A Living Magazine - Day 129 - And the Bus Rolled Along

I rested on my side across the armrest with my backpack as a rather uncomfortable pillow in the seat next to me at the bus station. I've slept in some pretty weird places and strange positions, but this was not really working for me. Still, I caught maybe an hour of restless sleep.

I bought a coffee when I "woke up", and talked to Jim some more. He was called away to a disturbance down at the Amtrak section of the station. Some man was yelling at a "Jo Witness" who was trying to gab with him. Ah! How social religion never fails to make conflict where there was once peace.

The line formed at Gate 5 for the bus, and I showed my ticket and then walked out on to the bus siding. I couldn't tell until I stepped aboard that the bus was completely packed with people. Greyhound had done us the honor of overbooking the ride. Beware of "Express" trips. They may be cheaper, but they don't stop for breaks and you need to bring your own shoe horn and Vaseline just to wedge yourself into a seat. 

I walked past the first two seats, which had a "Reserved" sign on them--but were never used. A man with an artificial leg used the two on the other side. I stopped by the next of only four out of sixty seats and asked the young, nervous woman there if I could sit with her. She looked up at me with my wrinkled clothes, faded, dirty hat, ponytail--with some of my hair sticking out around the edges of the hat, untrimmed beard, and gigantic tattered backpack, and just said "Sorry..." Looks ARE what we are first judged by. Don't let anyone tell you differently. I peered down the two long columns of seats and didn't see any option except for what looked like two open seats near the back.

I dragged my backpack to this spot and saw another woman, about 35ish, lying across them both, sleeping soundly. I said, "Mam, I'm sorry to bother you but could I sit here, there are no other empty seats?" She woke and furrowed her brow as if I'd asked to eat her favorite pet. She had a headband on, a long suede jacket, hippy glasses and three large, open tote-like bags filled with knick knack junk. 

"Um....(sighhhhhh)" she sat up high to survey the situation, and seeing another woman two rows down, said to her, "...would you mind sitting here and letting him have your seat?" 

The other woman looked at her, then at me, closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them and said, "Sure, no problem." This other woman, a soft-faced, black-haired, full-figured gal, smiled at me and pulled all of her stuff out of her much more spacious seat, and stood up. 

I backed up a bit to let her sit with the hippy chick. She squeezed her way into the seat. I looked at the hippy and said, "Nice.........", she tilted her head back and forth and then looked away. To the kind woman, I said, "Thank YOU for doing that". Then I walked on to the now-open and much more spacious seat she had sacrificed, where a small young East Indian guy sat sleeping with his head against the window--oblivious to it all. I watched as the two women in front of me introduced themselves to each other and the hippy patted the kind one on the shoulder to thank her. One word entered my mind: KARMA.

Though I had ended up on the best end of that involuntary deal, I was stewing over being rejected twice--something that in dozens and dozens of bus rides since leaving California, has never happened to me. I felt demeaned and discriminated against, mostly for being male, but secondarily for looking a mess...

On the far right is the nice woman.

The bus made the characteristic three-beep signal that it was departing and I looked into the station to see Jim looking around--I thought maybe he was making sure I made the bus. The brakes released air, the door shut and lights dimmed until they were off. The driver said nothing about how long it would be to Chicago, but everybody already knew--two hours (supposedly). It didn't take long for me to realize that the air vents weren't functioning at my seat, as the humidity rose and the human condensation began to fog the windows, causing as many drops to run down them on the inside of the bus as there were drops of rain pelting them on outside.

The thought of pulling out my laptop and working made me laugh out loud. It would be impossible. As the temperature rose, the bus's ventilation system jumped into hyperdrive, cause a bizarre respirator-like sound, chwawwww, chishhhh, chwawwww, chish-ICK, chwawwww, chishhhh, chwawwww, chish-ICK.... It was like sitting beside your dying Aunt Myrtle in some Haitian hospital, with a 3000 watt generator (the bus engine) spitting and chugging away in the next room--except worse.

I watched as the nice woman tried in vain to grasp the side handle and push her seat back. She then resigned herself to the longest two hours in all of lives, and simply fell forward with her forehead resting against the seat in front of her. The hippy gabbed at her continuously, with a boyish kind of voice that reminded me of Peppermint Patty on testosterone treatments. At one point when the hippy took a break and looked out the window, I saw the nice woman slowly turn her head back and forth, grinding it into the seat front seat that served as a torture pillow.

I won't say that the sun "rose", because there was no sun. But the sky lightened enough for us to see the drab, pale brown of Chicago's outlying areas come into view. Then came the sudden deceleration from about 65 mph to 10 mph. There was a collective moan that rippled down the seat rows. Rush hour, Chicago-style, brought to us by Greyhound.

We crept along as I watched bicyclists riding in the same direction on the hill above, passing the traffic we were stuck in. Finally, our short winded driver came on the distorted intercom...

