"My Name is John" Chapter 4

'My Name is John'

Chapter 4

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“I’l l call you somewhere between Arizona and Texas. Should be tomorrow about this time, alright.” I put my arms around mom, my new windbreaker conscious of her top drawer artillery.

She pulled me close. “You better give me a proper hug, I’m your mom.”

Alright, alright…mom. The makeup, the makeup. Just bought this jacket.” I pulled away, unscathed.

“It’s been a long time John, don’t expect too much ok- oh and take this.” Mom slid something into my back pocket.

I reached around, pulled out a small black book with swirly leather binding and one of those gold silk bookmarks. “What’s this?”

“Well it’s not a bible John.” Mom ducked her head and stared at me through her plucked eyebrows.

“I can see that…. a journal, thanks mom.”

“Yeah, well I thought if you were going to see all these places, you might want to write about them. Cause when you get my age, all you got is memories- you’ll thank me one day.” She had that look, that been-there-done-that-trust-me look . It was in the eyes. Only a mother had those eyes- a mother who’s felt love, hate, hope and despair all before the commercial break was over. “Here’s a pen.” She reached in her ten-compartment handbag and fished out a blue biro.

Thanks.”

Thirty years of low wages searched for a genuine smile. “Look after yourself ok.” Mom said.

“You too.” I stood there for a moment; that obligatory moment that kids dread- one of those things that lets old people know they’re appreciated. Christmas was usually full of these moments, the can-I-go-yet sort, but you wait.

“You better check in.”

“Ok, thanks for the lift…and I’ll call you tomorrow alright.” I said

“Love ya.”

“Ditto.” I leaned over, planted a kiss on the side of her cheek. The potential of a foundation dust storm or symptoms of second hand blush didn’t concern me, didn’t even pass my mind.


***


Polished cream tiles and bare concrete. Everywhere.

“Now departing bus 227 to Seattle, door ten.” The load speaker moaned, full treble. It wasn’t one of those draw card announcements, ringside or some multinational cereal ad. It was more of a get-your-ass-to-the-gate-I-hate-my-job type, a minimum wage voice over that highlighted the perks of worker exploitation and a much needed smoke break.

“Seattle door ten, last call y’all.”

I looked around. Out of date arcade games. No Greyhound bus station was complete without Centipede and a table top Pac Man. Probably would have Street fighter 2 or Mortal Combat if this was Boise or Minneapolis, I thought. OakIand just wasn’t ready for anything post fluorescent mohawks and teased bangs, let alone combination kung-fu moves… and color-color definitely wasn’t Oakland.

I wondered where the stuffed animal claw game hid, scanning past the generational luggage and durable plastic bags, handles and all. Nothing. I looked at the empty space next to the hot drink machine. It looked like the perfect spot for one of those cheap, quarter hungry gimmicks. Maybe a kid got his arm stuck in the slot, lured by Batman’s plush appeal. Or, the phony gold watch wedged at the bottom, impossible.

He would tell his friends at school that it was a skateboard accident as they clambered around, scribbling on the plaster cast with thick colored markers:


‘Should-a seen it…’ he would scream, picking his nose, wiping it on the closest monkey bar- his audience captured by a close, but not quite Venice Beach accent, slang and all. It would be his first improvisational lie, the lie that keeps going and you get better, quicker with more detail and creativity and confidence.

“Liar, liar.” The fat kid would scream from behind the big oak tree. “Your Uncle Ray-Ray told me you got your hand stuck in the ‘Grab n’ Go’ downtown!” He becomes unstuck, his face lighting up like a disposable do-it-yourself thermometer, gradual. Though they became best friends, he would never forgive Big Al. They would laugh over cold Miller beers, reflect on how he became known as ‘Phony Hawk’ all those years ago. ‘Hey Big Al…remember how you called my bluff back in elementary school… people still callin’ me ‘Phony Hawk’. They wrestle, then practice tic tacs on their old Bones Brigade decks in the driveway, drunk.


***


“Next!” The ticket lady invited me forward with big brown eyes that spoke their own unique sign language. This look, in particular… was ‘I aint’ playin’ get yo ass up here.’ I don’t think this form of linguistics was embedded in any formal curriculum. It was developed, part of the ‘nature’ process that those white bearded Psychologists talk about.

“Hi.” I smiled.

