BUSLAND

Rolling through a Strange Vein.,,,

1.
        
        I decided to dub this guy St. Creepy, because he said he�d hitchhiked from St. Joe to St. Louis to catch a northbound back to NYC. His head was shaved unevenly and it matched his patchwork of facial hair. He spoke in a voice that was one-part Jersey and two-part Cryptkeeper. He was wearing a ratty pair of Reebok sweats and a JR. Foods shirt with a big hole that exposed his right n****e. He kept the n****e covered with a tattered She-Ra Trapper-Keeper that he held tightly like a teddy-bear. Then there was the footwear, his footwear looked very familiar to anyone with the misfortune of having done a stint in a county lockdown.
Being one of those misfortunate Souls, I recognized his orange rubber flips and flops as being standard issue jail wear right away and that was the first thing that told me something was not right.
How I found myself having to sit beside him that night was due to being the last one on a nearly packed coach and when you�re the last to board, seating is already slim and you find yourself at the mercy of a ragged, unsympathetic bit of society. I moved down the isle dragging my duffel by the strap, looking for a seat and room to stuff my air mattress, taking in everyone�s weary 3 AM eyes.
Everyone was using the open seat beside them to put their luggage and was giving me the same look, a look that said do not make them have to find room for their bags, that their bags were just fine where they were and I should not disturb this one piece of cosmic order they had while having to travel on this loud piece of metal.
So, I had to sit with St. Creepy whether I liked it or not, because I wasn�t one to mess with anyone�s cosmic order.
I made my way back up the front ducking and dodging restless eight year olds who were taking advantage of their dead-to-the-world parents sacked out in the seats. They were bouncing around, asking vulgar questions and seeing how much mischief they could get away with. I was answering one of the eight year olds with sure; I would do the pink Power Ranger when I spotted them- a set of empty seats. Luck was a Lady covered in ugly fabric with swivel arm rests that night. I must have overlooked them in my eleventh hour delirium. I darted for it, digging through the human clot, almost reaching it- when something snagged my backpack.
I looked back to see that the something was St. Creepy. He�d reached out and snatched my hanging strap, and my chance at the empty seats. In the second-long hesitation, it was filled by a thick black girl who didn�t take her time about letting me know how slow I was.
�Sorry, fo ya, honey, dims the breaks.� She tells me.
I looked back at St. Creepy, who was motioning for me to sit down.
�You lost those seats, didn�t you? They were yours, I saw you going for them�
I raise my one of my eyebrows at him. It took some effort to do; I have a hard time raising just one eyebrow. But it came easy that time.
�Yeah, I lost them. I lost them because someone snagged my bag.�
He scratched his head and looked away quickly.
�Looks like you gotta sit with me. Sit with me, I�m going to New Yark, where are you going?�
I dropped my backpack to the floorboard, and started cramming my air mattress into the overhead. I glimpsed down to see St. Creepy eyeing my belly-button that was peeking out of my shirt. A shiver went up my spine.
I looked over at the thick black girl, who was in the process of setting up her little portable DVD player. She giggled and hunched her shoulders, as if to say hey, that�s your luck.
I sat down beside him. He took one hand off his precious Trapper-Keeper and pushed it my way.
�My name is Keith. Keith Williams. I just hitched forty miles- forty miles. Can you believe that? From St. Joe to St. Louis, St. Louis is where we�re at right now. But we won�t be for long, we�re about to get going, the driver is about to tell us not to smoke in the bathroom then we�re going. So, you should sit down.�
He said all that with one mad breathe and I knew it was going to be a long f*****g night. It was already a long night. Every night on a bus is a long night for me, simply because I am physically incapable of sleeping on a bus.
�Yeah��I�m Luther.� I said, shaking his boney hand. He gripped it tight and stared at me. I looked down at our locked hands.
�You� wanna let go now?�
He released my hand, went back to scratching his head.
�So, where did you say you were going?� he asked. �I�m going to New Yark, I don�t think you told me were you were going.�
I started to tell him against my best judgment but before I could the bus let out a loud hiss and he jerked around and put his face to glass.
�Oh man, were about to go.� He said with a slight jump in his voice.
He was on drugs, or he needed to be on drugs, whichever.
He turned and looked at me.
�You gotta sit on the inside.�
Before I could agree or disagree he began crawling across me like a hyperactive Ritalin child. That�s how I discovered the hole in his shirt over his right n****e.
�Christ, man!� I exclaimed.
Someone kicked my seat behind me and hissed.
St. Creepy got in the isle and motioned me to the inside.
�Hurry, hurry! We�re about to start moving!� he said excitedly.
I quickly slid over, dragging my backpack with me.
He plopped down in his seat and wiggled about.
�Yeah, I just don�t like standing when the bus is going, I-I could fall down and get a concession.�
Concession? Did he say concession? That�s what I heard. He thought he was gonna fall down and get a sack of peanuts.
�Concussion.� I told him.
He looks at me. �Concussion? Never heard of that place. I�m going to New Yark.�
I glanced over at the black girl giggling at me, comfortably watching Romeo Must Die on her DVD player.
I sighed.
I put my head against the glass and watched another city roll past me and eventually behind me. The bus grew dark and silent, as silent as the roar of the engine allowed. Then the driver came on the speaker, introduced himself as Jerry from Tacoma, went through his departure announcements, told us how much he appreciated us traveling on _____ and clicked off.


