June 24-30, 2011
I have felt the love and thank you for
indulging my moment of insecurity. Many a starfish waved a paw in
response to my need for affirmation signaling that all my effort is not
in vain. So, in the words of my high school softball coach, who was one
of the first to respond, “Quit contemplating your navel and get back to
work!” On with the Great Greyhound Gagging saga!
If I recall
correctly, we left off in the Charlottesville bus station with my
proclamation that I would NOT get back on that bus!
Well, I did….
Between my declaration and my betrayal of it, the following happened:
The
driver flat out insulted me to my face. I stomped off to the bathroom
frantically dialing on the way my cousin who was to pick me up in
Norfolk. Once in the stall, I hung up before she could answer. Now that
my breathing had returned to normal and a decent receptacle was in front
of me, I didn’t know which end of my body was going to take advantage
of it first. I stood there a minute trying to decide if I needed to face
the toilet or the door. I hadn’t eaten since early morning, so my
stomach had nothing with which to express its feelings about the
situation, so I had a four hour pee, or so it seemed, and called my
cousin. She got a hysterical earful that ended with, “I’ll call you back
when I find out what time the next bus for Norfolk leaves.”
“1 o’clock tomorrow! The next bus doesn’t leave until 1 o’clock tomorrow!!” began the second hysterical phone call.
I
ran like O.J. through an airport to get my place in the reboard line.
Please, please, please, Power that Be, grant me the open seat up front
of someone whose final destination was Charlottesville! My prayer was
answered, on the third row, next to a woman suffering from
schizophrenia. To her it was obvious she already had a seatmate and if I
plopped my butt down there, I would squish him. I asked permission to
take the seat and she responded by pointing to him and conferring with
the window. I was very sorry, but I was not going back there, no
matter whose lap I had to sit on. Anything of mine that crossed the
dividing line of our seats sent her cringing to the point of melding her
body into the side of the bus. I felt like a leaper and wanted Jesus to
come cure me ASAP. I wanted to take her hand in mine and tell her I
understood and she didn’t have to fear me, but I knew if I moved even a
millimeter more into her space it could cause a total meltdown. So, I
tried to hug the aisle, send loving vibs and went back to writing.
Unbeknownst
to me, we had left in this portable gas chamber only a one hour ride to
Richmond where everybody had to change buses. I might not have made
such an ass out of myself had I known that. A 45 minute layover would be
plenty of time to get something to eat and recompose myself for the
final leg of the trip. I was hungrier than a bear sow stumbling out of
the cave in spring with three cubs hanging off her tits. Uncle Bo’s
Chicken Hut, or something like that, was the only eating establishment
in the station and looked decent enough from a distance, but once I saw
the selection of nothing but fried fowl parts under the greasy glass, I
did a 1-80 toward the vending machines.
All I had was a 20, so I
went to the arcade to use the change machine. To hang a “broken” sign on
it seemed redundant. Nobody in their right mind would believe that a
machine as abused as that one could possibly be in service. Back to
Bo’s, which now had a line as long as the bus x 4, and I was not going
to stand in it when all I wanted was change.
You may remember that
back in March under the influence of midlife crisis duress and
fulfilling a dream, I sold everything I owned, save my house and a few
boxes of sentimental junk. Thus, all my remaining possessions must go
where I go without a mule to haul it. Well, actually, I suppose I am my
own mule and thus looked like this: 5’0”, 98lb me with a bulging baby
blue 43 liter pack mounted on my back and a rolled up sleeping pad
strapped across the top of it (none of which I was about to take off
because it takes a village to get it back on). Hanging from my chest,
kangaroo style, I had a smaller backpack with my laptop, books, wallet,
essentials, etc. to offset the weight and at least maintain a three
steps forward, two stumbling back ratio. And behind me I was dragging a
suitcase full of camping equipment big enough for me to fit in, should
the need arise.
Not many years ago Richmond boasted sixth place on
the list of America’s most dangerous cities to live in and I would add
most creepy bus station to pass through. I’ve been in dozens of
stations in countries all over Latin-American, but I’ve never felt so
paranoid of being robbed as I was in Richmond. Point: I was not leaving
any of my stuff unattended for a second and it was staying as close to
me as white on rice no matter how small the space.
Back at Uncle Bo’s, I and my traveling getup bumped and excused our way up to the front of the line to ask for change.
“I ain’t giving you nothing less you buy something.”
“Well, can you sell me a bottle of water?”
“If you come through the line like everybody else.”
As
I swung around to go a woman’s voice spat at me from behind, “You best
be looking out where you going, gurl--you ‘bout knocked this drink out
of my hand! You need to be paying attention to what you doin’!’” My
sleeping pad had whacked her at boob level, just as she pulled her Coke
out of the drink fountain. Seven hours of aroma therapy topped off with
an hour of rejection had stirred up in me enough nasty sentiment to rip
somebody a new one. She was at least a foot taller and 50lbs heavier,
but I was in the mood to take her on. What was there to fear? I was
totally padded on all sides except for my face. If I turned the other
cheek I could mule kick her and take her out at the knees. The heavens
parted, however, and a holy hand reached down to hold my hoof. My
momma’s ghost intervened and whispered in my ear one of her wise
sayings, “Kill them with kindness.” Nice washed over me, Ms. Rude was
spared an ass-whoopin’ and I said sweetly, “I am so sorry, ma’m. Will
you please accept my apology?”
That changed her tune. “Well, baby, I’s just afraid you was gonna make me drop this drink.”
“Well, I didn’t,” I wanted to say and ask for a dollar for the vending machine in lieu of an apology.