“So, where you goin’ young man?” She softened up; her voice more natural, with a slight smile that jay-walked across her smooth caramel skin.

“Can I got a one way ticket to Atlanta………please.” I made sure not to ignite those flammable eyes, got in just in time.

“Atlanta. You gon’ to Atlanta honey?” She smiled. This time more natural than before and her eyes- her eyes shouted ‘You gotta’ be kiddin’ me….Atlanta on a cramped bus- your game, but ok, ok.’

“Yes please, one way to Atlanta.” I pulled a brick of folded bills from my pocket and removed the black elastic hair tie.

“Elroy…hey Elroy.” She turned around, slow, like she didn’t ‘wait’ for anyone. As if the world revolved around her custom plaits and curvaceous ‘everything’. “Elroy…. this one’s goin’ Atlanta.” She nudged a slim, should-be-retired baggage handler. He smirked, but didn’t look up; like he knew something I didn’t. And I was bound to find out.

“Is everything alright?” I questioned.

“Oh, yeah. No, that’s just Elroy. He been here 17 years workin’ at Greyhound. Mmm huhh, he’s a sweetheart alright.” Her words nearly broke out in song. She had one of those choir voices. A Southern Baptist rock-the-block voice that got people out of their pews and onto the tacky, wine-red carpet.

“Right. Um…how long does it take.” I braced myself.

“Atlanta…bout….hang on. Elroy…hey Elroy. ETA on Atlanta via the 4pm?”

“Three days, 11 hours..give or take.” He didn’t budge, adding more bags to the buckled trolley.

“You heard the man-damn near four days. You still want to go? Gon’ be a hundred forty seven.” Her long press- on nails tap danced on the plastic keyboard.

The thought of 3 days on a bus made me think of microwave burritos and bone reconstruction. “Yep, here.” I placed a tower of wrinkled dollars on the desk, 147 to be exact.

“Tips huh?” She smiled, licked her finger and started counting like a seasoned banker. “So what you gon’ do all the way down in Atlanta babe?” Her lips went back to a silent count, strangling each pile of twenty with a recycled rubber band.

“See my dad. He lives there.” I responded

She stopped, looked up. “Your dad, huh? Well, you enjoy your trip. Atlanta supposed to be nice this time of year….. they sure do talk funny down there, though. “ She turned around looking for Elroy. He was gone. She must have had some pre-meditated punch line about Southern gentlemen or cornbread suppers. Or the way they say they say ‘pop’ rather than ‘soda’. So un-Oakland. She probably had some witty remark for every destination; her way of grappling with the notion of ‘dead-end’.

“Yeah, haven’t seen him in years. Be nice to see some of the places along the way too.”
She leaned forward, elbows stealing a timeout on the plastic laminate counter top. “Well, you be passin’ through Los Angeles. Now that’s a rough area, so watch out….Pheonix-nice place-hot though, real hot…Dallas you got a long lay over and not much to see there, so hope you got a good book…then you hit the south and that’s a world of its’ own- things start getting’ real different down there.” She smiled, handing me my ticket, thick as a block of cheese. “Now there’s a ticket for each route, so don’t lose that-or you be holdin’ ya thumb on the highway, babe….and we can’t have that can we?” She winked, reclaiming her best mid shift posture.

“Ok, thanks.” I said, unconcerned.

“Mmm, oh and here and take this. You might need it. Take some notes or somethin’ you know. Keep ya busy honey.” She slid a pen across the desk. “You got paper?”

“Yeah, I got some, thanks.” I grabbed the pen, put it in my pocket.

“Mmm, well alright then sweety. You look after yourself.”

I found a seat, sat down. If the chairs were any indicator, I was in for one inhospitable trip. They were hard plastic- narrow, but for some reason contoured to fit two big butt cheeks so they sunk in and prodded us skinnier folk right at the tail bone. Each seat shared an arm rest with its neighbor, with a first-in-best-dressed policy that seemed to be working. I wasn’t up for claiming my stake and decided to fold my hands in my lap.

“NEXT” the ticket lady’s voice bounced like a pinball around the high ceilings and cold floor. I watched her. She moved with such animation- her hands, her eyebrows, her swollen neck. She could be a choreographer for any movie that had ‘attitude’ as the leading role, I thought as she charmed the lifeless travelers with borderline flirtation.