        2.

        I sat for an hour staring into the black- watching the light of billboards approach. Then I noticed it. I glanced over as the light of a Stuckey�s sign hit the glass.
St. Creepy was staring at me. He was just staring at me. His eyes were glazed and wide. Then he faded back into the darkness.
I thought it was my imagination, so I looked again as we came up a Red Roof Inn sign.
Yeah, he was just staring at me.
�What?� I asked him.
�Nothing, I can�t see out the window.�
�You were the one who wanted the outside.�
�I know.�
We rode along for a bit more and finally I couldn�t take the staring.
�So,� I said to him, figuring a conversation may get him to relax.
�What do you do in New York?�
He looks at me, as if to say are you talking to me?
�Yeah, what do you do? What�s your occupation or hell, what do you do for fun or something?�
I was struggling for words, I hadn�t slept in 20 hours and I didn�t really want to talk at all. But I didn�t want him staring a hole in me all night, either.
�Computers!� he exclaimed. His voiced trailed through the bus. I received another kick and hiss.
I motioned for him to lower his voice.
�So, do you repair them, design web-sites? What?�
�Yes.�
�Yes�you repair them?�
He hugged his Trapper-Keeper tight and looked straight ahead.
�Yes, I repair Commodore 64s and Texas Instruments. I like Speak n�Spells.�
I took a second to try to wrap my mind around what he said, but it just wouldn�t wrap.
�Okay..well��
He placed his Trapper down on his lap and undid the flap. He looked at me.
�Guess what I got?�
I found myself morbidly curious.
He opened up his Trapper to reveal a stack of porn mags. A Swank, A Club International and one that had the cover ripped off, but going by the pics on the table of contents, it was a title with a big-breast theme.
�Christ.� I laughed quietly, looking about the coach.
�They good ones, too. Lots of naked people.�
I laughed again. There was no way this guy was real. He had to have been a figment from the dark recesses of my sleep deprived brain.
�Wanna look at them? Gotta be careful, they�re collector�s items.�
I told myself why the f**k not? I reached up and turned on the small overhead light, then took the Swank and opened it up on my lap. It looked to be circa 1992, judging by the hairstyles and the fact that the pictorials showed no real penetration. The c***s merely hovered inches from the girl�s openings as they showed expressions of gaping mouth ecstasy.
Then I noticed something, something on every page. All the female genitalia had had a yellow highlight pen taken to it. All the openings were glowing.
�That�s so I can see it after lights out.� He tells me, pointing at the page.
Lights out? I thought to myself, lights out where? I glanced at his footwear once again.
�But all it would be is a buncha yellow spots.� I tell him.
He grins like a Hyena and taps the side of his head, like he was the sharpest guy on this side of the Mississippi.
�Yall some sick mothafuckas.� a voice said out of nowhere.
We both looked up to see the thick black girl looking over at us in disgust.
�Should be ashamed of yo�selves. Looking at that nasty s**t.�
Her faced contorted in the blue glow of her DVD player. She removed her headphones and placed them in her lap then looked at us with one finger held high.
�If I was yo mamma, I�d be busting yalls asses right now.�
I held my hand to my mouth trying to cover my grin as I slid the Swank back over to St. Creepy.
�They small kids on this bus. What if they see that s**t?�
St. Creepy quickly took the mags and slapped them shut in the Trapper. I slowly reached up and turned off the light.
�Where is yo mamma?� she asked St. Creepy.
He jerked around and looked out the window.
�She�s in St. Joe, that�s where I�m coming from.� He told her.
�What, you visiting her?�
�Yeah, and putting her in a nursing home.�
The black girl�s eyes went wide.
�You put yo mamma in a home!?� she hollered.
Once again someone kicked the back of my seat and hissed loudly. All of a sudden I was responsible for everybody on the bus.
�See, if I tried to put my parents in an old folks home, ooh wee- that would be the end of me! My parents would beat my a*s all up and down the street. And I just wouldn�t have the heart to do it, no way.�
St. Creepy went to scratching his head again, he looked nervous.
�Yeah, but she was old, really old.�
�How old was she?� I asked.
�46, and I couldn�t take care of her.�
The black girl looked like she was about to come unglued.
�Boy, what the f**k is wrong wit� you?� she huffed.
�46 ain�t old! Shee-it, there�s folks who work in a motherfuckin� home that�s 46!�
�She wanted to be in a home!�
�Why the hell would she want to go in a home at 46? 46 ain�t exactly Golden Girls, alright? You crazy.�
When the girl said that, St. Creepy went quiet, he stared straight ahead at the back of seat, like he was studying the ugly pattern. His lips quivered a bit.
The girl just shook her head, turned around and put her head phones back on.
St. Creepy sit silently for a while. I pulled out my notebook and pen, starting jotting down notes. Notes to this very story you�re reading.
After writing for a while, I looked over and noticed St. Creepy had pulled out a small yellow legal pad of his own. He was scribbling with a pen that had a chain on it, the kind you find in banks or doctor�s offices.
When I wrote, he wrote. When I drew a circle, he drew a circle.
I just ignored it, continued to jot stuff down, bits and pieces of fleeting thoughts. I glanced over to see something he was in the process of writing. It was a question. It read:
Do you think there�s something wrong with me? Because she-
He saw that I was reading the question and quickly tore the page, crumpled it and threw it down the isle.
He looked at me.
In that moment I felt as though I should say something, anything.
Then the driver broke my thought, he came over the speaker and announced that we�d be taking a ten minute break at the next stop and if we wanted food, soda or a cigarette we may exit the bus.
We pulled into a Flying J Travel Center.


