 |
| The Ole Grey Dog |
"To Virginia? You want to ride the bus to Virginia from here?"
"Yeah," I answered.
"Okaaaaay," she responded.
"Are these everyone's tickets or just mine?"
She frowned. There was no waiting room at the bus terminal. It was more like a tiny space just big enough for the clerk and a terminal. Once I got my tickets, I was supposed to wait outside on the street for the bus which would be along shortly. I said my goodbyes to my parents as the bus rolled up.
Back then buses were the only means of travel which allowed passengers to smoke. While airplanes and trains all banned smoking, bus companies actively advertised that one could enjoy the cool menthol flavor of their favorite cigarette while traveling onboard an ole grey dog. People primarily travelled by bus because it was cheap, and you could light up. Although I appreciated the low cost, I didn't care for smoking at all. In fact, I despised it having grown up with siblings who smoked in our childhood home. I never understood how someone could get addicted to cigarettes because right from the start, smoking is vile. I never got past the putrid smell of burning tobacco to the euphoria of nicotine without giving up. Good thing too, because not for nothing, but smoking kills you.
Soon I was on the highway, burning up the miles, the wind blowing in the vents, the countryside streaming by my window. I settled into my seat. As I looked at the endless prossession of cars threading down the highway, I tried to think of something poetically pretentious like how small we all were on our insignificant journeys. I spotted my parents driving home in their blue Saturn. Before I had time to get their attention, the bus veered off an exit as my parents continued on. I thought maybe we had mechanical troubles or something before I realized that we were stopping in the next town to pick up more people. The whole process of pulling off the highway, loading humans, then getting back underway took almost a half an hour. When we got back on the highway, I thought,
"Okay, now we're going."
Just when the bus got up to speed, we started slowing down for the next exit. I surmised that maybe we blew a tire or something, but we threaded our way to a terminal in a small town. As more people climbed onto the bus, I suddenly realized why my ticket was eight feet long. Every perforated section represented a stop we were to make. I quickly counted through all my tickets. Less the two stops we already made, we would be getting off the highway 36 more times. The next stop was West Warwick, Rhode Island, my parent's hometown. It took me two hours to get back to where I started out. This was going to be a long ride, made longer by the dude who sat in the window seat next to me. He began to snore like he had a gaping chest wound.
"Hey buddy. You're snoring," I said.
"Like I can do something about that," the guy exclaimed as he awoke.
He began searching his pockets until he found something he liked. As he turned to me, I noticed a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"You got a light?" he asked.
I shook my head. Eventually, he unearthed a book of matches. He wasted no time lighting his cigarette then inhaling deeply. Being on the last mode of transportation to be concerned about secondhand smoke, I realized I was trapped in a moving cloud of carcinogens. When he was through with his cancer nail, Smokey crushed the remains of the butt in a flip up ashtray on the armrest then nodded off. Shortly thereafter, he resumed his guttural snoring as the bus pulled away. I looked through my tickets again. I thought of getting off at the next stop and finding alternate transportation, but I wasn't near a train terminal. Best to sit back and take in the firsthand snoring and secondhand smoke.
We made a big stop in New York City, weaving our way through crowded streets. I thought I would get off the bus and use the loo. The bus driver was having no part of that. He warned,
"I'm pulling out in five minutes with or without you."
He recommended I use the toilet in the back of the bus. I found the head by following my nose. Back in my cheese wagon riding days in middle school, the cool kids rode in the back. The rear of the ole grey dog smelled like, well, the rear of an ole grey dog. When I opened the door to the loo, I discovered that the toilet was clogged with three different color turds. I tried to flush, but the logs only rocked gently in the pressurized blue flow. Obviously, others tried the same thing, but with no luck so they just heaped on their contribution to the growing art project in the bowl. Luckily, I was just pumping the bilge, and as far as I could tell, I'd make it to Virginia without having to drop any friends off at the pool.
