Fast-Forward, VCR Bus

If someone were to ask me why, right now, I don’t think I could give them an answer.  My shrug would presumably lead this person to suggest what they already know in their mind to be true.  That being the case, I don’t see why they feel the need to ask.  Anyway, the explanation this person would undoubtedly come up with would be teenage angst, and I would agree with them, because it’s easier than disagreeing.

I guess I’m the one who is, essentially, asking myself why right now.  I have spent endless hours fighting for thorough explanations from other people, so I don’t think I should cheat myself out of something that I could clarify for myself.  Here I am sitting in the back of this bus zooming 60 miles an hour away from my hometown, which would technically be classified as a city, but that doesn’t matter too much now.  What in God’s name is my rationale?  I have some faint notions, but I don’t actually know.

The main theory in the defense of my rash actions is that I’m sick of staying in the same place purely waiting for something different.  I daydream of how grand it would be to fast-forward through a few years of my life just to see where I’ll be.  I know it doesn’t make too much sense but, to me, this bus is my VCR.  It is getting me from one stage of my life to another faster than intended just like how a VCR can skip to the good parts of a movie.  I’m done dealing with my exposition and I want to move along to the climax or at least have a bit more exciting rising action.  And I know that you are probably still hung up on my metaphor.  VCR?  Poor kid’s stuck in the Dark Ages, he doesn’t even know what a DVD player is!  But it’s not like that.  Of course I know what a DVD player is.  Father made sure we were the first family on the block to own one.  The point of all this is that this bus is not a DVD player, because if it was we’d already be in Kansas, I’d have a job, and I’d have aged 10 years by now the way DVD’s skip over scenes.  No, this bus is a VCR because of the way you can watch the trees, fields, cars, towns, and your life streak by.

I turn to look at Cathy sleeping next to me.  We have the whole back seat to ourselves, so she has curled herself up into a neat little ball.  This is the only neat thing about her.  Cathy has a real earthy look with frizzy dirt blonde hair matted down in some places and old, thrifty clothes.  Cathy has talked me into not worrying about my hair anymore (she broke my comb) and loosening up my tie (I refuse to take it off).  Cathy’s interesting, and she doesn’t smell too bad.  Cathy is also an individual who can’t stand to be alone.  I guess that is why Cathy puts so much attention into me.  I am the only one who lets her.

When Cathy first came to school she got in trouble a lot.  Cathy refused to wear the standard saddle shoes that all the young ladies were required to sport.  The principal would have been a bit more lenient on her if she had agreed to wear some other type of footwear.  Cathy doesn’t wear shoes.  Shoes restrict you.  That was one of the first things Cathy taught me.  I still wear shoes, but no socks.  Cathy says that it is okay to take baby steps.  Mother doesn’t approve of Cathy and her rules, so I wear socks in the house.  Personally, I am impartial to the sock-wearing controversy.

Cathy was the one who convinced me to get on this bus.  A month after Cathy showed up at school; I expressed my serve boredom to her during seventh period study hall.  She suggested we go to Kansas and live off the land.  I agreed.  That is how we got this idea. 

I didn’t put too much thought into it until a few weeks later when Cathy told me about an ad she saw for a bus that was going across the county, making a bunch of stops along the way.  It was one of those shabby throwbacks to the 70’s.  So we got on it.  And that is how we got on this bus. 

Still I have no reason for why.  Other than boredom.  But boredom is too flimsy a reason.  At least that’s what Mother always says.

I hadn’t any second thoughts about this trip until we had settled into this puke-stained seat.  Not even when Mother asked me what I was doing with a suitcase as I left the house.  “Nothing,” I said.  Saying nothing is easier than explaining.  But once I walked passed these decomposing hippies there was no way I was getting off; I had used up all my nerve getting on.

We’ve been through six or seven states and we’re inching closer and closer to Kansas.  We’re in Nebraska now; I’m pretty sure that’s near Kansas, but I don’t know.  I do know that they are both states.  I’m surprised they let me out of third grade without knowing where all the states are.  So much for my top-notch education.

Mother has spent a lot of Father’s money on my schooling.  I had never skipped a day of school until the day we left.  I have skipped several now sitting on the back of this bus.  Cathy had skipped school on numerous occasions.  Cathy has run away before.  I haven’t.  This is nothing new for Cathy.  I suppose I’ll be skipping the rest of senior year too.  Unless we enroll in Kansas, which I highly doubt because Cathy still thinks we are going to live off the land, but I know better.  Eventually one of us will have to get a job, and I know enough to know that one will be me.  I’m probably going to have to work in a broken-down factory or on a smelly, mud-covered farm.  When people used to ask me what I wanted to do when I was older, Mother always answered on my behalf.  Mother said the things that she envisioned me being, things like some insincere lawyer or a high-fluting doctor.  I always didn’t want to think about it.

The bus driver announces that we will be at the brief Kansas stop in about five minutes and then off to some town I’ve never heard of for the night.  I pretend to be asleep as Cathy stirs.  Then I think.  About what, I don’t know.  I just keep my eyes closed as my mind reels.

The bus creeps to a halt and I feel Cathy’s small hands on my shoulder.  “We’re here,” she whispers and she starts treading up the aisle with her duffle.  I pick up mine and trail behind her.  I get halfway up the aisle until I am beside the man with one leg, which is a surprise stopping point to me because I made sure to walk quickly past him when we boarded.  After a moment I turn. 

“Where are you going?” Cathy asks.

“I forgot something back there,” I reply not turning around.

Cathy smiles, “Don’t take too long,” and she steps off the bus. 

I start touching the backseat, rooting around in nothing to find something.  Maybe it’s courage, but most likely it’s reason.  Cathy is standing behind the bus, waving her hands indicating her frustration at my dawdling.  The driver turns his key and I hear the engine rev up.  Cathy’s hands get more frantic and I begin to slowly wave mine.  The bus lurches forward and I sit back down.  I don’t know where I’m headed, but I do know that Kansas isn’t the place where I am supposed to press play.