Imagine a microcosm teeming with life, yet so far from everyday existence as
to be almost alien. One of these environments exists in every city, and places which are
similar in function appear in many places of most major cities. Within its walls,
thousands of people pass each day, some leaving a brief token of their passage, usually
negative, while the vast majority passes onward with only an ephemeral existence as one
glimpsed face in a crowd.
What is this mysterious place, so redolent of mystery, intrigue, hidden motives, secret purposes, hustle, bustle, and untold thousands of divergent paths for the people who will pass through its gates?
None other than your common, everyday Greyhound terminal.
You may leave the driving to them, but they leave the waiting around to you. While you sit in the high-ceilinged, tile-floored waiting room, you can covertly observe the rest of humanity, even as you yourself are being scrutinized.
Bus stations are good places for meeting the extremes of humanity—usually the lower extremes. While standing quietly in line for a ticket, watching the T.V. information screens, reading, or just walking to that one door that leads to freedom, anything can happen, and if you wait long enough, something usually does.
I watched two women with a tired, reproachful look in their eyes proceed to inform the entire first floor of the Los Angeles Greyhound station, by screaming, that because of the sinful, indulgent ways of its inhabitants, within a month God would create a vast earthquake that would rock California and we’d all be killed by the flood that would come when the whole state sank beneath the Pacific. No doubt there’ll be a modern-day Noah wending his way like an L.A. Times delivery van, only Noah will be picking up “the faithful” rather than delivering enthusiastic accounts of mankind’s wickedness.
There are the old winos who explain how they “lost everything gambling in Vegas,” and only need 80 cents more to “get back home to San Francisco.” Right. As Mr. Rogers would say, “Sure.”
There are bikers who for some reason think it’s macho to hang around bus stations, and then there are the juvenile delinquents carrying out their drug transactions in the bathroom, and hoping Officer Friendly won’t come in to respond to nature at this one critical moment.
To save time, you dodge the grubby, overweight evangelist who passes out small cards telling you you’re going to Hell, but would you please contribute to the “TransAmerica Mission” first?
But these are only the indigenous hazards. There are the legitimate passengers to consider as well.
The majority seem to belong to either an ethnic group, or a social group—like the poor. There are also the military personnel—the smart Navy man in his uniform, or the Marine in a grubby T-shirt—who simply can’t afford to travel any other way on their meager $5,000 salaries.
Occasionally you will run across the poor-but-intelligent student, or the simply naive traveler making his first, and last, trip via the buslines. One look at his fellow travelers and he’ll realize why American Express sells Traveler’s Checks. He’ll never pass this way again.
The motto here seems to be Caveat Transitor, let the traveler beware. One incident of the nice but suspiciously over-enthusiastic middle-aged man sitting next to you who seems normal enough but begins stroking your leg halfway through the trip will make you suspect everyone who sits next to you is mentally unhinged.
There are exceptions, however, to the bleary picture that this might otherwise appear to be, but they are unfortunately few and far between. The large black woman who seems as lonely as you are, and cautiously strikes up a conversation, can turn out to be a fascinating companion and a true friend. But the risks involved in trying to find that one person in 20 who is worthwhile makes finding a needle in a haystack a child’s exercise by comparison.
As your waiting time draws on, you begin to toy with the idea of finding people willing to split the cost of a hit-man to take care of the inventor of Muzak.
But just in time to save your sanity, your bus draws in, and miracle of miracles, you’ve got a 43 seat bus virtually to yourself. You stretch out, put the footrest down, recline your seat, and relax.
With a roar of diesel engines and a gray cloud of smoke, the memory of the terminal seems like a fading nightmare as the big bus ponderously moves off into the night.
“Thank you for going Greyhound!”
Andrew Coile is a junior computer science major.
First published in the Diamondback, the daily student newspaper at the University of Maryland, College Park, on April 22, 1981.
This was written out long-hand in the Los Angeles Greyhound station. It was one of the first opinion pieces I ever had published.
The tired old queen who put his hand on my leg as mentioned then tried more than that. Taking advantage of the darkness in the bus, he grabbed my crotch, and after I removed his hand, he grabbed it again. Fortunately, I hate waiting anywhere, so as usual I had a paperback science fiction book with me. I turned on my reading light, effectively spot-lighting my lap. Since we were surrounded by sailors and Marines going down to Long Beach, this effectively stopped him, since if he continued he’d be killed. I just gave him a strained smile and said, “I think I’m going to read for a while.”
God save us from desperate old trolls. Although I’m gay, I think his behavior was reprehensible. I hope he eventually got the therapy he desperately needed.
Copyright © 1995 by Andrew C. M. Coile, all rights reserved. Please send comments to andrew@coile.com
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