had one of those days at work today. need to rest up for another one today. had an idea to go with "that question." i'll try to go with it tomorrow when i get out of work early. or maybe in the morn.
here's a repeat from my other blog. i kind of liked where this one was going...and hey, i actually finished this one, ha!
Door Slam
Chapter 1
as the miles roll by on the greyhound bus, my mind can't focus on anything but the abusively lound conversation going on behind me. there are two people, both who like the sound of their voice, going on and on about nothing. topics range from viagra and it's greatness to barack obama and why they voted for him. their conversation also veers into this kind of territory: getting him (i don't know who him is) "a man", the internet, smoking crack, driving a pick up truck, jacksonville (don't know if it's florida or NC, leaning towards fla...), and on and on...
it doesn't get any better than this, i start to think...
and of course that loud ass conversation -- the only one on the bus -- is directly behind me.
ugh. this in a jamaican accent...
and of course, the chair in front if me is leaned all the way back into my knees.
next door to me, a fat ladyd in a redskins starter jacket has just woken from her snore-filled snooze to pull a greasy breakfast biscuit from her pocket. yum. of course, after two bites and hopefully a swallow or two, she starts to fall asleep again, buscuit still in dirty, stubby hand.
then, a phone rings. loudly.
gasp, in a jamaican voice:
"you have the wrong number, because if you're not, you're playing with your life mother fucker."
it amazes me how much this guy sounds like peter tosh. now i've got 'steppin' razor' in my head. not a bad thing at all. thank you crazy bus riding, loud mouthed jamaican guy.
how else can one describe this scene? i've been on a greyhound before. actually many, many times. the last time being my eight hour trip from phoenix to las vegas...anyway, while texting mandy, she said 'you're dealing with livestock' and i think she hit it right on the head. are we headed towards some kind of slaughter?
sleeping beauty has dropped her buscuit on the floor twice now, her head bobbing up and down, then slowly the buscuit slips from her grip. eventually, she notices and stretches to the floor, very gingerly for some reason, scooping up the parts and putting them back in the wrapper. the first time, it was almost immediate the reaction. the second, not so fast.
now, here we go, a third time...and once again she struggles to stay awake, then falls asleep, then drops the buscuit. as the road goes by in the background, and my urge to chuckle out loud subsides, she reaches down and paws at the food again...looks around, then takes a bite.
all i can think is why bother as she juggles with the complexity of it all. pick up, drop. pick up, drop. now almost like somekind of comedy skit that just is too absurd to draw a laugh from anyone with a heart...
but damn it is funny. like a dripping faucet at night, however, it is enough to drive one mad.
hey, the conversation behind me has turned to weaves now. and how removing my hair and replacing it is good. and suddenly, switching to running out of gas while driving to buy some juice.
i feel bad, once again, for finding humor in the sadness of it all. of course, it's sad that i'm here, listening to this. somehow i got in this position...
#30#
Chapter 2
maybe i should have taken it as a sign when the bus driver closed the door in my face as i was trying to board this thing? i mean, the army guy cut right in front of me, guess i was too slow walking for him -- a guy that tried to get on the bus while it was still unloading and was scolded by the skinny, yet fat guy who would soon have my life in his hands at 60 mph...
anyway, my dad came home to pick me up from my parents' house at about 9 a.m. why he came early, i'll never know. i said i needed to be there at 10:15. it's about a 20 minute drive. about a 1/2 hour later, he's asking me 'you ready to go?' i know that means he needs to go, so i say 'yeah.'
we drive, chit chat about my car, his car, mom's car. not much else really. kind of funny, kind of typical.
about halfway out of hopewell -- my hometown -- i ask if we can stop at mcdonald's. i really have a craving for an egg mcmuffin. mcdonald's was the topic of conversation at work the other day. how no one goes there. personally, i don't believe anyone, but does it really matter? i want an egg mcmuffin, and i'm going to get it.
we pull up to the mcdonald's the line is about 15 cars deep, so i get out and go inside, where shockingly, there is no line, no wait. just a smiling 23 year old (or so) puerto rican girl. her name tag is covered by some kind of necklace thing, so i can't write it down. guess i could just make one up -- so puerto rican gal, you shall be named Celestina. anyways, Celestina smiles and says 'may i hep you' and i say hello, good morning, i'd like two egg mcmuffins.' we make eye contact, and there is nothing there. both ways. she says '4.66' so i hand over a five. she counts out my change and i wait.
