In the absence of a coast- to- coast railway system and the increased cost of airplane tickets- riding the bus is the traditional equivalent to covered wagons. Disheveled pioneers wait in long lines to secure a place and stand like packed cattle with all their belongings. They know nothing is ever on time and are shuffled on and off the wagons in a frenzied rush. It’s survival of the fittest: to save your seat, avoid screaming children, and not be left behind to the elements of cold, and wind and rain. An occasional driver loses his way and the unfortunate passengers circle the wagons like in the old western TV series that never reached their goal. But everyone eventually gets to their destination. Some whose baggage mysteriously jumped ship. Others so tired that they hardly recognise their baggage anymore.
But one thing is certain. The characters are colorful, often scary, but always entertaining. The bus is the only place you can see emanciated black skeleton creatures, any number of jumbo sized women, and nomadic people on the move. One moving to California, one desperate to get to Chicago, and one truck-driver/gigilo going home to plan his next conquest. (Actually he was quite helpful when it came to herding the people back on the coach, guarding luggage, and roping stray children as they romped down the isle.) Like zombies, they disembark- mere ghosts of who they were just 48 hours before. The strangest thing is that they’re willing to jump back on this rolling circus and do it all again.
There should be an advertizing campaign for these daring pioneers. “Do You Have What it Takes to Ride the Bus?” The bold, the brave, and the incredibly addled people who consider it normal to be suspended in time for as long as it takes to reappear in a totally new destination.
This is not to say that riding the bus is bad. It has a few advantages.
1. They don’t let chickens ride the bus so you don’t have to worry about that outrageous squawking.
2. You get to know everybody’s busines: Who’s been arrested, who has a stash of weed available, and who’s spitting mad because they just got bumped from their priority seats.
3. You get to sample fine fast food cuisine from across the nation.
4. You get to learn a whole new vocabulary of words you never heard spoken and get your daily dose of nicotine at every stop.
4. You can critique various bus station bathroom styles and decoration options with your fellow travelers.
5. You get to hear the grisly details of assaults, robberies, and heated discussions between African American street punks discussing the technological aspects of the new millenium.
So if by chance you find yourself riding in one of these metal glass coaches with the satisfying smell of soilded diapers in the air and coughing kids jumping up and down on the seats while you’re trying to sleep: just close your eyes and remember what it was like in the old days to suffer not only Indian attack but the stifling dryness of extreme temperatures and uncertainty of arrival alive. Be happy that in this modern civilization we can travel in style.
Thumbs up Greyhound! You’ve come a long way baby.
