The Long Path (part 2)

  The Greyhound bus rumbled on into the heart of Washington D.C. and after a few hours delay was back on the road, following what ever non-linear path the driver had to take. The bus, like so many others I have been on, was drenched in a thousand smells. Fetid sweat, stale chips, booze spilled apon the floor, the achrid smell of nicotine where someone long ago tried to smoke a cigarette in the bathroom much to the dismay, I'm sure, of the driver. Candy wrappers and fastfood frenchfries boxes littered the floor here and there. Everytime the bus shifted gears and lurched forward into the night, someones soda can rolled and bounded against the floor, free of its owners control. Poorly writ graffiti, engraved with what ever sharp object at hand, could be found on the aluminum safety bars that adorned each window.
  The passengers, crammed into uncomfortable seats, dealt with their bubbles of personal space being defiled on a constant basis. People coughed, farted, weezed, snored, moaned, and sneezed in a cacophony of sounds. People as they slept, would talk in their sleep, some times shifting about to try and find a more comfortable aproach to in an attempt at slumber in a sitting position. Sometimes arms or legs would cross the set boundary of the pull down arm rest, the one that cleary defined "my" personal seat space from "your" personal seat space. Sometimes everyones sleep would be wrestled free if an infant cried, or on more humorous times, someone who was suffering from night terrors would scream into the dark cabin.
  Those that were awake, read their books or magazines with dimly lit booklights, hummed along to their headphones and walkmans, or on more than one occasion that I've noticed, tried to masturbate as silently as possible, hiding under jacket or blanket, lost in sexual fantasies, but not being able to completly hide the frantic fist pounding frenzy occuring underneath.
  Boredom was your biggest enemy, followed by hunger, and then nicotine withdraw, but if you're like me, nicotine withdraw may supercede the first two. You do odd things when your bored. As even the blanket masturbator can attest to.You count things like vehicles, farm animals, roadkill, and abandoned cars as you bound down the highway. If you were lucky, you might get an hour or so of interesting conversation from your travel companions, maybe even find a rouge newspaper or magazine. You did a lot of sight seeing, be it night or day, in and out of the cabin. I would watch people. There are always an interesting ever changing roster of travel companions on a long bus ride. You usually only get a glimpse of them depending where your seated, as they move from the front of the bus to the back, heaving their carry-ons above their heads. The look of dismay as families that get on realize that they won't be able to sit together. Pregnant women, drunks, drug-addicts, holy-rollers, college kids, people of all ages, colors, and creeds. Sometimes, if i saw a particular interesting individual I would fantasize on how they came to be at this point in life. Were they running from an abusive lover, maybe on the lam from the police, the mafia, or maybe the government? It was just something, anything to do to pass the time.
  Most times you don't have to leave your seat from the bus at certain stops, as you're not going to be there for long, but in most major cities you tend to have to change buses or drivers, or both. This involves waking everyone up, collecting your belongings, and waiting your turn to get off. Once off, you hurry off to the information desk in the attempt to find out which gate your leaving from. Most drivers voice over the intercom just before you arrive in a city of what transfers should be made, sometimes what gates you should go to, but not always. If you slept through the driver's dialog you were victim to the help desk anyway. If you hurry off the bus, you can beat most first time passengers, as they tend to hover around the bus, drilling the driver with questions about their belongings on the under carriage, not realizing that the sticker that went on a luggage or cardboard box the handlers use to make sure it gets to its destination.
  The bus station is a lot like Limbo, but a little closer to hell than it ever will be to heaven. You might get lucky and arrive at a new station, where the owners attempt to keep the place clean, keep the vending machines updated and stocked, with new rolls of toilet paper and soap in the restrooms, and a twenty-four hour restaurant on site. If you're lucky, that is. Most of the stations I've been to never really live up to this ideal. Expect horrible customer service, usually a disdained grunt from whom ever is behind the counter, be it from having to deal with your pressence or the realization that they tragically fouled up something in life to have found themselves working the information kiosk in a Greyhound bus station. Graffiti adorns the walls, more so in the bathrooms, with wit-less limericks, profanity, and pornographic escapes usually adorned with someone's phone number. There might be some vending machines, but most tend to be shut off and locked behind a defense gate when not at peak hours. There may or may not be security on duty, so defend yourself or belongings accordingly. Most of the time you're in "lay-over hell" where you'll have to wait anywhere from one hour to up to as much as twelve hours waiting on your next bus. As well, try to make a good position in line, as seats tend to be a first come ,first serve basis. Most buses that come in have a re-boarding wait. So after everyone reboards, any seats not in use are giving to those according to where you are in line. Expect nothing and everything.

