Greyhounds

The bus hit a bump that threw me into the aisle. There were some shouts - muffled under the weight of their owners’ collective sleep. We had hit another pot hole, most likely due to the driver’s boredom. “Sorry about that folks,” Carla laughed, “must not have been paying attention.” She was our driver for the last leg of the journey. She told me she took the job because it gave her an excuse to get away from her three kids and worthless husband for two days at a time. That and I suspect she was a sadist, but I was already awake. Earlier my traveling companion had taken her bags from the low storage compartment and boarded her sister’s car. We exchanged phone numbers and I never saw her again. Something told me this ahead of time, but I was still an optimist. I sat in the grass wearing my newly acquired non, lighting one of my eight hundred sticks of incense. Only another hour before home.

Rewind to the previous month. My grandmother has fallen ill, and my aunt Eliza has returned from her home in California to see her ailing mother. I came home at about one in the morning to find my aunt and my mother on the back deck drinking wine.

“Austin, you’re going to Pasadena.” beat, beat, “Okay.”

And it was arranged. I’d always had a close relationship with Eliza. Eliza was divorced before I was born. She had a daughter – my cousin Caroline – and was a collector of cats. Caroline had since moved out, most likely caused by her mother’s choice in men. I liked her boyfriend, personally. He was into loud music and tabletop gaming. He was just a few years younger than my aunt.

Twenty or so.

It had been decided that we were to take a Greyhound bus as opposed to a plane ticket. September 11 was still fresh on everyone’s memory at the time, but I couldn’t care less. I had convinced myself that I could land an airplane in the event of a hijacking, but my family seemed to have little faith in my piloting ability. So a bus it was: two days and two nights nonstop. My grandfather deposited Eliza, her boyfriend Nick, and myself at the Dallas hub. Tillman, my grandfather, is an eccentric sort of man. If you can imagine an elderly Tony Shalhoub running out in front of a bus waving a box of tissues, you’ve got a good idea what my grandfather can be like in everyday situations. But it was too late; we were already moving on to our destination. I felt a sensation of sorrow, mirroring the look of abandonment on the diminishing reflection of my grandfather’s face in the rear view mirror. This was uncharacteristic of my usual stoic nature.

I was excited at the prospect of travel. Just last week I had been in New York City, riding a ferry to Stanton Island in the rain. Before the summer of ’02, I’d only been as far a Ruidoso; now I was continental. I liked the thought of tasting the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean in the same week. Little did I know that in the coming years I would also breathe the air of Mexico and Canada. Earlier I had been given opportunities to study abroad in Europe and Australia, but had to turn them down due to resource constraints - i.e., my family was broke. I learned then that traveling the world was a luxury reserved for the wealthy. That meant no more free rides; I was going to have to earn my keep to go where I wanted. But for the moment, my way was paid. The road was stretched out before me, prostrating itself before its new master. On the horizon was the land of Milk and Honey, the focus of song and dream for more than a century. Now it was mine.

My first new experience was that of the bus transfer. Our bus docked in a New Mexico truck stop, but it was more than that. It was a Nexus. People slid in and out of imaginary lines. An armada of Mack trucks departed in formation, ready for war. Bus tickets seemed to hold new lives for these travelers. I saw tears and smoke breaks, dying cell phones and the walking dead. This place was purgatory. I examined a virtual reality arcade machine. People put on the magical yellow helmet and were whisked away to a distant and exotic locale where visitors shoot down imaginary planes with imaginary fifty mike-mike until someone calls their number. I washed off in the bathroom sink with a little hand soap and aerosol deodorant. I told myself the wilderness is the first step towards paradise. We took our spot in line and boarded the same bus.

Eliza and Nick sat adjacent to me. I was listening to a forbidden album – The Voodoo Glow Skulls, “Firme” – and was quite pleased with myself for sneaking it out of my father’s filing cabinet before I left. I witnessed screaming children, visceral lovers, and skillful driving. There was the massive and sweaty woman who broke the toilet and forced a transfer. There was the man who was released from jail with fifty dollars and no home to speak of. There was the woman who had taken her three children west on the possibility of a new job. And then there were the weirdoes. I felt more like a counselor than anything else. These people had stories, but no chronicler. I wish I had remembered their names, but their tales will live on forever in my memories. I briefly pondered if I would bestow my unique knowledge to some curious traveler after I had destroyed my life. I felt like traveling stories are vitally important to our culture. 

            Our history is made up of all the tiny fragments, after all. 