"Morning folks. We may experience a short delay as we get through this rush hour traffic." Click. No estimate of time, no other information. In a way it reminded me of one of the greatest and freakiest short stories I read in high school, Henry Slesar's, The Jam (1958), where people get stuck in a traffic jam and realize that they will be there for eternity.

The hippy talked loudly on her cellphone, yelling out each exit and mile marker as they went by, to whatever unfortunate soul was waiting to pick her up. The rest of the bus talked to each other quietly about the taxis, meetings and other connections they were going to miss, as we all sweated and continuously shifted in our seats to find that impossible sweet spot; you know the one--the one that is so evident by its utter absence?

The guy next to me, asked if I had a phone so he could call the cab company and cancel his ride. His phone's power had died, and the bus's AC outlets didn't work. I told him I was sorry, I didn't but offered to let him use my laptop to recharge his phone or call them with my Google Voice account. He looked encouraged. I pulled out the tablet, and together we looked at the available Wi-fi connections (Greyhound advertises free Wi-fi). Nothing. We both rolled our eyes. He had no cable with a USB end, so we couldn't charge his phone with my computer. He thanked me for trying, as we heard the hippy yelling exit numbers into her phone, directly in front of him.

The nice woman heard us talking and told us the bus was ten miles away from the center of the city. This was encouraging. The guy and I estimated our speed to be about 20 mph, so one more half hour. The nice woman mentioned that she was concerned about connecting to the 10:30 am bus to Indianapolis. I told her I was worried about the same thing. The guy beside me said we should be okay. He was from Chicago and knew that station. They would delay most connecting buses during rush hour. 

We finally pulled off the highway and into a foggy, rainy Chicago downtown area, where only the nearest building could be seen--no Sears Tower, etc. I  enjoyed my layover there last year on the first crossing, but this time it was about as majestic an experience as pulling into Lewiston, Maine (no offense to Lewiston nor Maine). 

As we VERY slowly deboarded I saw the hippy look at me and squint her eyes a bit. I just said, "Well, at least everyone ended up sitting where YOU wanted them." She huffed and walked off into the rainclouds...

Outside the Greyhound Station, Chicago, Illinois.

I was hungry and had only fifteen minutes to get something to eat. I was also completely unsure whether the next bus would have any rest stops. I needed a restroom. If the next bus was going to be full, using its sloshing, splashing, stainless steel closet-restroom had an appeal rating of -3 for me. I had to choose: eat or shit. I chose the former and stood in line for fourteen minutes at a breakfast stand, where an enormous black woman, sang blissfully flipping the same omelette over and over, not turning around, until the last possible second. When she did, she said, "Be just a second more, hun." I practically fell over with anxiety, looking at my watch every five seconds praying for time to reverse itself.

Thankfully the bus wasn't there yet, and everyone sat together in their station seats--milk cows of the bussing world, waiting to be transported. Finally, the jovial omelette flipper waddled up to the register, speaking over my head to another worker there for another minute, then asked me what I wanted. I had - in the meantime - filled my arms with a cranberry juice, a turkey sandwich for later, and then a dessicated breakfast sandwich for the ride out of the city. She rung them up and handed me a bag. I stuffed the items into it and went to my cattle stall.

The 100 decibel announcement told everyone in Chicago that our bus was there and to line up. People with eTickets--the lowest class of passenger had to wait for everyone else to board first. Mercifully, there weren't that many. When I got to the driver, he circled my name and asked me for my picture ID. This is where things could have really gone south, without me. But he looked at it, and then at me, and said, "You're cool", and waived me through.

And, he was cool. The bus was about half full, and I had the double seat to myself; a luxury that made the last three hours feel like they were all worth it. He got on the intercom and welcomed us, telling what stops we'd be making, and recounted the rules: "Remember there are children on this bus, so please, no foul language. Federal law prohibits smoking of anything, and that includes vaping, or the drinking of alcoholic beverages. But when you get back to Chicago, I can hook you up...ah, just kidding." Everyone laughed. "Limit cellphone use to one minute at a time, and please don't speak loudly. If you have devices that produce sound, please use headphones. And, yes, this bus DOES have that new-fangled Wi-fi thingy." He'd immediately cut the grisly edge off of our stress levels. "Feel free also to use the AC outlets. Our next destination is Gary, Indiana in about an hour, where we will have a 10 minute rest stop. So, sit back and enjoy the ride, and thank you for choosing Greyhound." He gave the three beep signal, and we were on our way...

Happier travelers...for a while.

Sweet home, Chicago...slipping out of sight.

I got online and touched base with folks on Facebook, as I crunched down on the breakfast sandwich, which (ha!) was surprisingly tasty. The ride to Gary was surprisingly quick. And I got out to stretch my legs and finally use the bathroom...

The boarding call came, and we had only picked up another four ragged souls. A black husband, wife and small baby, and a white twenty-something, Bonnie and Clyde-type; her--a thin, blonde, used-to-be-pretty-before-the-meth girl, and her gold-toothed, short, wiry, loud, tattoo-covered boyfriend. Three beeps, and we were rolling again...