As I stood before the biscuit laden bowl and deposited my lemonade, I noticed a big hole in the wall of the bus. It was the size of a fist and I was thankful for the fresh air pouring in. When I finished, I bent down to look out the hole. I saw a bunch of people sitting on some steps of an impressive looking building. They all had a clear view of my junk as I relived myself. I washed my hands in a sink full of cigarette butts and discarded gum then got out of there.
Back in my seat, I looked through my string of tickets. There was about 25 stops left. Eventually the bus began moving. My row mate was sleeping heavily as the last cilia in his lungs struggled to keep his spindly frame alive. Secretly, I hoped he was having terrible dreams like his girlfriend cheating on him with his brother or his dog dying in a hunting accident. Before long, I dosed off. I awoke with a jolt. My row mate was smoking. The bus driver was standing before us in the aisle issuing strict instructions to the passengers.
"You have a half hour. Don't be late. I don't do a head count, and we leave promptly in thirty minutes," the bus driver recited.
It took me some time to get my bearings. I asked Smokey,
"Where are we?"
"How the fuck would I know?" he answered.
Soon I was on the highway, burning up the miles, the wind blowing in the vents, the countryside streaming by my window. I settled into my seat. As I looked at the endless prossession of cars threading down the highway, I tried to think of something poetically pretentious like how small we all were on our insignificant journeys. I spotted my parents driving home in their blue Saturn. Before I had time to get their attention, the bus veered off an exit as my parents continued on. I thought maybe we had mechanical troubles or something before I realized that we were stopping in the next town to pick up more people. The whole process of pulling off the highway, loading humans, then getting back underway took almost a half an hour. When we got back on the highway, I thought,
"Okay, now we're going."
Just when the bus got up to speed, we started slowing down for the next exit. I surmised that maybe we blew a tire or something, but we threaded our way to a terminal in a small town. As more people climbed onto the bus, I suddenly realized why my ticket was eight feet long. Every perforated section represented a stop we were to make. I quickly counted through all my tickets. Less the two stops we already made, we would be getting off the highway 36 more times. The next stop was West Warwick, Rhode Island, my parent's hometown. It took me two hours to get back to where I started out. This was going to be a long ride, made longer by the dude who sat in the window seat next to me. He began to snore like he had a gaping chest wound.
"Hey buddy. You're snoring," I said.
"Like I can do something about that," the guy exclaimed as he awoke.
He began searching his pockets until he found something he liked. As he turned to me, I noticed a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"You got a light?" he asked.
I shook my head. Eventually, he unearthed a book of matches. He wasted no time lighting his cigarette then inhaling deeply. Being on the last mode of transportation to be concerned about secondhand smoke, I realized I was trapped in a moving cloud of carcinogens. When he was through with his cancer nail, Smokey crushed the remains of the butt in a flip up ashtray on the armrest then nodded off. Shortly thereafter, he resumed his guttural snoring as the bus pulled away. I looked through my tickets again. I thought of getting off at the next stop and finding alternate transportation, but I wasn't near a train terminal. Best to sit back and take in the firsthand snoring and secondhand smoke.
We made a big stop in New York City, weaving our way through crowded streets. I thought I would get off the bus and use the loo. The bus driver was having no part of that. He warned,
"I'm pulling out in five minutes with or without you."
He recommended I use the toilet in the back of the bus. I found the head by following my nose. Back in my cheese wagon riding days in middle school, the cool kids rode in the back. The rear of the ole grey dog smelled like, well, the rear of an ole grey dog. When I opened the door to the loo, I discovered that the toilet was clogged with three different color turds. I tried to flush, but the logs only rocked gently in the pressurized blue flow. Obviously, others tried the same thing, but with no luck so they just heaped on their contribution to the growing art project in the bowl. Luckily, I was just pumping the bilge, and as far as I could tell, I'd make it to Virginia without having to drop any friends off at the pool.
As I stood before the biscuit laden bowl and deposited my lemonade, I noticed a big hole in the wall of the bus. It was the size of a fist and I was thankful for the fresh air pouring in. When I finished, I bent down to look out the hole. I saw a bunch of people sitting on some steps of an impressive looking building. They all had a clear view of my junk as I relived myself. I washed my hands in a sink full of cigarette butts and discarded gum then got out of there.