I recall my short time in California as the best time in my life. I awoke every day to complete freedom. I could sit and read all day, or ride the ARTS (Pasadena Rapid Transit System) bus for hours. I went out every night with my friend Jess, who had migrated there with her mother Laura (my aunt’s oldest friend.) Punk rock, adventure, and the occasional chili-cheese fry was our fare. On Thursdays I went with Nick to the Games Chest for pizza and obscure board games. I found myself there, and when it was said and done, I had changed for the better. My time was up, and I was ready for my return to life as usual.

I met her at the first hub in Arizona. I was trying to make a twenty sided die out of paper when she treated me to an origami lesson. She said her name was Ana. She was wearing a beautiful black dress. It glittered a little and had a long slit on the side. I couldn’t figure out why she was wearing something like that in a place like this. She said that she left her husband in the middle of the street two days after their honeymoon in Hawaii. She told me everything I never wanted to know about their relationship. All the lies, the sex, Dane Cook’s “nothing fights,” it was all there. We talked for hours and hours until she asked me how old I was at the Flying J. “Eighteen,” I said. She lit up a cigarette. “Good.” I wonder if she knew I was lying. Oh well. That night she asked me to lay down with her. Apparently all it takes to get a good night’s sleep on a bus is a complete stranger to hold you. I doubt I’ll feel that sort of thing ever again.

concurrent timelines

When I first heard this song, I thought I knew what it meant. I had always liked it, but I never wanted to know what the words were all about. It sounded sad, but sort of ended on an up note. Notice I say this in the past tense because its meaning is changed. When someone has a revelation, a sort of new feeling, he begins to doubt. Like in Descartes’ little imaginary world of nothingness, we sometimes have to start all over with what we think is real, or for that matter, even important enough to think about. The songwriter tells us very eloquently what he has seen, and with the next phrase confirms his suspicion of an unfulfilled life. This is a common occurrence in human nature, frequently even in my own thoughts. But where would one be without this doubt?

Soon it becomes very apparent that this is a love song. It would seem so obvious by the way it sounds, but his voice seems so nervous and fragile that you can almost feel uncertainty of his life. Maybe it isn’t about love, but rather about the meaning of a single person. The songwriter almost outright says that she isn’t his only option; rather he says that he can’t hold out for what he really wants when he should take what he needs. He tragically realizes she might never love him again and may need to focus his efforts on someone new. This sounds blasphemous to true romantics, but everyone sometimes feels that sense of utter loneliness regardless of their spousal situation. It becomes hard for me to fully explain why what he said makes so much sense to me, mostly because I don’t want to believe stark reality of human nature.  I want to think I can only love one person, but I can’t. Our minds just don’t work that way. It is a failsafe and a death sentence.

The writer remembers a time when he was happy, when he had what he wanted. Most likely it was still fresh on his memory when he wrote it, but issues like lost love tend to linger for decades. He admires the beauty of a situation lost forever on the concept of linear time. Memory can affect us in many ways. It plays tricks on us. It hurts us. It defines us. But what it can’t do is come back to life. The writer gets so caught up in the moment that he doesn’t realize that it’s already over, caught in this endless loop of tears and joy. But then he wakes up. He remembers what time it is, why he’s alive. He tilts his head down and accepts what he has to do and say. It’s hard, but he does it. And then it’s over. The song ends abruptly, as if there was some sort of forced resolution. Does he ever really get the girl? Will he ever be happy again? Who knows?

This song reflects onto me those same feelings of doubt. I’ve never really heard such a poignant thing before, and I admit sometimes I get a little teary eyed when I sing it to myself. I tried applying it to my own experiences as I often try to do with things as dramatic as this. I doubt there is anyone that this song has no meaning to. I wish it was just a song.

This is the first day of my life
I swear I was born right in the door way
I went out into the rain
Suddenly everyone changed their spread
Blankets on the beach

Yours is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
I don't know where I am
I don't know where I've been
But I know where I want to go
So I thought I'd let you know
These things take forever, I especially am slow
But I realized how I need you
And I wondered
if I could
come home.

I remember the time we drove all night
Just to meet the morning
Yeah I thought that it was strange
you said everything had changed
you felt as if you just woke up

And you said, “This is the first day of my life.”
I'm glad I didn't die before I met you
Now I don't care, I could go anywhere with you
And I'd probably be happy
So if you want to be with me
With these things there's no telling
we'll just have to wait and see
But I'd rather be working for a pay check
Than waiting to win the lottery

Besides, maybe this time it's different
I mean, I really think that you like me

-Bright Eyes