It was just the kind of thing you’d expect to see at any bus depot in the middle of the night, in small town, USA. Especially a Greyhound bus depot. Their passenger facilities throughout the southwestern states of Texas, New Mexico and Arizona seem to be especially inadequate in terms of comfort or sanitation, and are usually centered squarely in the crime infested part of town (I wonder what part of any town is not plagued by crime anymore). They invariably house equally distasteful interiors with splintered benches that resemble church pews in disrepair, and cheap linoleum floors that amplify the sound of every step from those brave enough to wear anything but soft soled shoes.
Gathered there are the wretched, the wicked, the hopeless; people who prefer the allure of like company, each ostensibly drawing mutual comfort from similar lots in life. Although the backgrounds of these social misfits are surprisingly diverse, they share the specter of uncertainty. An uncertainty about futures that lurks hungrily nearby, anxious to inch the edge of ultimate misery closer to the heart of each one.
They arrive at the bus depots phantom-like, at all hours, eager to stake their nightly territorial claims for some semblance of solace the bus station provides that only they can perceive. For some, these depots serve as literal shelters, a place to call home, if even for a few hours. For others, it offers opportunity for despoiling or robbing through insidious manner, the ones mentioned above. And of course, for yet others who plan to travel, the bus depot is just that; a place to purchase a ticket and get the hell out.
The Greyhound bus depot in Beaumont, Texas is no exception, for it too offers a variety of human conditions on display. Unkempt, and with untold tribulation, the ones within these walls are particularly lost; destitute both of will, of worldly goods, and of anywhere else to go. Having developed an unsolicited affinity for the company of misery, each one has forsaken good beginnings and all forms of domestic regimen.
Let us look at a few. Sitting astutely in the stuffy waiting lounge, cigarette smoke drifting overhead, is Mr. Business Man, eyes buried in the business section of yesterdays paper, halfheartedly playing the role strangers expect of him, when in fact, he really cannot fathom the stock indexes dangling at the end of his nose. He is small-time in a big man’s suit. Having squandered all opportunity for any real secular success, he now clings to busted dreams, and somewhere deep in his mind, he knows that is all that stands between his sanity and a one way ticket out of Beaumont. He wonders where else could he be but here. He is just another victim, caught in the throes of fate. Where else, at this moment, could he be, but here, alone, not by choice, but alone, still.
In the main waiting area, sitting squarely in the center of the array of benches, is a young woman grappling with a wailing 2 year old who will not sit still. The woman’s countenance reflects recent emotional strain, and she does not need the aggravation of an undisciplined youngster added to her misery. Perhaps she is running away from an abusive husband, or lover. An expression of anxiety belies her pretty face, and I’d bet dollars to donuts her cheating man lies sleeping somewhere in Beaumont, secure in dreams, unaware of the empty space beside him. I would venture to say he is deserving of her departure. I hope she gets away safe.
Further back in the second to last row, sits a disheveled, young girl of about 15, who looks as if she has not slept in days. Her expression is glazed with uncertainty; a look I have seen before in young runaways. Accompanying her uncertainty is a pall of hopelessness that surrounds her, and she is quick to blench at anyone approaching. Her parents are likely not aware she is missing as of yet, and when they discover her absence, they will follow the course of countless parents before them, ravaging emotions they were previously oblivious to. I hope she survives beyond these walls.
Leaning against an inoperative, vandalized vending machine that garishly adorns the narrow lobby of the building, is a young black couple, gaudily dressed, displaying lewd affection and giggling just loud enough to draw annoying glances from others, which, of course, is there intention. They relish the prospects of intimidation these premises afford, and are not remiss in scanning the waiting and lounge area for an easy target for their game that could yield unexpected booty beyond the thrill of instilling elements of unspoken fear. These types of human scum that pollute the sanctuary of this gathering of misfits is unfortunate, but not preventable.