“NEXT.” She screamed. It was a pleasant scream. A scream that teased her vocal chords with just one syllable. It was as if she wanted to sing. 'Let us out', they begged, curious of the building’s empty potential; her devotion to the parish choir standing trial with each customer. She couldn’t bare another told-you-to-rest-that-voice-girl speech from Pastor Butler again. No way.

I looked at my watch. One hour. I already started to itch in that plastic chair and resisted my urge to ruin good reading material, premature. I only had a few geography type paperbacks, and the section on the ‘victims of palm oil' was used up over a bout of last week’s constipation. I swore I would save the orangutans one day. ‘I’ll fly to Borneo and plant tree by tree if I have too,’ I said to myself as I encouraged last night’s dinner like a Lamaze student, long overdue, panting.

I couldn’t resist, pushing through a mountain of stretched elastic and travel toiletries. And every possible range of processed food that could fit into my polyester shoulder bag- sweet, savory, dried, both hard and soft candy varieties.

I turned the pages. Ten at a time. I flipped past the South American Longhorn Beetle- the fancy illustration of how and why and when or what they do post monsoon season. Boring. Lunar Eclipse article. Lame. I stopped. I stared at the cobble stone steps that the photographer seemed to bring to life. I loved looking at different countries- cities so different than mine, they appeared to be someone’s imagination- not real. I would get trapped in the small captions about different customs and tradition… and ceremonial costumes that most American’s would laugh about over their second hotdog and extra large raspberry Slurpee. I added Düsseldorf to my list of places to see. As well as learn the German Polka and try one of those big sausages submerged in a river of sauerkraut and thick, creamy mayonnaise.

There was commotion at the front desk. I looked up, closed my magazine just as I got to the part about airborne diseases and the ‘human cost’ of third world sewage.

“Now look, Mister…I’m tyrin’ to tell you…your bus is delayed. I can’t help that, no need to be yellin’ at me. Do you see a magic wand here…..do ya?” Ticket lady rolled her neck, with pouty lips, full of effect.“See, ain’t no wand here. And..I..ain’t..no..princess. Next!” She raised her hand, with a sharp snap that said, ‘I’m done, so are you- now get to steppin’ before I deflate more than just your ego.’. She looked at her nails. Close call.

I watched my new friend at work. It was far more entertaining than trying to work out what they mean by ‘socioeconomic’ or ‘carbon emissions.’ I repacked my back, leaving the gummi bears on top, just in case. What flare, I though as she gave each passenger the benefit of doubt- just for a second -and then decided whether or not they showed her due respect. I wonder what she liked about me? I wasn’t overly nice, probably borderline rude really,didn’t even smile. Maybe the chunky wad of tips won me brownie points. Or, could have just been the exhausting itinerary that didn’t require any added weight.





The line was getting long. It stretched right past the vending machines, finished just shy the front entrance. It looked more like a prison chow lineup, rather than a bunch of interstate travelers. They kept to themselves- eyes straight ahead or down- and kept a good distance from the person in front, but close enough not to lose their spot. There wasn’t a smile amongst the lot of them; most of them kicking their luggage along the slick floor, too tired to play catch-and-release with 30 odd pounds of tackle.

I looked at my watch. I didn’t seem to move. Maybe it was broken. I tapped the chunky plastic and put it to my ear. It was digital, but I thought that’s what you do- too many Sean Connery films I suppose. I was already losing track of time, couldn’t even remember its’ last reading.

I looked up. The line had grown legs… baby strollers, an acoustic guitar, and even a half eaten batch of 7-11 nachos joined the chain gang. The trail of resentment leaked out into the street, and brought with it intolerant sighs and thick clouds of second hand smoke.

There wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Floor space became the stadium’s bleachers, with small groups turning the slippery walls into ten meter backrests. I looked around. Single mothers and bastard children and people far too old to be travelling…and the kind of people that justified the keep-to-myself-trust-no-one attitude that prevailed, no questions asked.

I wondered where the research analyst hid- some psychologist or sociologist trying to add his own theoretical spin on human behavior. His thesis would be near completion, adding the final touches to his upcoming power point presentation:

“After studying the dynamics of both inner city and rural bus depots, I conclude that ‘considerable periods of waiting’ could perpetuate acute psychotic episodes, mental stagnation, inhibit rational thinking………even cancer.”

