social with strangers, but it sickened me that the common ground they all found was harassing a mentally ill woman, talking about getting drunk, or fellating the egos of the two boys who claimed to be in the military.
Back on the bus, the kids' screaming persisted. The tiny girl laying across the defeated mother's lap whined in a repeated pattern that sounded like the slow creaking of a door on rusty hinges that eventually ended in a loud cough before starting all over again. The new driver could tell I was losing my mind and was nice enough to call me up to the front and hand me a pair of ear buds, which were a remarkable help and ensured that I did successfully get some sleep. Driving through Boise, ID and Ontario, OR, we were going the route Kara and I had hitchhiked the summer before. Each stop was familiar, permanently owned by my memories with Kara. It was overwhelming. Part of me couldn't stop dwelling on the fact that such heavy, amazing memories like traveling the entire country for three months could ultimately mean so little when it came to love; the other part couldn't get over how incredible it was that I had those memories in the first place and that so much of this country was freckled with the invisible footprints of Kara and myself. Through Oregon, much of the ride was very warm because of the air conditioning not working. At one point, we had to pull over in some rest stop in the middle of nowhere because the driver feared the bus would die. By the time we got to a small town known as The Dalles, a little less than two hours from Portland, the bus had completely broken down. The driver was relaxed about it, though completely clueless as to what was going on and what Greyhound would do about it. He gave all of us permission to wander around as long as we didn't go too far and came back within an hour. It was really nice out and the town was tiny and cute. I went to a cafe and got myself a panini wrap with veggies and hummus on it, a dish made specially for me by the cook who was familiar with veganism and knew their menu wasn't very accommodating. When I got back to the stop, nothing more was known.
The stop we were at wasn't a real bus stop, just a Greyhound sign outside of a small building that had been converted into a spot for war veterans. Thankfully, there was wifi outside of it and an outlet, so I was able to keep myself busy. A bus came by eventually to pick up those who weren't on their way to Portland. Thankfully, the dreadful mother and her three children got on it. The few of us remaining, including the driver, let out a sigh of relief and we all bonded over our hatred of her afterwards. It was myself, an older man from Bend, and a very flamboyant gay boy around my age. We sat on our bags and talked until another bus showed up to rescue us. More than three hours passed before it did. The rest of my ride to Portland was pretty great. Oregon is one of the most beautiful states in this country. Our driver acted like a tour guide and told us ahead of time when the awe-inspiring was about to come into view. We stopped in another small town called Mount Hood where the police station had a "closed" sign hanging up in the front door and the official Tofurkey headquarters stood big and proud. Amongst the mountains and thin waterfalls, we got to see falcon nests atop railroad lights and other state posts, tons of people parasailing above the waters, and a post office shack the size of an outhouse. I got into Portland around 8 that night. While waiting for Oliver to get there and pick me up, I helped the kid who rode with us out with my phone. He had come all the way there from Georgia with nowhere to stay and no plan, which he clearly had intended on doing, but was freaking out about then and there. I wonder what ever happened to him.
Oliver was not her real name. When I first met her, she said it was, but only because she was questioning her gender identity. She was actually named after a strain of marijuana by her mother, who was something of a hippie Deadhead when she was younger. She was straightedge and vegan, but I didn't know for how long. She was vaguely but aggressively feminist and was a self-proclaimed anarchist, though I'd never seen much political posts from her on her blog outside of the usual sloganeering, leading me to believe she probably wasn't very well-read or knowledgeable. From what I knew, she hadn't always been straightedge, but she was unclear about for how long and how heavily she did alcohol and pills. According to her, she had been kicked out of the house by her mother and was temporarily homeless a few months ago, though she immediately started staying with a friend of hers and her family before moving into her current place. She was unemployed and was constantly talking about needing to find a job, though she was never really trying. Thanks to living somewhere for free with friends and food stamps, she didn't really have to yet. She sang/screamed vocals for a hardcore band that hadn't yet released anything or played a show with a few guys who were seasoned professionals in the local music scene. She had sent me lyrics of hers that were decent but simple. Despite claiming she'd been kicked out, she still had a decent relationship with her mother. She had a typically privileged life; the kind where flying out for a family wedding or to visit grandparents who would spoil her in another state on the other side of the country, or traveling abroad with her mother, were considered normal. In fact, she'd seen more of the world overseas than within her own country. She told me her mother would work, save up, then travel, but that didn't seem very plausible the harder I thought about it. Everything else was tragedy that was kept in little detail: absent father, past of sexual abuse, an eating disorder, et cetera; the same sad story every girl on Tumblr seems to have. She had plans to move into a new place with some other straightedge vegan kids from Tumblr in August and had invited me to be one of them. In retrospect, I knew very little about this girl and the details I had been given were vague at best.