  So as it is, I found myself careening onward to my destination, unsure of the outcome but willing to try non the least. I was given a free bus ticket and some words of hope and that was about it. Me, my belongings, and my hunger were all I knew. I did steal some food under the seat of the passengers in front of me, long lost to their own slumber. They had got on the bus together somewhere around Baltimore. Two asian women in their late thirties. They talked on and off about mundane life situations, and I only caught bits and pieces of their conversation when their voices would become louder to accomodate thier surroundings. I did it like a thief in the night, trying to feel about when I was sure everyone was asleep, feeling about for anything that might contain food. The first thing I found was a small dufflebag, which I went through, nothing of interest except for the pocket book, which in I found about $140 in twenty dollar bills. I took out $40 and put the rest in. People lose $40, they feel bad, not as bad as losing $140, and tend to call it as thier own mistake. I did find a tupperware box full of homemade fried chicken and buscuits. I took a few pieces of cold chicken and a buscuit, folded it up in a napkin I had in my backpack, and found another seat to sit in. They were still asleep when the next passengers got on, one finding the seat I had abandoned.
  I ate in silence. Trying to hide my food so no one would make the connection if one of the asian women were to pop out of her deep sleep, arms flailing about screaming for everyone to find the culprit who stole her money and chicken. After gnawing the chicken to the bone, I emptied the bones in a little bag. Sometimes the buses have little plastic bag dispensories on the sides of the inside cabin, usually one for each set of seats for trash, and placed the bag on the floor, kicking it as far ahead of me under the seats in the hopes of removing whatever evidence of my crime away from me. I slept. But everytime the bus would lurch about, or the hiss from the air brakes resounded, I would jolt awake, with thoughts of a little old asain woman, standing over me, with finger of accusation outstretched before her.
  I stayed awake until the next major bus stop, afraid that I would be caught. It dwelled on me. Everytime she stirred, I would assumed she would find out my crime. I was never caught.
  We arrived in Pittsburgh. Everyone did thier role of waiting to get off the bus. They collected their belongings, they stretched and shook the sleep out of thier bodies. The asain women collected their things and disappeared from site. When I finally ventured inside, I made the attempt of staying as far away as from them as I could.I ran to the gift shop/snack bar and bought what ever supplies i could think I would need. Bottled water, cans of pop, beef jerky, junk food mostly. I bought a Dean Koontz book from the literature carousels. With in the hour I was back abourd the bus, which they, the asian women, never returned to, and was once again bound for my destination.
  Hours passed, and I thumbed through my paperback. Trying to get lost in the story, but as each hour passed more concern fell towards what I was going to do once I achieved my final destination. I hadn't seen my father in years, let alone spoke with him, or wrote a letter to him. Did he still care for me? Did I make a horrible decision? What would happen If I couldn't find him. Surely he still lived there. Hopefully.
  I finally arrived in Dayton, Ohio. The winter was still apon us. Cold winds buffeted the building and a grey sky loomed over head. I wandered about the station, veiwing a huge map of the city and surrounding smaller cities. My real destination was really about seventeen miles south of me. How could such a relatively small number seem so big. I couldn't remember the last time I had walked farther than five miles. I may have called right then and there, for my father to come get me, had I known his phone number. I had looked in the phone book to no avail. My only other option was to walk.
  I got some cardinal directions from the (un)friendly help at the bustop information desk and ventured forth, into the streets of the city. It was life as usual. A stranger in a strange land. Unsure of what was come, fear and uncertainty knotting up in my throat. After a time I finally made my way to the onramp to the highway, after having to ask for directions from three men in business suits, a patrol man, and some sanitation workers.
  After finally getting the nerve to actually walk onto the highway, I made the choice to walk about on the grassy uneven ground as opposed to walking close to the traffic. The walk wasn't as bad as I thought it would have been. It gave me time to think to myself. My mind wandered. I fantasized about what our reunion would be like. Would I recognize him? I wonder if my father would still have his shop. He had a small business that he had bought in town. The town being Springboro. It's one of those towns one might consider being a one stop light town, where all the families in a particular neighborhood know one another, where they're all friendly, to a degree. Houses adorned with bits and pieces of Americana art. Priding themselves with parades up and down their little one main street community, for festivals and holidays.
The only thing was the cold. The wind from the highway was more intense than expected. I had to wear socks over my hands because my gloves were too thin. I walked. I rested. I walked. I rested. My intent was to get there before nightfall. I finally arrived in town a little before 4 p.m. and walked from memory to my father's shop, only to find out that it was closed. I big hand painted sign reading CLOSED ON WEDNESDAYS staring me in the face, mocking me.
  Well, at least the shop was still here, which was a good sign. There was a contact number on the door as well, for emergency pick-ups or deliveries, so I scribbled down the number and made my way up the street to a pay phone at the local gas station. I knew where he lived, or where he should have lived, but it would have been another seven mile walk, and what if I got there and he had moved? So I had nothing else to do but call.
It took me a better part of two hours to make that call. I had spent all this time getting here, and didn't even think of what I would actually say to explain myself when I finally got here.
  Finally, throwing caution to the wind I dialed the number and waited. I swear that phone must have rang for an eternity. I remember my father's voice answering. I must have been holding my breathe because I didn't answer at first. Finally I sputtered out a weak comply of a return "Hello.."
  "Hello ? Who is this?" my father asked.
  "It's me, Dad." I said, a little louder this time.
  "Hello ?" was the only reply.
  "It's me Dad, it's you son."