there are no other customers in the place. kind of weird, but i guess no one wants to get cold. it's probably 35 or so degrees outside, cloudy and very dry. that wintry dry that leaves you all ashy. but i have dry skin, so maybe it doesn't have that same effect on you. who knows?
a minute or so later, i get my bag of mcfun and leave.
my dad still sitting in the suv, waiting for me. it's my sister's old SUV a toyota that leaks oil and skips in first gear sometimes. i drove that car to florida back in may of 2006. the last time i ever saw emily. packed that thing up with my stuff, six years worth plus a lot of the years before as well. we barely spoke that hot late spring day in gainesville. i cried. i tried not to cry. she and her (and my) friend tracy just tried to really stay out of my way. i had hoped to have a conversation, but it was obvious she wanted nothing to do with that. she and i said good bye. i said 'you know, i still want to be friends.' she said 'i know.'
that was the last conversation i had with emily. the woman i dated for six years.
it's kind of funny/tragic looking back at it.
anyway, back to the SUV...we drive by the fort lee base. it's growing. very fast. i wonder if the end of the bush wars in the middle east will slow the growth. the thing that everyone in the tri-cities (hopewell, petersburg and colonial heights) is counting on to save them...i have my doubts.
we drive into petersburg. it's a shit hole. there's the old nightclub that used to be a strip club, a discoteque and i think once again a strip club. for a little bit it was a restaurant, but that didn't last long. this strip looks a lot like what i think detroit looks like now. boarded up businesses and closed places with lots of memories and very little life.
there are three porno shops within a one mile stretch, however. so that industry appears to be booming. they even still have 25 cent peep shows. who would've thunk those would still be around? but i guess it still doesn't take too long to do what you have to do with a peep show.
i guess it really is true that some things never change.
we take a couple of turns to get to downtown, and dad misses the turn for the busstop. we circle back around, and he drops me off.
"keep me posted." he says.
"i will," i reply and shut the door.
it's 9:58 a.m. my bus leaves at 11:20.
i walk up to what i figure is the door to the station.
"that's not a door," a black guy with an orange hat that is way too big for him says.
clearly it IS a door, but i take him seriously, he looks like he knows what he's talking about.
"which one is it?" i ask. seeing clearly there is only one other choice.
"that one," he says, taking a drag from his cigarette and pointing at that door. which is glass, but you can't see through it. dirty. smudged nastiness.
i try to touch as little of it as possible as i enter the station.
it's now 9:59 a.m.
#30#
Chapter 3
after pushing the doors open, i look down at the floor. it's an old habit of mine, probably born out of my shyness during my 'formative' years. you know, the 'oh shit, she's walking right at me' thing when in high school and the cheerleader walks by in her short skirt.
this floor is old. it's been through a lot. it's black and white and it looks as if it was made out of pieces of marbles that were smashed with a hammer, then smoothed over and varnished. and then puked on by years of filth. years of the rank and file, the poor, and the folks stuck without a train ride or plan ride. you know, steve martin and john candy in planes, trains and automobiles.
i see the cashier and i pull out my printed out receipt from the internet. he's got a ski cap on. it's orange and blue. maybe somekind of chicago bears hat. but without any kind of identifying mark. he's chomping on some kind of fastfood, i'm assuming it's a breakfast kind of thing, but i really don't know. he takes a swig on his soda, with a straw of course, and chats with the lady in front of me.
i step up behind her, about five feet back or so.
'hey man,' he says. 'get behind the line!'
i look down, nothing. i look behind me, and there is a faint outline of a line. it's covered in dirt and dust and who knows. it's red, i think.
there's no sign telling you to stay behind the line. nothing.
but i step behind it.
the other 10 or so folks in the station look at me. a television, most likely made in 1980 or so, blares in the background.