Back in my seat, I looked through my string of tickets. There was about 25 stops left. Eventually the bus began moving. My row mate was sleeping heavily as the last cilia in his lungs struggled to keep his spindly frame alive. Secretly, I hoped he was having terrible dreams like his girlfriend cheating on him with his brother or his dog dying in a hunting accident. Before long, I dosed off. I awoke with a jolt. My row mate was smoking. The bus driver was standing before us in the aisle issuing strict instructions to the passengers.
"You have a half hour. Don't be late. I don't do a head count, and we leave promptly in thirty minutes," the bus driver recited.
It took me some time to get my bearings. I asked Smokey,
"Where are we?"
"How the fuck would I know?" he answered.
 |
| Funny Bone |
I looked about groggily. We were in a rest stop. Everyone started to get up and fiddle with their luggage in the overhead. I seized the moment and shot off the bus, making a beeline to the convenience store. As I entered the little mart, I considered the bathroom which I surmised would be cleaner than that on the bus. I checked my watch. I was already ten minutes down and t-minus twenty minutes and counting. I hit up the refrigerators for a drink. The only thing I could find that wasn't a sugar laden sports drink was apple juice. At the register there were gobs of little packages of crap, Slim Jims, Hostess Ding Dongs, Gummy Bears. I settled on a Drake's Funny Bone, which according to the manufacturer is a devils food cake "filled with rich peanut butter crème and enrobed with a milk chocolate-flavored icing." Whatever.
If you ever had a Funny Bone, introduced in 1961, you know they're foul tasting Twinkies, most likely consumed by people who have firsthand experience with the Vietnam conflict and the moon shots. I couldn't recall ever eating one and since pickings were slim, I had a go. I bolted back to the bus with seconds to spare. When I entered, I was the only one onboard. The thirty minutes window elapsed, and still I was alone. I broke into my apple juice and Funny Bone as I looked about. I thought,
"Bus driver's going to be pissed."
I hoped Smokey didn't make it back in time, and we ditched him in Munson, Ohio or where ever the hell we were. As I tried to wash down the the Funny Bone with the apple juice, I noticed the drink tasted odd. I didn't think much about it as I began reading the ingredients of a Funny Bone on the wrapper. I really wasn't sure what "crème" was. There was a whole host of things comprising a Funny Bone like partially hydrogenated palm kernel oil, polysorbate 60, soy lecithin. Although I prefer my palm kernel oil to be fully hydrogenated, bus riders can't be choosers.
When I came across an expiration date on the wrapper, I wasn't immediately sure what each number meant. The first was under thirteen and was probably the month, the next was in the twenties so was likely the day while the "1991" was certainly the year. The only problem with all this is that it was 1992. My Funny Bone had expired a year ago. I swigged down the last of my skunk apple juice as I contemplated the expiration date on the wrapper. Suddenly, the Funny Bone didn't seem so funny. Some people began filtering onto the bus. They were fifteen minutes late. Smokey came onboard holding a fresh pack of Marlboros. The bus driver finally arrived last after being gone for an hour. Not being a seasoned bus patron, I didn't know that the bus driver's strict orders where bullshit. Shortly, we were back on the road as my row mate tore into his collection of carcinogenic sticks.
I wasn't able to sleep so I looked through my string of tickets. Twenty left and I would be off this bus to purgatory. Shortly after we got underway, something began to awaken deep in the recesses of my lower gastrointestinal tract. I looked at my tickets, wondering if I was going to make it off this ride without having to contemplate returning to the turd museum in the back. I tried to sleep but things seemed to progress rapidly. Before long, I was staggering like a zombie to the aft septic tank. As I entered the toilet, the smell alone almost made me hurl. The toilet was still clogged by the tricolor turds. The thought of having to puke in that bowl was enough to make me, well, puke. I leaned against the wall as the bus rocked back and forth. If I was to bob for spumoni, it would be in the trash laden sink for sure.