Still
in the change predicament, I went to the ticket counter and before I
opened my mouth I could see by the agent’s chubby scowl that if I got a
ten, a five and 5 ones it was going to cost me. Too bad the vending
machine didn’t accept attitude. She handed me enough of that to buy the
thing empty.
I spied the healthiest product in there, Sunchips,
and my mouth gushed spit with anticipation. Clink, clink, look for the
code to push. What??!! No codes? What the hell kind of Russian Roulette
vending machine is this? I told myself to calm down and use my noggin.
The top row would be A, the next B, etc and the numbers would follow
suit. I press C6 and down falls a pack of Wriggle’s spearmint gum. O.K.
then, the letters run horizontally. F3-Lifesavors. D9 Little Debbie
chocolate cakes. E4-Tootsie Rolls. And so on I went, calling my own
Bingo numbers, but never yelling Bingo! Instead I shook the machine by
its shoulders and screamed, “I want my fuckin’ Sunchips you worthless
bucket-of-bolts! Now drop them before I mule kick you in the balls!!
Who was talking to the window now, but with much less composure than my former seatmate?
The
passengers for my bus were lining up, so I took my armful of unwanted
loot and got in line. My blood sugar was so low by then that if I ate
any of the 100% pure sugar shit in my collection, I’d go into an insulin
coma and get robbed right down to my Hanes Her Ways. Gum was the best
bet to stave off starving.
Just for the record, the woman I
whacked in Uncle Bo’s got on the bus huffing, “It wasn’t there! Them
damn bitches done robbed me! Can’t trust nobody now-a-days!” A fine
case of evidence to support my belief that karma rules.
I took a
front seat by a sleeping blind man, sure that we’d get along just fine
and I could finally relax. A blind woman sat ahead of us and Mouthy Ms.
Rude behind. To my right an elderly woman, obviously wanting her space,
had walled herself in behind a suitcase, shopping bags and a purse big
enough for me to fit in, should the need arise. All I could see were her
knees on which rested a large print Bible open to a page in the book of
Job where the verses consist of nothing more than a genealogical
diatribe of Abraham’s descendents. She had highlighted all but one
sentence, which made me wonder who the black sheep of the family was.
What had he done to not merit a swipe of the holy marker? Did he bare
the same name of a son-in-law she hated? Too, I wanted to know why,
unless shopping for baby names, anyone would find inspiration in a list
of obsolete names, most of which are unpronounceable to the English
speaking tongue. Perhaps giving it a go is a mental exercise to ward
off brain atrophy. Who knows?
We hadn’t been on the road more than
fifteen minutes when I noticed a barely perceivable discomfort on the
cartilage part of my right ear. It wasn’t pain exactly, just a tickle. I
ran my finger around the loopy maze and felt a small bump smack dab in
the hard to reach center. Great, of all the times to be surrounded by
the visually impaired. I messed with it a minute, blindly trying to
identify it as wax, dirt, a pimple or punishment for gossip. On one
swipe it did a handstand with the help of my fingernail. I had a TICKle
alright, burrowed as deep in my flesh as a mongoose in its den. I was
sure of it, because just that morning what I mistook for underwear
elastic pulling on a public hair turned out to be a tick mooching off my
coochie. I finally got the one in my ear between thumb and forefinger,
pulled like hell and upon examination saw only the body of the headless
bastard. My ear began to throb and I thought of the worst. Limes
disease! Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever! We studied those in WFR. Both can
be fatal. Stress and toxic shock had so jeopardized my immune system
that I was sure to succumb.
My dear cousins met me at the station
with a water bottle full of chilled chardonnay, which I gulped down
between paragraphs of telling this same story. I wanted food, a shower,
medical attention and sympathy, and made those needs known with no bones
about it. Did they not love me so much they might have dumped my ass
out on the side of the road reneging their invitation to stay as long as
I wanted.
Priority: a shower. I stripped down, looked down and
saw buried in the soft flesh of my belly two 8-legged poppy seeds…and
then more brown spots on my thighs, my chest, my torso, my ankles!! They
were everywhere! Geezus, F’n, Christmas! Was there no curtain call to
this drama?
“Gwynne!! Come quick and bring tweezers! Bring needles! Bring knives! Bring alcohol, both kinds!”
By
the end of the extractions, we had removed two ticks and bloodied ten
moles. I was over it. I ate, drank, doctored the wounds and went to bed,
swearing I’d hitchhike before every going Greyhound again.
Otherwise
update: Marta’s bar is up and running and she has done/is doing
everything I thought I was going to get to help with during the two
months in Spain. She’s cleaned, painted, decorated and inaugurated the
space and now slides frothy mugs of beer down the bar, like I wanted to.
I
have made plans to see me through August. Stay with cousins in
Portsmouth until July 14, pass through Dallas for a brief three days,
attend a two-week course at the International Tour Management Institute
(and stay with a friend I taught English with in Ecuador in 1993--very
excited about that reunion!), head north to Albany, Oregon to visit
another friend I haven’t seen in 18 years, and then finish off the trip
with a stay in Portland with a high school friend. I keep a low-grade
anxiety about all of this instability and sporadic income and flat-out
uncertainty, but had I not uprooted myself the chances of seeing these
wonderful people from my past (all in one swoop) are slim. Faith is the
cure for my anxiety, but it doesn’t come easily to me. Perhaps that’s
the whole purpose for this journey.
As always, much love and many
thanks for reading. Were it not for you, I’d have little reason to write
and it would be ungrateful to not practice the gift Source gave me.
Peace, G
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