The rain subsided enough for me to get some shots of the vast (and I do mean VAST) fields of giant wind turbines. There must have literally been thousands of acres of these...

Along the way, the black husband argued with Greyhound's customer service over the phone about the first bus they had missed, supposedly "leaving early". All their luggage and the baby's diapers, food and bottle were on it. He barked into the phone, "Shiiii, I axed the guy at the counta, he saa it leff right on tam! What da fu?? I expec ta see a full refun on ma card when we get ta Indi!" The baby, who had been crying off and on since leaving Gary started up again. His wife said that it probably wasn't Greyhound's fault; that maybe he'd read the ticket incorrectly (no one has an eTicket after handing it to the driver, unless you've printed a duplicate--which, apparently, they hadn't). To this suggestion of error on his part, he just said, "Shiii, woman, I'm gonna ge tha money back..."

They went back and forth, not letting themselves get too overboard with the argument, while the baby cried himself out completely, and switched over to baby-talking to himself for the remainder of the trip. It was right around the time the husband hung up, that Clyde began harassing Bonnie. I put my earphones on and worked on some ANOWAV music. Every now and then, I heard Bonnie make fun of Clyde--personal stuff like his dick size. This naturally made him go bananas, dropping F-bombs faster than Nixon could carpet bomb a Southeast Asian rice paddy. They kept being hushed by other passengers, which further pissed them off. Even the black husband, was like, "Shii, man! Keep yo private shii private!" That started a four-way smackdown, cage fight as we drove into a dreary looking Indianapolis. (I would like to say, for the record, that not one single time did race creep into the discussion, nor play any kind of role in the argument between the two couples--to their barely propped-up credit.)

The baby started crying again, but the trip was nearly over. The driver came on the intercom and said, "Welcome to beautiful Indianapolis, we certainly hope you enjoyed your ride. And get that baby quarter pounder with cheese, and a fry, and supersize that sucka..." Everyone laughed again. "...and..." he continued, "a large coke!"

As the husband and wife deboarded, they wished Bonnie and Clyde a good trip to Atlanta and all four apologized to each other for all of the bullshit; though perhaps the other passengers deserved the real apology, along with the infinitely patient and diplomatic driver. Nevertheless, our ragged band of misfits all went off in in separate directions.

I ended up following the husband and wife for a few moments, as I headed to the Starbucks below the Omni Hotel. They had found an extra bottle (probably while still on the bus) and the baby chugged away at it as if nothing had happened. They DID seem like a caring couple, and the fact that they were together as a couple (with neither being absent from their tiny family) WAS encouraging to me.

As I pulled open the Starbucks door, I heard the husband behind me say calmly, "So...this is Indianapolis... Shii, man, yo weatha fu'in sucks ass..." I had to crack up...

He was right.

It was another snobby, pretentious Starbucks, under another uber-rich hotel, filled with power-lunching munchers, and three piece male business drones, all speaking the lingo of the board rooms, scrutinizing and evaluating each other, jockeying for position, blah, blah, blah..., mixed with thin, over-dressed white, power-princesses, strutting around, trying on California accents with their business associates, their heels sounding like tiny show horses, while sneaking into corners and talking on their iPhones like the mid-west girls they had grown up as. The scene was no longer nauseating to me. For me at this point, they were simply colorful fish pacing the tank, forgetting who they really were and selling away the ability to ever remember again.

I touched base with Facebook folks, and then strolled through the jacket-only club to take a pee in the brassy polished restroom, while $15/Martini drinkers followed my every move until I would playfully stare at one of them, causing his eyes to jet back directly down to the tiny glowing handheld screen in his hand. 

Feeling much relieved, I had studied this city more carefully than I had Milwaukee, and had a solid plan of where to go...

Buildings and businesses along Illinois Avenue.

Neat violet-hued plants.

Me, on the other side of the lens, drooling.

Indiana's Illuminati Headquarters [wink]

Again, doing my homework ahead of time paid off. Just as the rain started up again, I found the river, located a way to climb down the bank, and saw some great sleep spots.

There was a strange quicksand like feel under my feet, and I stepped carefully. Near where I'd entered the riverside was fallen elm. It was - let's not whitewash it - one bigass tree (I love how spellcheck doesn't flag "bigass"). I had a second wind now, and cleared away about 100 cubic feet of brush, setting the tent up on a slight sideways incline... 

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't bad. The screening was nearly ideal, being downhill and flanked by a thickly brush-strewn side of the road--without a sidewalk to the right, wet, squishy quicksand in front, the river to the left, and the impenetrable tangled branches of the fallen elm behind.

the only real issue was the sideways incline. But I could put up with that for one night. I was so confident in the spot that I left my stuff and ventured to the local KFC (a place I've been to maybe four times in my whole life), got some popcorn chicken and a sprite, then walked back to enjoy my feast, in the dry comfort and privacy of my little tent...

Meridian Avenue--over the river beside which my sleep spot was located.

On my way back with chicken and Sprite.

It wasn't as hard to fall asleep as it was to wake up the next morning. And, so, I did; dreaming intensely all night.