Before long, my stomach settled to a point where I was pretty sure I wasn't going to spew. Instead, I suddenly had to take a power dump. Now, you might think that things had changed for the better, but you'd be wrong. Having the Nutella squirts meant I had to use the already clogged toilet in lieu of ralphing in the relatively clean cigarette and gum filled sink. If I was going to get near that toilet, and do anything explosively, I was going to have to rid the bowl of its current inhabitants.
I began flushing the toilet vigorously as I rifled through the cabinets for whatever I could find. I came up with yellow rubber gloves and a toilet brush. There was little choices and very little time which allowed me much later in life to relate to Captain Sullenberger flying Cactus 1549. Do I don the rubber gloves and pick up the turds and dump them in the wastepaper basket? My stomach groaned ominously. Landing in the Hudson looked like the only option. I tried flushing again, then I noticed a very small plunger behind the toilet. The handle was only about a foot long. It seemed like it was a better option to try to clear the toilet with the plunger rather than handling stranger's shit, but the short handle meant my hands would be inside the bowl.
I felt and heard a rush of fluid inside my bowels. I was certain I going to have a surgical shit, that is, when you take a dump and your feel like you just underwent a major operation. I needed to act fast.
"Wait! The gloves!" I thought.
I pulled on the gloves, took up the little plunger and began pumping the clogged bowl which was now filled with a brown broth of bacteria as well as the aforementioned tricolor turds, only one of which was floating. I was very concerned with my proximity to splash back. The breech in the bus wall began to whistle in the wind as if to say,
"Luke, use the hole."
I thought of reaching in and snagging the floater and tossing it out the hole which was at eye level as I plunged. Peering out the portal, I saw we were crossing a river. I knew if I remove the human C4 from the toilet, and the gloves ripped, I'd be dead by the time we reached Virginia. I thought of the Tallahatchie Bridge and the song, Ode to Billy Joe, by Bobbie Gentry.
She and Billie Joe was throwin' somethin' off the Tallahatchie Bridge.
Just then I noticed the broth level decreasing. A few more plunges and the bowl emptied, thankfully. Another flush and we were Challenger go for throttle up. I cleared and cleaned up the bowl in time to meet my growing needs. Later, I returned to my seat. My row mate was smoking as he said,
"Where are we?"
"Choctaw Ridge," I answered with authority.
I arrived in Virginia right on schedule as my tickets ticked away. My sister was suitably surprised.
"How was the bus?" she asked.
"Wonderful," I answered.
My bus ride taught me the importance of minding expiration dates, especially on food. A few days into my surprise visit, I learned that bus tickets were nonrefundable so I threw them into the trash then flew home. There was no stops, no smoking and relatively cleaner toilets.
The little bag of beer nuts they gave out never tasted so good.
If you ever had a Funny Bone, introduced in 1961, you know they're foul tasting Twinkies, most likely consumed by people who have firsthand experience with the Vietnam conflict and the moon shots. I couldn't recall ever eating one and since pickings were slim, I had a go. I bolted back to the bus with seconds to spare. When I entered, I was the only one onboard. The thirty minutes window elapsed, and still I was alone. I broke into my apple juice and Funny Bone as I looked about. I thought,
"Bus driver's going to be pissed."
I hoped Smokey didn't make it back in time, and we ditched him in Munson, Ohio or where ever the hell we were. As I tried to wash down the the Funny Bone with the apple juice, I noticed the drink tasted odd. I didn't think much about it as I began reading the ingredients of a Funny Bone on the wrapper. I really wasn't sure what "crème" was. There was a whole host of things comprising a Funny Bone like partially hydrogenated palm kernel oil, polysorbate 60, soy lecithin. Although I prefer my palm kernel oil to be fully hydrogenated, bus riders can't be choosers.