As I sit behind the wheel of my Scenic-Cruiser, gazing through the huge windshield and the plate glass windows of the depot, I muse at the diversity of those waiting in line to purchase boarding passes. I wonder what could spur such ones to want to board a bus for parts west, El Paso, Las Cruces, Tucson and finally Phoenix, at such a god-awful hour. What monsters were they running from? From what did they hope to escape, or what were they escaping to? They stand dutifully in line like lost sheep, this hodgepodge of humanity, resignation filling their collective faces. I see it all the time, at every bus depot on my route. Quiet despair desperately contained. All but one.
A women, third in line. There is something about her dignified, yet petulant affectation that stirs a hint of a memory long lost in time, until this moment. From this distance her physical appearance is unremarkable; light blonde hair pulled back tightly into a spinster style bun, a loose fitting white, ruffled blouse with the collar buttoned tight, a full length skirt that defines no visible figure, ankles alone peeking through at floor level. She is young and moderately attractive, but I would not cast a second glance should I see her in passing. And yet, something about her betrays her very presence here in this forsaken place. I get the feeling she is concealing unseen refinement by assuming a look of commonness that fits well with those around her. Perhaps that subtle facade is what draws my attention.
Suddenly, inexplicably, I find it of notable significance that she boards my bus. A wave of anticipation assaults my senses at the thought of it. But why? What is it about her that attracts, yet disturbs me? Surely, I do not know her, nor have I seen her before, and we are certainly more than one generation apart. Still, an undertow of excitement courses through me as await the revelation of her destination.
I see the ticket agent stamp her pass “PHX”. Yes, she’ll board my bus. I watch intently as she carefully boards with the others, stepping high to avoid tripping on the unforgiving steel steps of my bus. Her eyes remain downcast behind black framed eyeglasses as she walks down the aisle, oblivious to all. A sense of uncertain purpose trails behind her, hesitant in her shadow, caught up with her preoccupied thoughts.
She takes a window seat on the left, about six rows back. I glance in my overhead rearview. Perfect. The angle of view is just right. I can observe her without moving my head up or down or side to side, only my eyes need move at all.
The powerful diesel motor belches black smoke as we move out into the night, and into the open reaches of Interstate 10, El Paso 2 ½ hours away. This stretch of Texas is lonely even on the brightest of days, and the road surface passing underneath my aluminum clad coach belts a sad tune in time with the hum of the tires. Having attained cruising speed, I covertly glance in my rearview mirror and my eyes widen inquisitively. She has released that uncomfortable looking bun. Her hair springs free, and it cascades down around her neck and shoulders like caramel colored chiffon. The dim reading light from an adjacent seat catches the gold sheen of her falling curls. How could I not have seen how lovely she is until now, or am I imagining her comeliness.
Then it occurs to me that she is someone I know, or knew. Who though? Her vision reminds me of a time and place long ago, of a period I’d sooner forget, (but not really). Why does she elicit these feelings of nostalgia in me, stirring memories that I thought I had subdued after all these years?
The double Decker scenic-cruiser rumbles through the thick August Texas air with as much measured grace as a Greyhound bus can have. My mind drifts, and the memories return. Memories of youth, love and lust, and a girl that I worshipped.
I remember the beginning of our romance so long ago. The heart pounding excitement we found in each other’s eyes, the youthful zeal for life we exuded, bouncing along the corridors of a glorious destiny together. I remember foot racing her to the big cottonwood tree in an open field near her house. Arriving there out of breath, we carved our initials into its massive trunk. There, under a pleasant canopy of tree shade, we embraced, and promises were eagerly made. Her hair fell in waves of auburn down that day, and we sealed our promises with unrestrained passion.
That is the connection of familiarity I now sense between the two women. The hair. They both possess strikingly similar hair texture and highlights, and both tussle and fuss with their lustrous locks in the same sensuous manner.
Am I only fantasizing as men will often do, or is there a psychological disorder residing in me that I am unaware of, that solicits this delusion? I do not know. But the pleasantness of the memory comparison to the young lady seated within my mirrored view delights my spirit, and eases the reality that I am afraid will surface soon enough.
