Greyhound diaries pt 2

So there we were, stuck in Medford Oregon, at a truck stop, on Christmas eve, with nothing to do and no idea of when we would be rescued from this strange limbo. Most of the greyhound passengers stepped off the bus and lit up cigs, smoking and bitching about the crappy situation we were in. At the time I didn’t smoke so Sean and I stood outside with our hands stuffed in our pockets, complaining like the rest of them. Our breath steamed in plumes from our mouths and the ground was littered with piles of white snow. I looked at these little clumps of precipitation and cursed them for putting us in this situation. What I should have been cursing, however, was Oregon law. Everyone knows bus and truck drivers are all cranked out on methamphetamines anyway, why not let them drive overtime?



In the next several hours I became intimately aware of my surroundings. The truck stop had a fairly extensive mini-mart and Sean and I spent several hours checking out their wares; snow-globes, stereos, mini statues of deer and wolves, postcards, auto supplies, and tons of junk food and drinks. There was also a taco bell and subway attached where I spent some cash on excitingly named but terribly crafted food items like crunch wrap Supremes and veggie delights.



I felt the worst for the passengers who had to manage their kids. There was no way to keep children entertained in these dismal surroundings. The kids of a single mom who were sitting in the seat across from us on the bus ran wild around a little arcade, spinning the steering wheel around on the racing game and pounding on the glass of the ‘claw’ machine, hoping that this would result in one of the stuffed animals falling out. The mom paid little attention to her children’s antics. She was only roused from her own reverie if it appeared that one of her kids was annoying or harassing another passenger, and even then this was no guarantee that her parenting instincts would take over. On the bus her kids were rough-housing and screaming and she would delegate her parental duties to her eldest son, telling him to ‘shut them up.’ She spent most of her time playing snake on her cell phone. When the kids got really out of hand her discipline techniques mostly revolved around threats such as “you guys better shut up right now or,” “when we get to grandma’s house, I’m gonna beat your asses bad.”



***



Eventually Sean and I had exhausted all the entertainment options at the truck stop. We decided that it was time to buy some 40’s and drown our sorrows in ass-tasting malt liquor. But when we approached the counter the cashier immediately pinned us as hapless greyhound riders and informed us that it was store policy not to serve alcohol to those poor dimwits who chose to ride the dawg. I was offended by her assumption that, because I was forced to ride the bus, I couldn’t purport myself in a responsible manner under the influence of alcoholic spirits, but, after the next scene I witnessed at the truck stop, I understood why their policy was in place. Greyhound passengers are a volatile lot and adding alcohol to the mix could only make matters worse.



I had taken notice of the blind man on the bus at our first rest stop, he was hard to miss. I’m not sure if he was completely blind but he walked with a cane to guide himself and his eyes had a certain milky quality that indicated a severe retinal condition. He was dressed quite colorfully in a red, one-piece sweatsuit with a garland of plastic marijuana leaves draped around his neck. You wouldn’t think that a blind man would want to pick fights with the more visually able for fear of severe physical punishment, but this is exactly what happened in Medford. I went into the bathroom for probably the 100th time at the truck stop and I had to squeeze by the aforementioned blind fellow and a young latino kid who were talking animatedly back in forth right in the path to the urinals. It was the blind guy who was doing most of the talking.



“Yeah man, I’m from LA you understand. Tough place, you gotta stick up for yourself. Yeah, we gangstas. That’s right. I’ma blood and you’re a crip. That’s the way it is.



I could tell that these two had a lot of energy so I avoided eye contact and got out of the bathroom quickly. As I was leaving another fellow came in with headphones over his ears. He was nodding slowly, listening to his music. As the door to the bathroom swung shut I heard the blind guy ask aggressively what he was listening to….



Ten minutes later the music listener emerged from the bathroom and approached a few other greyhounders who were loitering outside. They didn’t appear to know each other but they were all African American and this seemed to strike an immediate note of solidarity. “Come on you gotta help me out. This guys trying to start some shit.”



Suddenly they were all outside, the teenage gangster, the blind gangster, and several guys on the other side. There was some shouting and pushing going on, all instigated by the handicapped pothead. At one point a subway employee went outside to break it up and was rewarded with a sharp shove from the blind fellow. At this point the police showed up, handcuffed him, and drove him away. What an ignominious end to his holiday trip. I always wondered where he was going that Christmas and weather there was anyone who would miss his presence on the holidays. It was hard to stay positive at that truck stop, and harder still for those who didn’t have a warm home to go to. Our situation had turned from awful to awful/comical.



After hour six some of the hounders had called in complaints and a news station showed up to record our plight. At this point Greyhound, fearing a publicity debacle, generously gave us all one free meal at either subway or taco bell. How gracious of them to give us a choice!



Hour seven arrived and there was no sign of an impending rescue. The bus driver assuaged our fears every hour or two by telling us that a bus was on the way with an extra driver to spell him. But buses would come to the truck stop every hour with only one driver. They would refuel and then go on their merry way, leaving us stranded and wondering if we would ever get home. For most of the time that I was stuck at the stop I had been on the phone with my mother, a perennial worry-wart and hypochodriac. She grew increasingly distraught as time progressed and offered to buy me a plane ticket from Medford back home several times. I consistently declined, knowing that there was no guarantee that flights were running into a snowed-in airport and also not wanting to leave my friend Sean behind. But as my patience thinned my will broke down and I finally took her up on the offer. I said a farewell to Sean and ordered a cab to take me to the airport. After going through security it was dark outside and I waited with one other person in the tiny airport for my very own rescue flight back home. Then over the intercom I heard an announcement in a now familiar tone of apology. My flight had been cancelled. So it was back to the ticket counter where they gave me a voucher for a hotel room.



Sitting in a hotel room by myself on Christmas eve was a depressing affair and I decided I needed to go out to keep myself occupied. I walked about a quarter of a mile to the nearest mall/shopping center in this poor excuse for a town. But, because it was Christmas eve, pretty much everything was closed. At the grocery store a worker was stacking up the carts for the night and the rest of the restaurants were darkened. Around the other side of the square I ran across a god-send, an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Of course, the Chinese weren’t taking Christmas off. They had their own calendar and their own holidays. I was reminded of my Jewish friend at that moment who told me that Christmas was always the time his family would go out to movies because the theaters were empty while the good Christians were at home spending quality time with their families. In the restaurant I chowed down and drank a beer. I was the only person by himself in the place. There were mostly families and couples, largely overweight (pun intended). Making my scene more pathetic I was wearing a slightly too small red shirt with a picture of Santa’s head on the front, enscribed with the words, “ho ho ho.” After my fine dining experience it was back to the hotel room for another beer and a James Bond marathon on tv. All in all, not a terrible way to spend a holidays eve.



Well the next morning my flight did take off, although there was a final suspenseful moment involving a 30 minute delay for de-icing. At this point I was understandably pessimistic and I figured I would be spending Christmas in Medford with my Asian pals, wallowing in my sorrows and bathing in orange glaze from the sesame chicken. But we did take off and I made it back home at around 6 am on Christmas, about two full days after I had left Oakland. A 2 hour flight turned in to a 16 hour drive which turned into a 48 hour odyssey. Later Sean reported to me that Sean greyhound had been unable to find another driver and had sprung for vans to drive the stranded dawgers to Portland. Ironically, he made it back to the city around the same time I did. But he was subjected to one more indignity. Apparently a man on the van got drunk off cheap vodka on the last leg of the journey and alternated between crying and beating his wife. Nice.



Well you would think that this would scare me off riding the dog forever but now I find myself purchasing another ticket. It’s just so cheap, I can’t resist.