The Arial font and bullet point layout would link prolonged anticipation with a certain chemical reaction and emotional release; the anxious panel of thinkers becoming increasingly skeptical, which could be seen by the way they slowly rub their face and scan the conference room through the corner of their eyes.

The ‘Greyhound Theory’ he would call it. Over time, he would become public defenders last shot at a mistrial for ‘traffic rage’ cases and mid-air assaults on young, petite beverage attendants. He would die forgotten, his theory so absurd it causes little, if any controversy.



My curiosities of people made me forget the unwritten rule of thumb: don’t stare, under any circumstance. It could be written somewhere, some travel-on-a-shoestring book, the local people and customs section that breaks down the dos and don’ts with a fine tooth comb. Tedious, one page chapters like ‘Local People’, ‘Culture and Tradition’, or ‘Stay Smart-Stay Safe.’ The people of Oakland tend to frown on unwanted eye contact, it would say…followed by tips on wearing dark lenses or a full brim cap or using the ‘quick scan method’ if you absolutely must.

I looked around. I didn’t notice anyone with designer bifocals and a conspicuous Mont Blanc pen. No one would fund a project about people that couldn’t afford an airfare I decided, scraping my own silly theory.

There was flavor in the room. You could taste the mixed blend of spices: fresh, burnt, strong, subtle. It was like a spice rack of emotion and attributes that bus station, every sort of person sitting side by side, from different places, going somewhere else for some other reason. This would make a great sitcom, I thought. Or a play or even documentary, filmed, say…. over five years and it captured the employees and their struggles- not only on the job, but in their personal life as well.

I looked for the aspiring writer-the pair of expensive Birkenstocks and the tiny notepad that had messy scribble and little arrows that pointed to quick and exciting ideas for future reference. Nothing. I guess Oakland Greyhound was never going to be the next ‘Cheers’ or "A modern day masterpiece of tenacious proportion" as the New York Times would have in their weekly book review.

I flinched. Someone was touching me. My initial reaction was to curl up and say ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it." It was my friend, the ticket lady. She looked different. So long was the standard issued uniform. The kind of uniform that screamed oppression through the thick pressed cotton and embroidered logo on the right breast pocket.

“Hey honey, you all set.” She asked. “Cause I am… I’m outta’ here, just like you. Only thing is…. I got a 5 minute drive to where I’m goin’”

“All done for the day, huh?” I asked.

“You bettcha sweet ass I am.” She offered a little dance move with her hands: out then in and around. The Cabbage Patch. Though no one would admit to having this one in their repertoire, she didn’t care. It was home time, the best time of the day, the time where nothing else seems to matter and the furthest thing from your mind is public opinion.

“So…any plans? I asked.

“Well, just catch up with the girls, have a few drinks, unwind.” Her nylon jogging suit could have told me that. And the matching shoelaces: those were a we-might-go-out-be prepared precaution.

“Well, looks like you could use it. Some of the people in here are a bit loony.”

She piped up. “A bit loony? That’s an understatement. These people be all fucked up, crazier than in that movie….what’s that movie…Cookoo Nest…this is the cookoo nest. All these people.” She looked around. “They be needin’ some of that shock treatment, I tell you…extra voltage.” I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me, or making an announcement.

“Everyone but me…the shock treatment that is.” I insisted.

“Oh, yeah honey, not you…you don’t need no shock treatment. You alright.” She smiled, bumped me on the shoulder. “You better line up, door 2 babe…it’s gonna’ get long and you don’t want to get trapped down the back, cause that bathroom is ruthless…sit somewhere in the middle, aisle seat…you’ll be able to stretch your legs.” She bent down and loosened her shoelaces, compared the two and fluffed the treated suede tongue.

“Ok, thanks for the tip. I’ll keep that in mind. Hey thanks for the chat…..by the way, I like your shoes… sweet.”

“Oh….thanks honey. These ol’ things…they just my knock-arounds.” She looked down, tempted to re-fluff. She resisted. “Alright, I’m out…” She grinned, pulled her in arms in close and did a pirouette, slow with tiny little steps as she rotated around. It wasn’t a true, ballerina pirouette- it was a more like a touch-down celebration dance, random with no credentials attached. She walked away. I watched her float past the crowds. She hoped they looked, noticing her matching jumpsuit that shined ‘down time… my time’.