'amateur' they must all be thinking.
all i can think about is my car. sitting at home, not working. the only reason i'm standing in this bus station in petersburg, virginia, which happens to be the town i was born in 37 or so years ago.
i look around some more. the bathrooms are to the right, near where i entered. they have locks on the doors. the ones that you have to put a quarter in to get them to open. i wonder how many dirty hands have touched those locks, hoping it would just open without an insertion.
and how long it's been since they've been cleaned.
'don't want to know,' the voice in my head says. damn that voice. sometimes i wonder if i'm mouthing those words, or even saying them outloud. judging by looks i sometimes receive, it must happen sometimes. hell, everyone i've ever become friends with, at some point in our relationship will have a 'huh?' moment and ask me what i said.
usually, it was something i didn't even know i said out loud.
towards the front of the building are big windows. the view of the city isn't very awe-inspiring. but really, what is at a greyhound station?
there's a doctor's office. a bank and a drive up teller. a car is sitting outside of it, grey smoke billowing out of the exhaust pipe. killing a few more leaves in the amazon.
on the other side of the view is a hotel. the kind of place i used to stay at when i was 22 and didn't know any better. the kind of place i stayed when i was 32 because i couldn't afford anything else. the kind of place at 37 that i'd consider staying in over my car on a cold night...
'next!' the guy behind the counter says loudly.
since i'm the only one in line now, i can only assume i'm next.
'need to get my tickets,' i say.
he looks at me. kind of giving me the once over.
'where you headed?' he asks.
'greenville, nc.'
'you pay already?'
'yep. here's my number.'
he looks at it. types into his computer, that i can't see, but only assume it's a computer. i kind of giggle inside, hoping that it's a wang computer from the 1980s. 'heh, heh. wang.' i think in my best beavis and butthead voiceover.
'here's your ticket'
i take it, put in my backpack and go walk away.
there's a vending machine. sodas cost $1.75. a 1 1/2 ounce bag of chips is a buck. no wonder poor people stay poor. but i've got experience at that.
i look at the seats. a lot of empty ones, but very few around the television. there is a group of blacks taking up one row. a mother and daughter, what i can only assume is a sister, cousin or whatever and a grandmother.
in another spot, two guys dressed in camoflauge -- desert camo -- are counting change to get a gatorade.
one of them gets up and puts it in the machine. gets a red.
second guy plops his money in. pushes the button.
nothing.
'shit man, this thing took my money,' he says.
the sign on the machine says 'no refunds,' but the guy, probably no older than 19 goes up to the ticket desk. the guy is gone, but in his place is the guy who had been standing outside when i arrived.
'hey, that thing too my money,' the army brat says.
'so.' the outside guy says.
'damn.'
'did you try kicking it?' outsider retorts.
'nope.' and he walks up and gives it a swift kick.
nothing.
for about a minute, he proceeds to kick, punch and shake the machine. nothing.
finally, the outside guy steps up and kicks it.
maybe he had the special spot, but soon the cla-clunking sound of a gatorade bottle falling down the shute emits from the machine. out plop two gatorade limes. outside guy leans down, picks them up and flips one to the army guy.
'here ya go, man' he says.
'thanks, you're a life-safer. that was my last bit of change.'
i turn around and eat my two english muffins. it makes me thirsty. but i don't get a drink. not really in the mood for kicking.
a lady in her early 30s walks in and sits near me. a few seconds later, a girl -- about 16 or so, sits next to her. i look at them and they look at me. no smiles, no nothing. just looks.
this is obviously a mother and daughter. they look too much alike not to be.
finally, the young girls speaks...'do you care if i turn it?'
my initial thought is turn what? but finally my slow mind drifts toward the noise beside me from the old TV. one of those morning talk shows is on.
'nah, do what you want' i say and smile.
no reaction. except she gets up and turns the channel. to the maury povich show.
'oh, i love this show,' the younger black girl screams.
it's about secret crushes. i go back to my place in my mind.
halfway through, i glance up. all 10 folks in the place are within five feet of the TV. riveted by maury povich's corny lines laced with bad sexual innuendo. so bad, i don't even think gene raburn or chuck woolery would have ever uttered them. maybe bob barker in an after the 'price is right' wrap party, but no one else.
for some reason, one of the people on the show is salsa dancing.
