Interstate Innocence

[b]”Let’s play a game”[/b]

(1975) I loved the smell of the old Greyhound bus station, something about the exhaust from all those busses. But my Ma didn’t seem to like it there much; she seemed kinda nervous. Maybe I am confusing her disdain of the filthy bus station with the trepidation she must have felt with sending me, her thirteen-year old boy, off to Texas for a month. I dunno, but I did what I could to calm her, which meant doing what she said, promising to write and telling her how much I would miss her. Nearly thirty years later, I still wonder how she scraped-up the money for that bus ticket. Anyway, I got on the half-full bus and rode south out of St. Louis that evening with my poor mom on my mind, a backpack on my lap, and a window seat.

About ninety minutes into my trip, the driver announced we would be stopping at the Poplar Bluff bus station. I closed my old dog-eared copy of The Fellowship of the Rings and looked out my window. I had never been to Poplar Bluff, and what I saw of it through my window didn’t imprint much on my memory – a small quiet town on the banks of the Ole Miss.

The driver announced we could depart the bus, but it would be pulling out forty-five minutes later. The bus station was much smaller than St Louis’ was; it seemed older too. When I stepped from the bus with my back-pack slung over my shoulder, the driver reminded me when to re-board.

I found the men’s restroom. I peed and noticed an old coin operated machine on the wall that sold condoms. I had seventy-five cents but no need for a condom, though, according to the ad slogan, they were “guaranteed to please her”. I had no HER either, but I sure wanted one. My oldest brother had a girlfriend; she was a dream! Looking around, exploring, I found a tiny gift shop, closed for the night. I peered inside, saw a magazine rack. They sold Playboys! Then a row of vending machines caught my attention, but I had to save my money, and I had food in my pack, so, leaving the vending area, I looked around for something interesting to do, someone to talk to. That’s when I noticed her.

A pretty girl in a red dress sat not far from me. When I looked over at her, she smiled at me and gave me a little wave. Blushing, I waved back, straightening my shoulders, trying to look older, more cool.

She had a little backpack too, in her lap, and at her feet was a large old suitcase. I didn’t want to stare, and I didn’t have the nerve to approach her, so I kinda wandered off, peeking at her now and then.

Near the ticket counter, I found a giant map of the U.S. on the wall. I loved maps. It had little red dots showing where all the Greyhound bus stations were. I was trying to count them when a commotion started behind me.

“God dammit! You trying to rob me?” A big old guy hollered at the clerk behind the counter. He was wearing one of those wife-beater T-shirts; it was filthy, his gut protruding comically between the mismatched suspenders holding up his cut-off jeans. He was unshaven, and I swore I could smell his body odor over the fumes of the six busses parked outside. “That’s twice as much as it cost me to send her last year, you fuckin’ thief!”

I watched closely as the ticket-clerk stood up from his chair and explained to the redneck. “She was only twelve last year, that’s why it cost you less. She’s thirteen now, and we charge adult-fare for her.” the clerk explained sternly. “I clearly recall having this argument last summer . . .sir.”

“Thirteen my ass!” the redneck cried. He spun around and hollered, “Becky get your ass over here.” I saw the girl in the red dress hop up from her seat and run over toward us. “Tell this ass-wipe how old you are.”

“Thirteen, sir,” little Becky replied. She looked over at me briefly. She seemed embarrassed, so I turned around and pretended to examine the big map.

“Fuck!” the redneck hollered. I heard little Becky cry out, so I spun around quickly enough to see the redneck picking her up by the scruff of her neck, holding her in front of the clerk’s ticket window. “Tell him how old you really are!”

“Twelve,” she said meekly. “Really!” The redneck dropped her, and glared at the clerk. And, to my surprise, the clerk produced a bus ticket. “Daddy, that hurt.”

“Shut the fuck up and get back to your seat,” he hollered, handing her the ticket and putting his wallet back in his shorts. He gave me a quick glare, scaring me. I fled for the safety of the bus.

From my window seat I watched Becky, as she sat dejected in her seat. I hoped she was getting on this bus; maybe she would sit by me. I fogged up the window staring at her, watching her father berate her and finally lead her to my bus. I sat stiffly in my seat, praying she would sit close by. I pulled my backpack off the seat and set it on the floor, just incase by some miracle she wanted to sit there.

I saw her walking down the aisle, eyes downcast, her hands gripping her pack. She didn’t look at the open seat or me, just past by. My heart sank. As we pulled out of the station, I hopped up on my seat, looked toward the back of the bus, trying to spot her. She was sitting alone, all the way in the back, looking right at me. I plopped back down in my seat and considered joining her. She sure had looked sad.

Though no where on the scale of her’s, my own father could be an ass too; we had that in common and maybe we could talk about that. I fidgeted and squirmed in indecision. After several minutes, I was no closer to convincing myself she would want me to sit by her. I began to act it out, you know, like I was approaching her, saying hello to her, and began talking to her. I was animated, practicing my moves. I tried, sitting in my seat by the window, to look cool and calm. I waved at nothing, smiling like a champ.

“Whatcha’ doin’?”

I spun around in my seat. Becky was behind me, looking over the backs of the seats right at me!

“It looks like you’re talking to yourself,” she continued, looking at me with concern.