More People

Now that I’ve exhausted the topic of food and moaned about being road weary, I have to talk about people some more. You have to figure that, on such a journey we are bound to meet a diverse cast of characters. Most were unremarkable; just people living their lives and going where they need to go. Some were standouts.

I do have to comment on the difference between riding a bus in Colorado and California, and throughout the South – Texas, Tennessee, Georgia and the like. It seemed to me the people on the Western regions of my trip, as well as those along the Eastern Seaboard were more free-spirited, or grimmer, depending on their reason for riding. However, the people along the South seemed more… base. Their conversations, their actions, their very beings demonstrated a more fundamental type of existence. Their language and mannerisms were more crude.

And the tattoos. Lets’ not forget about the tattoos.

By no means am I expressing a preference for one over the other. I am merely making an observation.

One standout to the Southern crowd was Fay, who was house hunting in North Carolina. We met in the Memphis terminal. She had never ridden Greyhound before and did not know how things worked. I, having already ridden for longer than I cared to, took her under my wing. We soon became seat buddies as well as dining partners. It was due to Fay that I indulged in that hot dog at the depot (see Road Food entry).

Fay is a little bit older than I am, and newly wed. She confided that she swore she would never remarry after her divorce some twenty years ago, and now here she is, house hunting because her husband of three months had just gotten a promotion and needed to relocate. He had serious misgivings about her riding the bus, but after consulting airline websites and finding how much a ticket would cost, she told him he was being silly and bought a Greyhound ticket. She, as I, agree that Greyhound is the best kept travel secret in America. She was enjoying her bus experience as much as I did the first few weeks, before it turned into drudgery for me.

Fay and I parted company in Atlanta, but on the way there we amused ourselves with a young man named Joe, an aspiring writer. Joe was quite the cutie pie, with his gray eyes, smooth complexion and sandy blond hair covered by a ???? He was a bit on the skinny side but it worked well for him. His clothes bagged around his slender frame, giving him the appearance of a child playing dress up in his father’s clothes. Especially with that hat! Fay and I both felt the need to mother him. He was headed into some small town to meet Meg, the potential love of his life. Meg is actually an acronym of the young lady’s full name. I learned this by reading a long poem composed by Young Joe in her honor.

Some of that poem was trite, but a lot of it was quite good. After reading it I told Joe he should pursue a career in writing. He certainly has a gift for words, young and unpolished though his diction may be. He instantly whipped out a notebook filled with poetry he had authored. A lot of it was banal, but one composition took my breath away. This young man truly has talent! I hope to see his face on a book jacket one day. If I do, I’ll tell you so you can read for yourself how refined and talented he is.

Fay and I were merciless with our picking and teasing at him. I think he enjoyed the attention. I know Marley, sitting in a seat across the aisle from Joe, thought I was goofy… but in a good way. Marley was headed to her granddaughter’s house for a visit. Here she had been all set to wrap herself up in a blanket and snooze her way into Atlanta. Fay, Joe and I ruined her plans completely. She didn’t exactly take part in ribbing poor little Joe but she certainly enjoyed the good-natured barbs and teasing that Fay and I inflicted.

I think that the ride from Memphis into Atlanta was the most fun I had on the bus, thanks to this merry band of travelers.

The bus depot in Atlanta proved another matter entirely, though. Even though it was past 11PM when we arrived the terminal was crowded. People sprawled everywhere and their luggage consisted of trash bags and cardboard boxes more than suitcases and duffel bags. Children cried and their parents shouted at them. One devoted father cradled his younger daughter while his older one, not more than three years old sat placidly beside him amidst the uproar and hubbub.

Atlanta proved to be the only other stumbling block in my cross-country travels. I was only supposed to have a forty-five minute layover, but it turned into a nearly three hour wait. This terminal was decidedly NOT air conditioned, as opposed to the Dallas terminal that had a whisper of air conditioning running through it. The doors at the Atlanta depot were propped open and industrial fans were pulling in what saturated air they could from outside. Crowded as the waiting area was, unless you were within ten feet of those fans, you felt nothing but sweltering mugginess and desperation.

And mounting anger. It seems a lot of those passengers out of Atlanta had experienced the same fate I suffered in Dallas. They wanted to board their buses and get on with their lives. One man in particular was one month out of his Gulf War experience. He was unshaven, in defiance to military regulations, which allow only a trim mustache. His entire face was covered with hair. He must have been miserably hot beneath that growth! He sat on his military duffel bag and mourned to all and sundry that he only wanted to visit his grandmother in Atlanta before pushing on home. And now here he is, stuck in a stupid bus terminal. I felt for him, and offered to watch his bags while he went outside to puff that cigarette tucked behind his ear he so obviously wanted to smoke. In turn, he watched my bags when I needed to excuse myself.

There were some frightening looking characters in that Atlanta terminal, and one that looked distinctly out of place: a nun, clad in a light blue habit topped by a white pinafore, with a matching white cap on her short-cropped, gray hair. She whipped around in shock when she heard Fay describe herself as a virgin… a virgin to the vagaries of travel, such as crowded bus terminals and angry, tattooed people. Maybe, when she saw that Fay and I looked somewhat respectable and we were only using the word ‘virgin’ in jest she thought better of chastising us. I spied this nun scurrying through the terminal later that night. I wonder where she was going, and what mercies she would dispense while there.

You might be tempted to remind me that, because of my Atlanta experience I should not consider Fort Worth the Black Hole of transportation anymore. Nope, sorry. I like that designation too much. Besides, my Atlanta experience only totaled three hours and the Fort Worth extravaganza lasted twelve, after all was said and done.

When we finally did leave Atlanta at 2:30 in the morning, it must have been in the company of some criminals. One hour outside Atlanta our bus pulled into a rest stop where all manner of Federal Marshall, ATF agents and other Federal law enforcement officials waited for us. We were instructed to get off the bus and wait in the terminal area.

GULP! Nothing is quite so terrifying as seeing a band of Federal law enforcement agents surround your bus and scrutinize you as you debark at 3:30 in the morning. Well, maybe one thing is: the thought that the person they are looking for has been in close proximity to you for the past hour. What had this alleged criminal done? Why was he or she being sought? And why is that one agent fingering his gun, while all of the others were decked out in riot gear, with automatic weapons in hand?

They searched the now empty bus while a Fed, dressed in a white Polo shirt with blue insignia and khakis, a badge prominently displayed on his belt and a gun nestled in its holster on his right hip approached a tall young man and started interrogating him. The passenger had to show ID and answer some questions. That spectacle captivated my attention and I neglected to pay attention to the rest of the unfolding scene. Give me a break though: it was 3:30 in the morning!

All was apparently well with our passenger load: no criminals aboard. We got back on the bus and the driver said something about being this close to 9/11, we can expect other spontaneous investigations along our travels. I had traveled several thousand miles, and continued on for several more and this was the only instance where the bus was surrounded by the Feds. Except for when the INS and border patrol came aboard and interrogated all of the passengers. Somehow I don’t believe our bus driver, who was apparently trying to smooth the incident over. Neither did my fellow passengers.

It seems I’ve done it again. I’ve gone on rambling about these events, and I still have so many more people to tell you about!

Guess this will have to be a two-parter… again!