“hello, and thank you for choosing greyhound, my name is david, and I will be one of your coach operators for today. there is to be no smoking on the coach. if you do not heed the restrictions on smoking, your next driver will be a state trooper. there is no drinking alcoholic intoxicants of any kind on greyhound. if you do not know what an intoxicant is, that includes st. ides, mad dog 20/20, gin and juice, and apple martinis. if you have already drunk an alcoholic intoxicant, than please go to sleep, and we can all have a nice, peaceful ride this evening.”
a cacophony of conversations. accents. personalities…and most importantly, characters of every sort. The 50-ish british woman, who continues to swear up and down that she knows nothing of prejudice or white supremacist patriarchy, because she was so ready to befriend a pakistani girl she met in grade school, when no one else would volunteer, despite their instructor’s entreaties. my, isn’t she liberal? “I usually take a plane,” she exclaimed upon commencing her rant. and she is telling this to? light-skinned, wavy-haired hybrid boy in his early twenties, new yorker, with timbs, maurice malone denim, a burberry head scarf. yes, if you missed it, go back, and read that shit again. a burberry head scarf. across the aisle sit two elderly women, from columbia, who insist on angrily heckling the driver as he proceeds up and down the coach – “I guess I woulda had time ta get that water after all, huh? tol’ ya so!” up front is carrie, who, she assures me, shoots back. that’s why “them arabs don’t dare” mess with her, and why new york is safer than charleston, even after september 11th. 4 rows back, to my right, a little girl babbles on inanely- the self-same little girl who screamed at her brother, prior to leaving the station, “that’s why I hate you, perry!” a holy terror, that one, aged 3. 2 rows up, right, the older gentleman who keeps staring at my shirt. next to me sits a bag, a book, and a butterfinger. wait. the old women to my right just began singing gospel songs, interspersed with dry, harsh, hacking coughs. I wish she had gotten that water, dammit.
a litany of lunacy is carolina trailways, or peter pan, or greyhound, or whatever the little changling demonspawn busline wants to call itself. so here, riding on my second incorrect schedule, and not knowing whether I am still on time, I ride. at night, on a bus with no reading lights. and a rude, silly ass driver (see the above quote).
to put it more succinctly, foolishness and freaks a go-go.