'i can dig me some salsa!' a woman, who i hadn't seen before, says. she has dreadlocks (sort of) and a david letterman/madonna gap between her teeth. she then proceeds to salsa dance.
it's actually good, too.
maury povich ends. and a bus pulls up. everyone but one army guy leave.
quiet envelops the building. except for the opening credits of the steve wilko show. amazing, i think. the bouncer from jerry springer got his own show. what a great country...
i pull out a book and read. fully expecting a bill hicks moment to occur at any time...but, like every other time i think maybe it will happen, it doesn't.
soon, i'm standing outside, getting ready to board my bus.
i wait at the right spot, but military guy doesn't. he tries to get on, but is told to get in line as the folks getting off in petersburg, get off.
he backs up behind me. then when the people stop getting off, he dashes in front of me and goes in.
the doors slam in my face.
#30#
Chapter 4
the slam of the door pops only one thought into my head...that of arizona.
i open up the door to my classic suburban home. it's probably 110 degrees outside, and all i can think about is 'why the fuck are we fighting?'
the last couple of days have been pretty bad. we hang out, we smile, we kiss, we fuck, and then usually sometime later, we fight. i've never been in a realtionship like this. it's oddly fun. and i don't like thinking about it that way. but of course, maybe that's just me thinking back upon it.
much like i know now why we fought so damn much. to quote ronnie lane via the voice of rod stewart 'i wish that, i knew what i know now....'
but it don't work that way...never fucking will.
sometimes a bright flash gives you perspective...but this time it doesn't. i see the sun, the dead grass all around. but who really waters their lawn in arizona in the middle of the summer? not a bunch of drug adled morons and me, the college student.
i don't even remember what we are fighting about. it's probably something i said, something i did, but i seriously don't remember.
maybe i didn't do something the right way.
all i know is she's saying this 'i don't want to be with you anymore.'
i plead all i can to keep her around. but it doesn't seem to matter. i'm not crying, because at this point, i really hadn't learned how to yet.
well, not true, exactly, but honestly, i think i'd only cried over things that i should never have cried over....mainly because really i'd never suffered real pain.
pain, yes. real pain? no.
after a few back and forth barbs, the fighting calms down. she's crying now, like she does a lot. i wish i knew how to keep her from crying. i wish i could fix it. yet, i have no idea.
obviously, i am not prepared for such things.
these emotions continued for years. the fights? they continued for years.
in between, there were a lot of miles, a lot of great times. a lot of strange times. a lot of fights.
through it all, i didn't waver.
until i left.
until she told me the truth.
not about us. well, yes, about us. and it changed me. i don't think it changed her. but it changed me. and the way i perceived us.
i wasn't emotionally strong enough of a person to deal with it. so i shrunk. i balled myself up.
and i got on a bus and got out of town. well, symbolically. metaphorically.
now, here i am, so many years later and the bus door just slammed into my face. and all of that popped into my head. i didn't think it all through immediately. but seconds later i did. and the words flowed from my hand to my pen to the paper. mostly random, but i knew what it all meant. i knew where it was headed.
i wish i could turn it off. turn it off like a faucet. just reach up and twist. and the flow stops. never to be heard from again until someone comes along and twists it again.
fuck. life isn't that orderly. at least not for me. maybe for the librarian here in town. maybe for the guy who stands on the side of the road in an uncle sam suit during tax time. maybe for the woman at big lots with the tribal tattoo on her neck for everyone to see who actually perked up when i asked how she was doing after she asked me and i answered in a way that wasn't just "good."
anyway.
the doors on the bus open up.
'oh man, i didn't see you there too,' the bus driver says.
'not a problem,' i say.
i look up the aisle. a lot of eyes are upon me. i'm not uncomfortable about it, but they arent' friendly eyes. reminds me of some old movie where the innocent child somehow ends up in the forest and the eyes of the beasts of the forest are upon her.
so i look down at the ground, then up again, getting my bearings.
there is one place with two open seats.
i make a b-line for it. sit down and sigh.
'whew,' i think. 'only five, six hours to go!'
next to me is an overweight black woman in a redskins starter jacket. behind me, the beginnings of a conversation. a man and a woman.
one has sort of a southern mixed with new jersey accent. the other, quite obviously is jamaican.
'this should be interesting....."
The End.
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