I sat, scraped my thoughts together and tried to make some sort of sense with what I was getting myself involved in. I figured the only commitment thus far was a hundred and forty-seven dollars, and I could make that in a day, day and a half tops. I took a deep breath, expelled a lung-full of trepidation. I wondered why I was going to see a man whose eulogy I wrote years ago, delivered over a ceremony of tears, with red-rimmed eyes that lasted months and still left their flush imprints, ten years on.

I tried to imagine what my father looked like. If he still had that healthy crop of hair on his upper lip, well past harvest time and those sloppy tattoos that invited all sorts of assumption. I figured that rugged, ‘Marlboro man’ look blended nicely down South: the Kevlar skin that required the finest shaving razors, and hands so coarse a slap on the face could substitute for a closed fist, no problem. Old Spice. Old Spice and cigarettes, half smoked, left in the pack for the next time-out or post touch-down commercial interruption. That was the smell I remembered, a combination of good and bad, fitting for a man who tried to hide behind layers of humor and manipulation and lies so believable you could never distinguish the two. They just meshed together. Old Spice and tobacco. That was my father.


***


I remembered the advice, and found myself halfway between the lavatory and the cockpit’s cup holder. I ignore the latter part, concluded a few rectifiable cramps were a fair sacrifice for a view.

“Alright, y’all. We’ll be leaving here in a minute…should be around 1am, arrival into Los Angeles bus depot. There’s a toilet down the back for your convenience…and there’s no smoking-no chances…that’s my policy…and it works. You smoke-you gone.” All I heard was a deep, jive voice but figured the image suited the blunt ultimatum.

It was a tight squeeze. I sat in two perfect 90 degree angles, three if you count my feet. And four if my chin wasn’t so pudgy. I felt like I was in some sort of body brace, designed for linebackers or competition weight lifters post injury: ‘I know it’s uncomfortable ‘Meat’, but you got a prolapsed invertabral disc..and that’s serious. We’ll get you back in no time, just sit tight big fella’.’ The physiotherapist would say in his most informal voice, gaining rapport.

I wiggled around, figured I’d see what I could…and couldn’t get away with. I didn’t get very far. Everything came with a sacrifice. If I stretched my legs, I caught the brunt of the seat in front. If I used the foot rest, I swallowed my knees. And the fold out tray: a bib, a big plastic bib that should be reserved for convalescent homes and motorized wheelchairs, and mashed carrots in Dixie cups with reusable lids and tiny retractable forks. How could anyone eat with one of those things poking you above the stomach, pinning you further into that sweaty blue upholstery? I figured I would use if for solitaire, only solitaire.

The engine roared. Then hissed and lowered and started to roll. ‘Here goes nothing’, I thought as I got acquainted with that forewarned smell. She wasn’t wrong, was glad I sat where I did. There was something impractical about a bus with plumbing, wasn’t conventional. I wondered who the visionary of the mobile sewer was, if he suffered some bowel gastric disorder, dedicated his life to promoting social inclusion to ‘all.’

It smelled fruity sweet. Followed by a hint of excretion, and back to the fruit bowl smell. I was glad I had two seats, that no one would be thinking the same thing: armrest. I didn’t care. It was my armrest, and I’ll elbow-war any fool game enough to rub arm hair with me. After all, I was going 3000 miles, must have some sort of seniority or something. I was sure it was written in fine print, somewhere: ‘Priority given to passengers with the most accumulative miles-on-ticket. Please refer to the illustration below for elbow relaxation methods. Thank you for your due cooperation, and thanks for travelling Grey Hound Bus Lines.’ An almost- accurate sketch of the racing breed would decorate the left corner of the plastic sign, right below the step-by-step routine.





West Oakland appeared older than it was, aged with premature wrinkles and hide that slept alongside famine and monsoons and drought. I saw it as beautiful. Abstract. Picture frames of thick iron surrounded hungry weatherboard slats and thirsty blades of grass, each house its’ own centerpiece.

We carried along the freeway, looking down on a neighborhood that once boasted the finest redwood trees, the size of small cars at the base and stretched into the clouds, hiding the sun.