        3.

        Travel Centers are the truck stops of the 21st century- mini-malls for late night haulers and highway transients consisting of fast food joints like Subway, JR. Chicken or Taco Bell. Where truckers can take a shower for 2 bucks and play video games in the arcade- they can buy a book on audio or pick up a lot lizard for road company. At 4 AM the Travel Centers are always buzzing and it makes for a strange contrast when riding on a dead bus for hours on in.
I made my way inside contemplating whether or not I wanted a taco or a Tom Clancy on tape. Then I remembered I only had a coupla dollars and I wasn�t going to be home till later on that day, so I elected to just go take a piss.
As I made my way to the bathrooms, I noticed St. Creepy standing by the hot-dog roller, he was just staring at the franks rotating over and over.
I just kept walking, got to the bathroom and enjoyed a piss without having to keep my balance. I swear, some drivers just love to f**k with you when you go in the bathroom on the bus. They take it as license to swerve all over the highway.
I came out of the bathroom to see St. Creepy sliding a frank into his Trapper-Keeper.
I sighed, pulled out my last two crumpled dollars and walk over to him.
�Here, man- go getcha a Yoo-Hoo to go with that.�
He grabbed the dollars and made his way to the coolers.
I walked about looking around and stretching my legs, checked out what s****y DVDs they were trying to sell for twelve-ninety-nine a pop. They had half a dozen copies of Universal Soldier and one copy of Sweet Home Alabama. Stuffed in the back of the rack was one copy of Heartbreak Ridge.
I headed back outside to smoke a cigarette when I saw it- three State Police vehicles were surrounding the bus. The officers were talking to the driver and a few passengers.
I lit a smoke and observed. Then I glanced over to see in the distance St. Creepy quickly climbing into the cab of a semi. I looked back over at the State Police and the driver holding up his hands.
The police looked around a bit, then got in their cars and drove off. Then the driver gave the okay for everyone to re-board the bus. I got on to find myself with two empty seats. I quickly took my air mattress down and threw it in the seat.
�So what happened to your little friend?� a voice said.
I turned to see it was the thick black girl. I was still in a daze, thinking about what I might or might not have bared witness to.
�You little friend, that freaky Larry Flynt guy that sent his momma away, where�d he go?�
I hunched my shoulders.
�Dunno, man�he was a weird f**k, wasn�t he?�

I spent the rest of the night writing stuff in my notebook staring out the window watching billboards. Even spent some time talking to the thick black girl whose name was Tameeka. She was a good natured sister who liked to laugh and we had a few good laughs over the Ballad of St. Creepy.

Then things got quiet and dark again when we hit the state line and I got to thinking.

I thought about how the bus lines are the veins in the heart of Strange America. I thought about whether or not my last coupla bucks became a Yoo-Hoo, I thought of pink Power Rangers and glowing snatch.
I thought about where St. Creepy was headed, whether they�d catch him before he got to Old Mexico.

Then I pretended to sleep.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

This has some fine, fine dialogue--no mean feat in and of itself, and it's more impressive given the fact that there distinct and well-formed characters in the piece. It's probably more anecdote than full-blown story in the classic sense, but I can see that as the point; the piece, like the characters and the folks who tend to frequent Greyhounds, doesn't really end up going anywhere in particular. A very impressive piece of writing.

[dread or dismay.]

Great Write! : )

[Rob Luciano]

Wow. Seriously man. I hit the site in search of something to entertain me and here this was. You have a true gift my friend. I can't believe I got to read this here for free. St. Creepy has to be one of the most entertaining characters I have ever read about. I'd like to see more of him. (even though from the context I gathered that this is a story based on actual events)

I'm not blowing smoke up your a*s. Those that know me know that it's not a practice I ever engage in. I'll definitely be checking out more of your work. Keep on writing...keep on keepin' on.