I glance in the rearview again to find that she has removed those ill-suited eyeglasses from her face. My heart jumps with a subtle recognition and another haunting memory. The smooth, cream colored contours of her face, the elegant, slightly aquiline profile, and the most perfect feminine jaw line I can remember ever seeing.
What is she doing? Does she know I am observing her uninvited? Surely she must. To my surprise and delight, a hint of a smile issues from her pouting lips, and I’m off to memory land again.
How can anything else be seen but the beauty of that woman seated behind me? How can all other present realities now seem so inconsequential? How do any words at all, compare to a smile that can light up the dreary life of a lonely man.
Again I recall that special lady in my life so long ago, and the promises we made. But they were promises we could not keep. The winds of discontent began to blow, and time ran out on us and our romance that we naively believed would endure. One October day in 1968, she ran into the arms of another, and as I drove away in my 1960 blue Plymouth Fury, dejected and demoralized, I swore to seek the edge of the world in California where I might end the pain. I never found the edge and I never completely lost the pain, and I never saw her again.
I glance up from the broken white lines of the interstate rushing underneath the Greyhound and into the review again. Now her collar button is undone, revealing a slight hint of pouting cleavage. Still, her eyes avoid my mirrored ones.
What game is she playing? Or am I insistent on making much ado about nothing at all. Is she entirely unaware of my attention, or does she derive girlish pleasure in taunting me. What gives her the right? Does she recognize me without the burden of mutuality? And why does she remind me so of that girl so many years ago?
Pulling into the small, run down bus depot in El Paso for a 15 minute layover, I eagerly anticipate watching her debark, but to my disappointment, she remains seated, content to gaze straight ahead, apparently oblivious of my attraction. Can I endure this psychological torture all the way to Phoenix? I have no choice. Surely, the similarities between her and my lost love are coincidental; the uncanny resemblance, the gestures that mean nothing except perhaps to my imagination alone. How could it be anything else? Were the years of shielded frustration and hurt within finally surfacing at the expense of an innocent girl who just happens to look like someone I loved long ago? Was I now on the verge of insanity?
Daylight begins creeping over the hills surrounding El Paso as we depart for points west. With stops in Las Cruces and Tucson, our estimated time of arrival in Phoenix is 12:30 PM. A glance in the mirror finds her resting now, eyes closed, her pretty head pillowed against the tinted window. She is even more beautiful in sleep, and as I watch, yet another wave of memory wells up.
Oddly, I began to recall the events of a terrible day in our young lives so long ago. In retrospect, I tend to believe the events of that day signaled the beginning of the end of our relationship. Shall I blame fate then for taking her only real love in a tragic accident? I remember trying to swallow her pain whole after she witnessed the messy death of her best friend, a poodle named Fifi.
Just like any other morning, Fifi was let out front door to do her thing in the front yard. She had never chased cats or other dogs before, and there was no cause for concern. But fate arranged events just right, with a passing calico cat Fifi could not resist, and a moving car so perfectly timed that nothing the driver could do would prevent Fifi from being run over as she chased the cat into the street.
It happened in milliseconds, and we both witnessed the tragedy in slow motion, directly in front of her house. I can’t remember ever wanting to protect someone so much as I did at that moment. I wanted to buy her a thousand poodles, all colors, all sizes and shapes, all filled with love for her only. It would not have helped. She worshipped that dog, and I don’t believe she ever quite got over that trauma. But her pain was my pain and I tried to drown it with the only thing I had, love for her and a shoulder to cry on.
She did for awhile, cry on my shoulder that is, but she never really came to comprehend the intensity of my love for her. Had she, we may have remained together through life.
Who can ever know the effect of fate and timing on our life courses. It is a good thing we do not know, for regret would heap high, assailing us in every decision thereafter, always second guessing our best efforts. Ignorance is then, necessarily, blissful.
The sun is much higher now, climbing an eastern sky behind us. Las Cruces and Tucson have come and gone. But in Tucson, the mysterious lady passenger debarked, still shyly introverted by all observations. As I watched her step into the morning daylight, her stunning beauty and familiarity again strike me. She moved as an angel might, just as my love of long ago. In Tucson I took on a few more passengers and we moved on to Phoenix.