Victorian houses lined the streets, some bigger than others, with steep stairways that led to one or more entrances. They came in all shades of faded color, mostly subtle blues and yellows, every variety of white and the odd pink or bold turquoise that stood out from the rest, screaming: ‘look at me.’ Though strikingly similar, they all had their own character, differences that required a keen eye and attention to detail. It was usually in the trim, or the way the shingles were placed near the attic, overlapped, forming a consistent pattern. Or the way the top bedrooms hung over the lower level unit and the beams that supported the porch roof, done by lathe, not templates or time limits or underpaid button-pushers with ‘cost efficient’ induction manuals.

With a splash of paint, West Oakland could be a post card or a thirty minute episode on the Discovery channel. Maybe even have tours that walk up and down Martin Luther King Blvd., historians or architecture buffs that marvel at the turn of the century as they see it and take notes, snap pictures, sip White Zimfindale wine from last week’s Napa Valley tour:

‘This one is marvelous, look Peter. I would say…1890..1895? What do you think darling?’ She calms her pallet with a fresh piece of sourdough. ‘The wrap-around porch, the spindle detailing…oh, honey I am so glad we came.’ She wraps her arm around his checkered wool sweater that hangs around his office-frail shoulders, loose and crossed at the sleeves, coming to a rest at his breastbone. They use terms like Painted Ladies, Edwardian, and Queen Anne style. Later they might dress up in their finest replica costume, role play their ‘prudish’ fantasy. Her, a corset made out of polyester- not silk, but in bright color that strangled her unwanted tummy and long opera gloves that touch just below the elbow. Him, a cummerbund and narrow ribbon tie. Nothing else.


It was quiet outside. It usually was. And the little foot traffic that did linger could easily be overlooked, unless say…you were on a bus, elevated with giant windows and nothing better to do than stay preoccupied. The locals walked slow, with heavy thought that painted their eyes. Eyes that seemed to look further than most, and steady, focused past any traffic or sound that would make most flinch, then resume whatever it was they were doing. Their eyes just held. Through the cars and the buses, the sounds of freeway infrastructure, and the breeze that didn’t have much to say anyhow.

I fumbled for that little lever down the side of the seat. The one that’s supposed to give you some sort of option in seating arrangements. I couldn’t find it, just crumbs and left over balls of lint that collected over months of truck stops and stuffed pockets. A small button protruded from the side of the armrest. I pushed it, leaned back. It budged, two inches at most but enough to allow a bit of shut-eye I’m sure. As if it was there to add comfort to agony, mesh together and evolve into some sort of contentment. I wasn’t content. I don’t think I had ever been able to say I was ‘content’ with anything. Other than…maybe my diner meals or particular style of hair gel I bought or my shoes- I was definitely content with my shoes.

That word only came to the surface in the superficial sense, nothing internally. Content. I was never content with who I was; of course maybe when I was drunk and was in ‘the now’. Six cans usually got me in ‘the now’, five on an empty stomach. Four if it was before noon and I was still a tad groggy from the night prior.

I read that somewhere: being in that very moment, the present, the now as the self help gurus put oh so articulately. It was some sort of mental exercise that beefed up the mind…supposedly, that’s what I’ve been told. It made sense really. My problems usually stemmed from the past, when my mind was in rewind, reflecting. Or in fast forward. Past the character study and slow plotline, skip the climax, straight to the surprise he-gets-incarcerated-she-files-for-divorce ending. I always wondered what my surprise ending would be, or if it would be a surprise at all.

Nothing would be worse than a predictable one, a same-job-for-three-decade conclusion. The kind of life that has cameos from mortgage lenders, mid-wives, the insulation guy, a neighbor you can’t stand and wonder why they always insist on borrowing sugar at odd hours. And the check-out chick, the one that knows your shopping list back to front, better than you do and smiles at you each Sunday without fail. But not Saturday. No way. That’s game day and you’re not missing game day. That would be the highlight of the week: the nachos with extra cheese and that tall glass of sugar free orange soda that the wife buys especially for you, not the kids because it could cause unnecessary bloating, dehydration. And you don’t argue with the wife, never. That would be stupid, plain stupid. She might start buying iced tea instead of the fizzy stuff you like. And conflict is bad, unsettling in fact. So you nod, agree. “Touchdown.” You scream, filling your mouth with fresh guacamole then check the carpet for traces of stray avocado, instinctively.

