Louis and I ride all the way to Kansas with the double-seats to myself, finally getting to lay more horizontally across the seats instead of upright with my face pressed against the window.
Everything looks the same. Between home and Missouri, it seems the only things that change are the license plates and the signs welcoming travelers to each state, but then after you ride past them it’s just more trees and freeway. In every state there’s always a car broken down on the side of the road. There’s always a hitchhiker and a guy wearing a wife-beater carrying a gas can from his truck to the nearest exit where all the gas stations and fast food restaurants congregate. And there’s always, always a single shoe on the shoulder somewhere. I don’t know what it is with shoes being on the road. You never see a pair of pants or a shirt, and rarely do you see anything like a hat or a pair of sunglasses every once in a while. But the single shoes. What is it with the shoes?
A bus ride is like being in another world.
Everybody knows that when they get on, they’re gonna be here for a while. A long while. It’s overcrowded. People are usually packed in so closely that you can smell every different sort of cologne and deodorant and the different kinds of detergent and fabric softener that people use. And unfortunately, you can also smell the people that don’t wear cologne or deodorant at all and their clothes probably haven’t been washed in several days.
So far, I really don’t mind the ride so much. It only bothers me when I have to share space with someone.
There’s a two hour delay for my next bus and so I make my way through the partially crowded station in Kansas looking for a seat not too close to anybody else. Every bus station smells the same, mostly that overpowering fuel that’s starting to make me feel a little sick. I shift on the hard plastic seat, trying to get comfortable but it’s hopeless. There’s a couple of pay phones nearby and I briefly think about how obsolete pay phones are these days. Instinctively, I go to reach for my cell phone inside my sling bag, just to make sure that it’s still there.
The two hour delay drags by endlessly and when my next bus finally pulls into the station, I’m among the first small group of people to get up and stand in line. At least the seats on the bus have padding and I’ll be able to get somewhat comfortable again.
The bus driver, wearing navy blue and dark grey from the neck down, reaches out for my ticket and tears off his portion, handing the rest back to me. I tuck it safely down into my bag and board the bus, searching both rows of seats to find the one that feels like the one . I take a window seat near the back and instantly feel better once my body hits the comfort of the padding beneath me. I sigh and hold my bag close against my stomach, crossing my arms over it. It takes ten minutes or so for the bus driver to be satisfied that he has all of the passengers he’s supposed to have for this round. This time there’s only a handful of people, and thankfully, no screaming kids or obnoxious couples who don’t care that it’s gross to suck face in front of an audience. Nothing wrong with kissing in public—Ian and I did it all the time—but when it’s on the verge of becoming a porno, that’s a little much.
The driver goes to close the doors but then pulls back on the lever and they squeal open again. A guy gets on carrying a black duffle bag on his shoulder. Tall, stylish short brown hair and he’s wearing a tight-fitting navy tee and a sort of crooked smile that could either be genuinely kind, or something more confident. “Thanks,” he says to the driver in that laid-back way.
Even though there are plenty of empty seats for him to choose from, I still make it a point to slide my bag over onto the one next to me, just in case he decides it’s the one for him. It’s not likely, I know, but I’m a just-in-case kind of girl. The doors
Everything looks the same. Between home and Missouri, it seems the only things that change are the license plates and the signs welcoming travelers to each state, but then after you ride past them it’s just more trees and freeway. In every state there’s always a car broken down on the side of the road. There’s always a hitchhiker and a guy wearing a wife-beater carrying a gas can from his truck to the nearest exit where all the gas stations and fast food restaurants congregate. And there’s always, always a single shoe on the shoulder somewhere. I don’t know what it is with shoes being on the road. You never see a pair of pants or a shirt, and rarely do you see anything like a hat or a pair of sunglasses every once in a while. But the single shoes. What is it with the shoes?
A bus ride is like being in another world.
Everybody knows that when they get on, they’re gonna be here for a while. A long while. It’s overcrowded. People are usually packed in so closely that you can smell every different sort of cologne and deodorant and the different kinds of detergent and fabric softener that people use. And unfortunately, you can also smell the people that don’t wear cologne or deodorant at all and their clothes probably haven’t been washed in several days.
So far, I really don’t mind the ride so much. It only bothers me when I have to share space with someone.
There’s a two hour delay for my next bus and so I make my way through the partially crowded station in Kansas looking for a seat not too close to anybody else. Every bus station smells the same, mostly that overpowering fuel that’s starting to make me feel a little sick. I shift on the hard plastic seat, trying to get comfortable but it’s hopeless. There’s a couple of pay phones nearby and I briefly think about how obsolete pay phones are these days. Instinctively, I go to reach for my cell phone inside my sling bag, just to make sure that it’s still there.
The two hour delay drags by endlessly and when my next bus finally pulls into the station, I’m among the first small group of people to get up and stand in line. At least the seats on the bus have padding and I’ll be able to get somewhat comfortable again.
The bus driver, wearing navy blue and dark grey from the neck down, reaches out for my ticket and tears off his portion, handing the rest back to me. I tuck it safely down into my bag and board the bus, searching both rows of seats to find the one that feels like the one . I take a window seat near the back and instantly feel better once my body hits the comfort of the padding beneath me. I sigh and hold my bag close against my stomach, crossing my arms over it. It takes ten minutes or so for the bus driver to be satisfied that he has all of the passengers he’s supposed to have for this round. This time there’s only a handful of people, and thankfully, no screaming kids or obnoxious couples who don’t care that it’s gross to suck face in front of an audience. Nothing wrong with kissing in public—Ian and I did it all the time—but when it’s on the verge of becoming a porno, that’s a little much.
The driver goes to close the doors but then pulls back on the lever and they squeal open again. A guy gets on carrying a black duffle bag on his shoulder. Tall, stylish short brown hair and he’s wearing a tight-fitting navy tee and a sort of crooked smile that could either be genuinely kind, or something more confident. “Thanks,” he says to the driver in that laid-back way.
Even though there are plenty of empty seats for him to choose from, I still make it a point to slide my bag over onto the one next to me, just in case he decides it’s the one for him. It’s not likely, I know, but I’m a just-in-case kind of girl. The doors
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