So this was the first conversation I had with my father after three years. He was concerned. Was I okay? Was anything wrong? Was I hurt? Was I in trouble? I was so happy to know I wasn't forgotten. That he still cared about me. After some time, I told him over the phone the bus trip, not all of it mind you, but the trip up here, walking from the city, finding the shop closed. He asked for me to wait, and after long he came a picked me up and we drove to a fastfood resturant. I sat, while he went to the counter and bought some coffee.
  After a good while of catching up we drove back to his house, where I was re-united with my step mother, step brother, and half sister. I felt good. I felt like I could start over. In the following days I got a job, helped out around the house when I could, got in touch with my "other" family. But It would all be short lived.
  After about three weeks of living there, for reasons unknown to me to begin with, me and my father had an argument. What it was that we argued about so long ago I can not to this day really explain to anyone what is was about. All I know is it ended with me having to leave again. My heart was torn apart over it. Now I had nowhere to go. No one to help me. I was ultimately on my own.
  I made the trek from my fathers house all they way back into town. It was a long , cold, walk. I remember more than once, tears welling up, with me having to sit down and let all the emotions flood out of me. I remember the ache in my shoulder. I had rid myself of my backpack at my stay with my father, which was a bad choice in hindsight. During the argument, since I couldn't pack my things, my step mother provided me with a large bulky duffle bag. It swung back and forth with every step I took. The weight of all my belongings throwing me off. I would switch it back and forth between my right and left shoulder, only when one side would begin to hurt. A curious thing happened as I remember walking into town. As I walked past the Police Office, I remember about seven police officers comming outside to talk to me. Most of the conversation was concerning me, my duffle bag, and how they didn't tolerate homeless people in their town. It really put me on edge. I thought I was going to be arrested. I tried to explain to them the situation, but finally stated that I was leaving town, and that I wouldn't be a problem for them. Eventually they either lost interest or had to respond to a call, perhaps someone was double parked at the local K-mart and back-up was needed, all seven of them.
  I can remember comming to a stop long before I would make it back to the highway. Night was falling. I had to find somewhere to rest. Somewhere to sleep. There was a bridge built into the road near here, which a creek flowed through. I remembered it from playing near it as a child, so that's where I headed to wait for morning. I would be out of site from the police, and I would be protected from the wind and rain. Granted I would probably freeze to death in the night, but I didn't have any other option. I waited until there were no cars about and made my way underneath. The creek had long since dried up or had been diverted, so I made myself as comfortable as I could and waited for morning.
  I tried to stay awake. Every now and then I would drift off to sleep. Exhausted from the crying. The walking. The shifting of the bag from shoulder to shoulder. Everything.
Sometimes I would jolt awake as a car passed overhead. Only to dift off to sleep again. Later in the night I woke up with a flashlight shining in my eyes. Groggy, half awake, and confused. Unable to see the weilder of the flashlight I thought beyond hope that my father had come for me, or worst yet, the police had found me and I would be off to jail. It was neither.
  The people who owned a house on one side of that underground bridge had this huge old expensive house. The had a decent amount of land around the house, with a stable for horses. Supposedly , some of the foals, or baby horses, had wandered off in the night, and after much searching, the bridge was finally checked under. After much an awkward situation, and convincing that the police did not have to be called, I vowed to be on my way. They were kind enough to invite me in. This couple, this gay couple, didn't really own the house at all. They were just the caretakers, so to speak, One was a nurse that took care of the owner who need constant observation, the other was a carpenter, who helped with odds and ends for the house. I think it was the very first gay couple I had ever really met. That I had actually had a conversation with. They fed me, let me clean myself up, and let me sleep in the guest room. After the night I woke up and thanks them for the food and hospitality, bid them farewell, and continued on my journey to the highway.
  About halfway from that house to the highway, walking along through a strip mall parking lot, I found a military surplus store. I had about $60 on me. I bought a really nice leather backpack. It had metal boning in the framework, and it held all my stuff with ample room for more space. I also bought a pair of military boots, with some help for sizeing from the shop owner, and a really nice wool trenchcoat. It was quite thick, a felt warm and snug, further more it helped fight back the elements. I also bought a P-38 can opener, which is a small compact little can opener. As well as a blade, for protection, all for about $50. I went outside, transfered all my stuff to my new bag, tossed the old one, and was on my way.
  I walked north, back the way I had come from Dayton, and at about a couple miles out of town I stopped at a drive through store. If you don't know what I'm talking about, imagine a convenience store, that instead of walking into , you just drive your car through, where an attendant comes out and gets what you need, allowing you to keep the engine running, you pay and drive off.
  Anyway, I ventured inside an bought as many cheap packs of cigarettes I could. I ventered out into the parking lot and sat down and thought what I should do, which direction I should take. Lost in thought I hadn't realized the shop had closed down for the night. The addentant came out and asked If he need to call someone to come and help me. After explaining my circumstances, he offered to give me a ride back to Dayton, as he was headed there himself. This was my first hitchhiked ride. I must say it was much more pleasing than having to walk all the way back. Even more so, when the driver offer me a lit joint to participate in along the way. So , stoned, and somewhat at ease, I found myself back in the city, with no idea of what to do. And for the first time in my life, I didn't care.
  About anything.