My Arrival
I’ve reached the station four hours early, just to make sure that I will be able to get a spot in line. This does not mean I will get on the bus.
The station smells strongly of formaldehyde and teen pregnancy.
I am beginning to question my decision to take the bus to my chosen destination.
The Wait in Line
I am waiting in line, surrounded by Korean couples and angry black men on iPhones shouting about parties in Atlanta. Everyone seems to have a baby. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have babies. I should not have a baby. I am wise enough to know this. These people were not.
Here is a woman demanding special treatment because her bus is leaving soon. Lady, this is Greyhound… special treatment is being allowed to get on the bus without someone spitting on you. I’m assuming hoping you will get hit by a luggage cart will bring me bad karma. I begin to question religion.
Ticket Counter
I have arrived at the ticket counter. I state my chosen destination and immediately hand over everything angry Greyhound lady needs to give me a ticket. She repeats my destination to me in an irritated fashion. She looks hungry. I am grateful for the bulletproof glass that will prevent her from feeding on me.
The Gate
I arrive at my gate. I am still many hours early, but there are already lots of people here. I can physically hear the old people in front of me getting even older. I send a quiet prayer to Justin Bieber. I hope he hears me.
The Gate… still.
This place has morphed into a disgustingly accurate imitation of the midnight premier of the Twilight films. Everyone resembles werewolves and vampires dying to eat each other. Some are even dressed as such… others appear to be eating each others’ faces. I fear that these people may begin to multiply. Babies are crying.
The Gate… even still.
This place is a wasteland. There are strollers of varying size and shape everywhere, some overturned, others with liquid pouring out from behind them. I ask myself how flammable this liquid might be. I stop myself from testing my hypotheses.
There are children lying about in a wanton fashion, playing with a variety of noisy toys designed to bother their neighbors. I ask myself how flammable these children might be. I once again do not test my hypotheses.
Pieces of luggage of various shapes and colors abound; I suspect that there is a live animal in my shifty-eyed neighbor’s box-like suitcase. I say nothing.
I check my iPod: half battery remaining. I do not know what deity to thank, as I have almost stopped believing in God.
The Bus Arrives
The bus arrives at the gate and everyone begins to gather their luggage, children, and hidden contraband about their person. Our tickets collected, we are shoved towards the bus which we have waited for so patiently. I am groped and searched by security personnel. This is bus transit… please leave the security searches to professionally mean people at JFK and stop poking me with your metal detecting sticks of imperialist showmanship .
I put my luggage on the bus and turn around, mentally waving goodbye to the poor souls who will not be allowed on the bus after it fills up. I know what fate awaits them; Greyhound will be sacrificing them to the mass transit gods to one-up the roadkill sacrificed by Adirondack Trailways. Their sacrifices will not have been in vain; I decide now to write a chronicle of my Greyhound journey in their memory.
Finding Your Seat
I want to sit near the front so I can get on and off the bus quickly, especially for customs. However, sitting in the front allows for people who think you are nice looking to take the opportunity to sit with you. I weigh my options, and I opt to sit in the fourth row.
I see a girl my age feigning sleep already in order to protect the seat next to her from invasion. Sweetie pie, that shit only works on Amtrak.
I manage to avoid the majority of the unpleasant patrons until a man politely requests to sit next to me. I do not hate him. I count myself lucky.
The Bus Driver’s Monologue
The driver’s monologue states all necessary facts and quite a few unnecessary ones too. I pity his existence.
The Journey Actually Begins
I begin my in-bus entertainment with overpriced magazines purchased from the newsstand. They are enough to distract me for the first leg of my journey. I do not hate everything yet.
Part I
We have been told that we will be stopping in ten minutes at a rest area. I am grateful. The bus patrons are getting antsy. My deeply-seeded fear that the movie 28 Days Later will one day come to light heightens my paranoia. A man is shouting on his iPhone about what I am certain is a very lucrative drug deal, and then about his shorties. I do not actually know what a “shorty” is; I resolve to check this on urbandictionary upon receipt of internet.
We arrive at the rest stop. The immigrants are the first to jump off the bus. Sorry pals, there is probably no Chipotle inside.
The Break
The driver tells us we have exactly fifteen minutes to get in and out. I begin to laugh to myself because that sounds dirty. I realize I have forgotten how to laugh. I run inside. There is a Starbucks. I am safe here. There is also a Popeye’s Chicken and a Burger King. The other patrons flock to these locations. My inner racist begins to scream.
Part II
We are all back on the bus, which is a great deal heavier because of the whole chickens people brought with them. They tear into their food, not realizing the lack of restrooms ahead for the next several hours. I question the wisdom of allowing these sheep to be fed anything but bread and water. I realize that my sympathy for humanity is waning as I begin to refer to most of the children on the bus as “it” inside my head.
I consider choking myself with my luggage tags. If that fails, papercuts from these magazines will do as well. I resist these urges as I can’t undo the knots of the tags and the picture on the magazine is Angelina Jolie. I do not wish to spoil her countenance.
Part III
Darkness has descended. I keep my light on in order to keep the hope alive and the souls of the dead haunting the bus out of my immediate area. I see the beginnings of a rash on my skin and that of my neighbors. I suspect leprosy.
The Albany Bus Station
This place will get its own blog entry soon. But all I will say is this…
If there is a true Hell on Earth- and I say this knowing full well that places like Death Valley and Detroit are still kicking - I challenge it to best the Albany bus station(in my humble opinion, the only place that has a shot at defeating the Albany bus station is the Schenectady train station).
Nary have I spent a sadder, more dangerous, disgusting, and vile hour of my life anywhere. It is where fun things die, and things that cause death have fun. Like serial killers, demons, and SUNY Albany students. A friend of mine once saw a pimp beat his hoe and get arrested there. I have seen assaults, arrests, and met people like the female ex-convict who just got out of juvenile hall (where she was for grand larceny) near Buffalo and is only twenty years old, has already suffering a miscarriage, and is returning to upstate New York to her fiance who she has been engaged to for four years (that’s right, since she was sixteen) who is thirty and who left his wife for her; the wife who used to tutor her after school and he would walk her back from their sessions. She is carrying only a box for her belongings. I realize this is what they gave her back after she got out of the joint. I decide words like “the joint” should make a comeback.
That story is such that it must be told in a run-on sentence. I think about buying a hot dog. I choose not to. I think this is a wise choice.
Part IV
The children are crying again. Their parents are doing nothing but ignoring them like the broken condoms from whence they came. I resolve to lock one of these children in the Greyhound bathroom to entertain myself.
Part V
I realize that someone would hear the child crying if I locked it in. Must find new plan to entertain myself. Begin tattooing my left arm with my ink pen. Should get a permanent sudoku shell tattooed on my leg for future entertainment. My iPod dies… god help us all.
Leg VI
Time has lost all meaning. I am arbitrarily naming legs of this journey, but in reality… all minutes and ours are blending together. I cannot sleep. I have also forgotten where I am going.
The Final Part
We are told we will be arriving at the destination soon. At this point I have considered many questions of an undesirable nature; cannibalism is bad, but what would people taste like? Would our taste correlate with our ethnicity, race, or staple diet? Would vegetarians taste more fruity than carnivores? Would white people taste like macaroni and cheese? I think I would taste like curry.
The Final Destination
We arrive at our destination. I ooze off of the bus. I get in the car and say nothing. I am asked how my trip was. I do not know how to respond, because my working English is not what it was when I left.
The Morning After
“That wasn’t so bad… I’ll probably take the Greyhound back too I guess.”