In the remaining time before our arrival in Phoenix, I glance in the rearview mirror less often, assured the vision of loveliness will not change between glimpses. It doesn’t. Her mysterious beauty pulsates from an inner source.
Arriving in Phoenix on time, all the passengers disembark except her. Instead, she waits until everyone is off the bus and then with a determined, but seductive look, she rises from her seat and approaches the front of the bus where I am now fidgeting in the driver’s seat. The weight of sudden realization hits me squarely in the chest. Even as she approaches me, I know what she will ask.
“Excuse me, please, but could I inquire of the your next stop,’ she asks, in a voice not unlike my lost love.
My mouth gapes like an awe struck kid before I reply, and she seems to enjoy my dilemma.
“Well, ma’am, this route terminates here in Phoenix. I have only to deliver the coach to the Glendale bus depot where out-of-service carriers are routinely serviced or garaged,” I reply, with more articulation than I expected.
“Would it be an imposition then, to ask your indulgence and allow me to ride along to the vicinity of 31st Place and Belvedere, if that is on the route you intend to take?” she asks.
“Yes, of course, no problem,” I lie.
Her nearness and voice haunt me with another memory, painful now in similarities. I will do as she asks, though doing so is against company policy. But I begin to understand why I will do as she asks. I sense this entire inexplicable event is nearing a climax and an explanation.
After scrolling the ‘out-of-service’ sign into public view on the outside marquee, I pull out from the downtown Phoenix depot and follow her directions. Turning west onto Belvedere off 31st Place, I proceed a block or so, and then of my own volition, without need of her further direction, I stop in front of a house with the faded stenciled numbers “218” painted on the curb as well as the front door. My mind floods with the memory of painting those numbers so long ago.
“You know, don’t you.” she remarks.
“Not until this moment,” I respond, now convinced this whole affair is some prank perpetrated by a discontented illusionary gremlin of my own making.
Instinctively, we then turn to look out the first huge side window of the bus to see a young, happy couple, running and laughing aloud near a shady cottonwood tree, A miniature black poodle trails comically behind them. Mesmerized by the unfolding drama before us, we move down the aisle to look out the next huge window that reveals a 1960 blue police special Plymouth that I owned during that time in my youth, parked in the driveway of the residence complete with an outside mounted spotlight.
The interior of the tidy house, with an older, plumb, gregarious woman (whom I recognize as the mother of my sweetheart) calling us to dinner, fills the perimeters of our next window as we peer out.
My mind is awash with wonder and unbelief as I gawk at the fantastical, time removed play before me.
Moving still further into the interior of the bus, the mystery lady and I glance out the next window to see the campus of Somerset High School, with clean and neatly dressed 1960’s students milling about. And there, a version of our youthful selves mixes perfectly with the other students.
We move to look out the last window, I, for my part, excited by these ordinary glass windows that have become time portals, allowing us to revisit the past. I have no problem indulging this dementia of mine, if that is what it is. I find the experience somewhat emotionally painful, but wonderfully pleasurable as well.
Then, to my complete surprise and amazement, the woman turns her angelic face to the gruffness of mine, and kisses me tenderly on the lips. Without a further word, gesture, or explanation, but only a sad, good-bye kind of smile, she turns and scampers down the aisle and exits the bus, into a sudden, blinding light that removes her from my sight. After a moment, the brilliant glow ebbs to reveal no trace of the woman, who was now no longer a mystery to me. And in the place of what we had seen together through those few bus windows, there was only a time worn and neglected yard, the shell of a dead cottonwood tree still trying to guard the memories, and a vacant house in severe disrepair.
And she is gone.
Then I understood. This was her way of asking for forgiveness. Her way of trying to make things right in a sea of mistakes we can never correct. Her way of tempering a lifetime of regret for the both of us.
Forgive her I did, as I knew she would now forgive me. And then I drove off to find the edge of the world again.
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