When I walked through the sliding doors to meet her, I immediately felt sick to my stomach. She was prettier, cuter, and tinier in person than she was on the Internet. She had to have been a foot and a half shorter than me and no more than a hundred pounds. She had really short, fiery orange hair and mesmerizing eyes behind librarian glasses. Her cheeks were full like a chipmunk's, each side with a dimple where piercings used to be. She had scars from facial piercings that weren't there anymore that blended in with adorable acne scars. She was wearing all black clothing and was dressed exactly like every other straightedge/vegan/anarchist girl on Tumblr. She was partly covered in really elaborate tattoos that she had given herself with a real tattoo gun. They weren't very nice until she told me she did them herself, at which point they became quite beautiful and impressive. She had a tree growing from one of her wrists and the stages of the waxing/waning moon on her thigh, two tattoos I liked a lot. Everything about her was petite. She gave me a big hug that I insecurely accepted. I always get really nervous about hugging pretty girls in public, because I worry that everyone who sees us is thinking, "What is she doing with him?" How attractive she was made me feel extra ugly, so I was incredibly nervous. Thankfully, I talk a lot when I'm nervous, so how much she immediately started talking made it at least seem outwardly like we were totally comfortable and relaxed about meeting each other for the first time. The charade might have eventually helped it become true. We got on the train to head back to her house, which was free to get on. We talked nonstop the entire ride while I nervously avoided eye contact and covered my mouth with my hands, caught up in my anxiety over how potentially disappointed with my looks she was, how bad I probably smelled from being on a bus for almost three days, and how already regretful she was that she even invited me to stay with her. But on the way to her apartment, she held my hand and kissed me on the lips. It really threw me off, but made me feel okay.
She was living on the second floor in a quaint little flat completely for free in her own tiny bedroom. They lived on the same block as a milk factory that had a giant, rotating milk carton on top of it, which was pretty ironic. She lived with two friends of hers, a really pretty vegan girl named Michelle and an older straightedge vegan guy who she used to have sex with. At the time I got there, he was out of town, and Michelle was very introverted so I hardly saw her my first day or two there. The first day, it felt like just the two us, and I was immediately very smitten. Her room was tiny and messy, but the comfy bed covered in mysterious food crumbs and the Grease poster on her wall were welcoming. We talked about a lot, but I don't remember any of it. The only thing that stands out was when she told me outright that she sometimes flirted with guys she hated because she liked the attention she got back. There was also a point where she told me she didn't really like vegan fake meats. When I told her I loved them, she said, "Okay, I do, too." In retrospect, I was being shallow and desperate, so neither of those warning signs stood out until it was too late. We went out for pizza at Sizzle Pie that night, a nice little walk away. I worried about eating too much around her and then felt stupid for worrying so much. She held my hand in public, which instantly made me feel nervous but incredibly privileged. Passing by the residents of Portland, most of whom look like they could have once modeled professionally or appeared on television, it was unbelievable to me that she'd be so comfortable being seen with me. Initially, I thought we were clicking pretty well.
That night, we laid in bed and started watching a documentary about eating disorders on YouTube. I thought it was an odd choice. Plus, I'd already seen it. She had told me very vaguely that she had an eating disorder, or at least a history of eating issues, so I wasn't sure if watching it was a good or bad thing. But I didn't question it as we cuddled. We ended up making out. I'm not sure who initiated it. Her kisses were really nice, which was a surprise considering how tiny her lips and mouth were in comparison to mine. Hands wandered, mostly mine, and grabbing her ass was a handful. Somehow, it managed to be the biggest thing on her. It was thick and glorious and every pair of underwear she owned seemed extra womanly and sexy. I could not imagine how she could feel insecure about her deliciously thick thighs. I rubbed her everywhere I could, up and down the stubble of her unshaved legs and between her meaty inner thighs. I took her underwear off and saw the glow of the laptop screen shine on the light stretchmarks on her ass. Her breasts were tiny and perfectly symmetrical and looked amazing no matter what position or angle she was in. I wanted to excavate every region of her body and trace it into my memory with my fingers. It was a really beautiful body and my brain was celebrating being able to be anywhere near it, let alone on it and eventually inside of it. I tried to reenact things and moves we'd discussed in detail over texts, doing things she had told me she liked (the real benefit of sexting before meeting someone). She got on her hands and knees and I fingered her and ate her out from behind. Her vagina tasted good, but was at times hard to navigate. Thankfully, she decided to shave there even though she didn't do it anywhere else. I tried to put my fingers in her ass, but she stopped me, which was a surprise considering how much she had claimed to love anal play to me and all over her blog. I tried to get her to tell me what she wanted to do, but she shyly said, "I don't like saying what I want." It was a bit frustrating since I hate trying to figure out what the other person in bed wants. I'd always much rather be dominated or ordered around and to then return the favor; that way, no one is disappointed. She sucked my dick and had no gag reflex, though her throat showed no signs of expanding when I hit it, but it played out like more of a job than I think blowjobs should be. The sex was good the first time.
We went for almost an hour, shifting positions. She laid flat on her stomach with her legs closed while I fucked her from behind, which is my favorite position ever. She was incredibly tight. I tried to not let my nervousness and the fact that I hadn't had sex since February get me down and get me off too quickly. She told me she was on the pill, but I came in her mouth, anyway. Even though she had had a lot of partners before me, it didn't seem like it in bed. Afterwards, we cuddled and she told me I was good in bed, which may or may not be a lie when anyone says it to you. She also said that I had a "perfect dick" because it was "not too big and not too small", something else that could very easily have been a lie but still made me feel good about myself for the time being. Her cat was terrified of me and kept a cautious distance other than when it was too dark for her to notice me in bed while Oliver petted her. At first, it felt like the trip was worth it.