Page 12 - the NOISE October 2014

We were finally getting out of Flagstaff, even if it was on an older bus. And if the driver was able to make up the time between our bus and the earlier one, we should still make our transfer in Oklahoma City. Maybe by then we would be on a newer bus. One of the pretty blue ones we’d seen in Greyhound’s advertising. One with seats built for nor- mal human beings, not grizzly bears.
We settled into the bucket of bolts and I said a prayer of gratitude that at least the engine seemed to be running okay. Sitting in the seat directly behind me was the tough look- ing guy I had noticed earlier. He seemed calm now and as disappointed as I felt about the condition of the bus. He im- mediately began a conversation with the woman across the aisle from him. He explained that he was a diabetic bipolar schizophrenic and the two of them proceeded to compare their various medications and their associated experiences.
I had a flash of the most disturbing story about Greyhound travel I had read about on the Internet. It was about an undi- agnosed schizophrenic man on a Greyhound bus in Canada who had suddenly attacked his innocent seat mate, stabbing him to death and consuming portions of his lifeless flesh in front of a shocked mob of fellow passengers. I said another prayer of gratitude this guy had his medicine. I hoped he wouldn’t miss any doses along the way.
The bus stopped in Albuquerque and our driver asked us to wait on board while he tried to find out if we would continue on our current bus or switch to the other one. He returned with the sad news that we’d be staying on Old Faithful, as my daughter and me were calling the old bus, and he gave us numbered re-boarding passes. We had almost an hour in the Albuquerque station which was fairly large and much more modern than the one in Flagstaff had been.
There was a fast food style restaurant inside but not much that looked very appetizing to me. My daughter spotted a chocolate chip muffin so I made our small purchase and we looked for a good place to wait out our stay. We talked to a guy who had been fighting a legal battle over his father’s es- tate in Nevada and was grateful to be heading back home to Arkansas. He gifted us with a little angel food cake we packed away for later.
Since we were re-boarding our bus here, we had no prob- lem getting back on and getting into our already reserved seats which we had marked with a blanket just in case the air conditioning on the bus was too cool. As we made our way back to our seats my daughter spotted a guy outside who had been on the bus earlier who was now being carted away by local police in handcuffs. “Hmmm,” I thought.
A few other brief stops along the way and just over a half day into our trip, and we stopped again in Amarillo, Texas.
This is where things really got interesting.
We got off our bus in Amarillo without really knowing what was going on. It was 5:30PM and our stop here was sup- posed to end at 6:50PM. We had plenty of time to still make Oklahoma City on time where there was only supposed to be 25 minutes for us to make our first transfer. The bus driver then told us we would be changing buses here in Amarillo even though this was not officially one of our transfer stops. We would finally be joining the other bus that we had been riding parallel to since Flagstaff. The only problem was that there still seemed to be quite a few people that were staying on that bus. And they all had re-boarding passes with a dif- ferent number from ours which meant we would have to wait for them to get on the bus before we could. I decided a visit to the ticket agent was in order to see if I could clarify things.
The Amarillo station was small and it was completely packed with tired unhappy people. The air conditioning was apparently on the fritz and people were complaining about the stifling heat inside. While waiting in line at the ticket counter I overheard someone say another bus had broken down a short way down the road and everyone on board had been brought back to the station. It was now after 6PM so the restaurant inside the station had closed and there were crowds of people waiting to drop their money into the few vending machines sitting in a small alcove on one side of the station. The boarding doors were marked for eastbound, westbound, and southeast bound buses but their waiting ar- eas all overlapped in the center. In spite of the many people in the station, there was only a single bus waiting at a gate on the westbound side.
When I reached the head of the line at the counter, the ticket agent informed me that, yes indeed, there would not be enough seats on our targeted bus to fit everyone who was supposed to board. And — more good news — if we missed the 6:50PM departure, the next bus wouldn’t be until 6AM the next morning. I pleaded my case citing that I was travel- ling with my child and she told me the best they would be abletodoifwegotstuckwasputusupinahotelandgiveus some meal vouchers.
The chaos in the Amarillo station was palpable. We got in line behind some of our previous travel mates and prepared to wait and see if we would be lucky enough to land seats on the new bus. My daughter curled up on our carry-on bags and promptly fell asleep on the filthy station floor. I didn’t have the heart to ask her to move. There were no available seats for her to move to anyway.
A man with a grey beard dressed in a dingy black t-shirt and dirty baseball cap struck up a conversation with me. He
story & photos by cindy cole
told me he was a Vietnam veteran and had been stuck in the station since 11AM. He had a large backpack that had what looked like a sleeping bag wrapped in plastic tied to the bot- tom. He had another duffel bag beside it. He placed his items on the floor against my carry-ons to help keep them from moving from the weight of my sleeping daughter leaning on them. He then informed me that if anyone was to step on her he would take care of them for me. He said he had already had a fist fight at another station the day before with a guy who had pushed a woman waiting in line in front of him. I told him I was grateful for his desire to help keep me and my daughter safe. Sigh.
I noticed the tough guy schizophrenic had just emerged from behind the ticket counter. Apparently worried about not being able to get on the next bus, he had retrieved his own checked baggage at the counter. When he returned to his place just ahead of us in line, he had some words with a woman who was sitting in one of the uncomfortable metal seats lining the station walls.
“I was just trying to help you,” tough guy explained. The large woman who responded was dressed in an oversized white t-shirt, knee length denim shorts and had a patriotic looking bandana wrapped around her head. “I’m Compton born!” she proclaimed, “I don’t need your help! I can take care of myself!” Cringing at the thought of getting caught up in the middle of a brawl, I looked down at my daughter who, thankfully, remained sound asleep through the shouting. The argument quickly ended as tough guy decided he might be better to just apologize quietly and let Compton Mama have the last word.
When time came to board the bus, somehow my daugh- ter managed to squeeze her way a little ahead of me. A kind gentlemen with long hair and a beard and dressed in Harley Davidson gear realized we were together and stepped aside.
“Stay with your daughter,” he said, “Go in front of me.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the driver took our boarding passes and we climbed onto the bus. I stood in the aisle at the front and saw there were only a handful of single seats still empty. “Is anyone willing to move to a shared seat so that
my daughter and I can sit next to each other?” I bravely an- nounced. Immediately a man in the fourth row said that he would. I thanked him and we claimed our places.
>> to be continued >> | Cindy Cole makes no bones about bus travel.
cindycole@live.com
12 • OCTOBER 2014 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us
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