I rolled my sweatshirt into a makeshift pillow, wedged it between the window and the seat. I made a little nest and burrowed in. With the two inch give from my recliner I was back at level, but comfortable. I closed my eyes. I waited for an announcement. Nothing. I assumed this was just another routine trip for the driver and the novelty of hearing his own voice over the loud speaker had worn out years ago.

I started to think about Los Angeles. I’d never been down south and all I knew about LA was what I saw in the movies. I was sure there was more to the city than ‘hood’ tales and silicone implants, but I wasn’t certain. I wondered what hid between the ghetto melodrama and Botox parties, and all the other hype that was fed through director’s cuts. Like the roller skating blondes and the guys who work out on the sands of Venice beach, screenplays that find their target under toilet cubicles and shopping, expensive shopping… and sports cars, tops down with palm trees in the background.

I knew we were different up north. And we wanted people to know. We stressed 'north' whenever possible, like it somehow shielded us from some false perception, being pigeon holed and forced to play defense. ‘I’m from the Bay Area in 'Northern' California, it’s about eight hours 'north' of Los Angeles.’ We were proud of what we stood for, the way we evolved into this small cluster of cities with a social conscious. We were grassroots. Definitely grassroots. Everything out of San Francisco and Oakland started in basements and parks, on telephone poles or over a percolated coffee at a random street gathering. And you wouldn’t see one Styrofoam cup. That just wouldn’t fly. We were preaching sustainability well before it became trendy to carry your own green shopping bags.

We were Black Panther and gay liberation, 60’s counter culture and the labour movement of 1901. Southern California? I didn’t know much about Southern California at all, wouldn’t have a clue. But I was sure the City of Angles was more than theme parks and special effects. And the group of deviants that introduced an alternative to roller skating.

I opened my eyes, looked out the window. Only an hour out of Oakland and there was nothing but highway, with fields that dominated the horizon and a sun that you could actually see. There were no distractions, nothing to allow my mind to stray. I didn’t have much interest in wheat or trying to identify fruit trees through green netting. We just rolled along, the bus so quiet I could hear the candy wrappers being pulled away from sticks of chocolate and corn chips crumbling under mechanical jaws. Could even hear the buttons of cassette players click up and down. I closed my eyes. I wasn’t tired, excited really, but it seemed like the fashionable thing to do. I joined the masses.

Static overhead broke our silence. “Hope you all settlin’ alright back there, looks like we will make up a bit of time. Roads pretty clear, should be a straight shoot. Anyways, my name’s Trevor and I be with you guys……..and ladies of course… until Los Angeles.” He laughed, rested the small microphone on his lap and fumbled for the radio, eyes on the road.

All I seen was a shimmering nest, hair flooding out of the back of a mesh ball cap and onto a crisp blue denim shirt. It looked well trained, with a shiny coat of grease that made it hang with bouncy appeal. I bet if I pulled one of those, it would stretch clear to his mid back. Any man with a hair style like that has to have great musical taste, I thought. He would love Motown. He is Motown. I could tell and I hadn’t even seen his face.

A slow jazz ballad found its way through a talk radio station and the Spanish news. Trevor bobbed his head. This made his shoulders twitch, and his leg felt left out so it joined in with the parade of movement. I looked at the same nothing out the window, then back at Trevor. He seemed content. Content to just sit in a chair and listen to some unknown artist bang away on a flute or a saxophone or a trumpet. I couldn’t tell the difference. I never knew anyone who could actually play an instrument. I would hate driving a bus, would rather break rocks with a blunt pick on a chain gang, singing some encouraging lyrics under my breath. At least then I would get a workout. I admired his attitude. His optimism.

It felt good to be on the open road, boring, but a nice change from the day to day. I was looking forward to waking up with a new view, somewhere that didn’t look old and unkempt. And no more paisley. I couldn't bare another paisly morning. At least the bus was fresh and neat. I was confident I could handle the close confines for a few days. Maybe my growth would stop. Like a fish trapped in a glass tank or a plant in a small Tuscan pot, far too small for the roots to breath properly.

I watched Trevor pick up the small walkie-talkie device, slow, stretching the cord around his frumpy thigh.

“Any problem, concerns… gripes or yearns… come up front- I’m free of germs.” He added, humoring the bus with what seemed a memorized, impeccably timed line. A few smiles broke out, even a couple laughs. People that looked as they needed a laugh, myself included.