When I came across an expiration date on the wrapper, I wasn't immediately sure what each number meant. The first was under thirteen and was probably the month, the next was in the twenties so was likely the day while the "1991" was certainly the year. The only problem with all this is that it was 1992. My Funny Bone had expired a year ago. I swigged down the last of my skunk apple juice as I contemplated the expiration date on the wrapper. Suddenly, the Funny Bone didn't seem so funny. Some people began filtering onto the bus. They were fifteen minutes late. Smokey came onboard holding a fresh pack of Marlboros. The bus driver finally arrived last after being gone for an hour. Not being a seasoned bus patron, I didn't know that the bus driver's strict orders where bullshit. Shortly, we were back on the road as my row mate tore into his collection of carcinogenic sticks.
I wasn't able to sleep so I looked through my string of tickets. Twenty left and I would be off this bus to purgatory. Shortly after we got underway, something began to awaken deep in the recesses of my lower gastrointestinal tract. I looked at my tickets, wondering if I was going to make it off this ride without having to contemplate returning to the turd museum in the back. I tried to sleep but things seemed to progress rapidly. Before long, I was staggering like a zombie to the aft septic tank. As I entered the toilet, the smell alone almost made me hurl. The toilet was still clogged by the tricolor turds. The thought of having to puke in that bowl was enough to make me, well, puke. I leaned against the wall as the bus rocked back and forth. If I was to bob for spumoni, it would be in the trash laden sink for sure.
Before long, my stomach settled to a point where I was pretty sure I wasn't going to spew. Instead, I suddenly had to take a power dump. Now, you might think that things had changed for the better, but you'd be wrong. Having the Nutella squirts meant I had to use the already clogged toilet in lieu of ralphing in the relatively clean cigarette and gum filled sink. If I was going to get near that toilet, and do anything explosively, I was going to have to rid the bowl of its current inhabitants.
I began flushing the toilet vigorously as I rifled through the cabinets for whatever I could find. I came up with yellow rubber gloves and a toilet brush. There was little choices and very little time which allowed me much later in life to relate to Captain Sullenberger flying Cactus 1549. Do I don the rubber gloves and pick up the turds and dump them in the wastepaper basket? My stomach groaned ominously. Landing in the Hudson looked like the only option. I tried flushing again, then I noticed a very small plunger behind the toilet. The handle was only about a foot long. It seemed like it was a better option to try to clear the toilet with the plunger rather than handling stranger's shit, but the short handle meant my hands would be inside the bowl.
I felt and heard a rush of fluid inside my bowels. I was certain I going to have a surgical shit, that is, when you take a dump and your feel like you just underwent a major operation. I needed to act fast.
"Wait! The gloves!" I thought.
I pulled on the gloves, took up the little plunger and began pumping the clogged bowl which was now filled with a brown broth of bacteria as well as the aforementioned tricolor turds, only one of which was floating. I was very concerned with my proximity to splash back. The breech in the bus wall began to whistle in the wind as if to say,
"Luke, use the hole."
I thought of reaching in and snagging the floater and tossing it out the hole which was at eye level as I plunged. Peering out the portal, I saw we were crossing a river. I knew if I remove the human C4 from the toilet, and the gloves ripped, I'd be dead by the time we reached Virginia. I thought of the Tallahatchie Bridge and the song, Ode to Billy Joe, by Bobbie Gentry.
She and Billie Joe was throwin' somethin' off the Tallahatchie Bridge.
Just then I noticed the broth level decreasing. A few more plunges and the bowl emptied, thankfully. Another flush and we were Challenger go for throttle up. I cleared and cleaned up the bowl in time to meet my growing needs. Later, I returned to my seat. My row mate was smoking as he said,
"Where are we?"
"Choctaw Ridge," I answered with authority.
I arrived in Virginia right on schedule as my tickets ticked away. My sister was suitably surprised.
"How was the bus?" she asked.
"Wonderful," I answered.
My bus ride taught me the importance of minding expiration dates, especially on food. A few days into my surprise visit, I learned that bus tickets were nonrefundable so I threw them into the trash then flew home. There was no stops, no smoking and relatively cleaner toilets.
The little bag of beer nuts they gave out never tasted so good.
Editor's Note: Originally posted on June 29, 2017.
No comments:
Post a Comment