23 Hours of Greyhound

January 3, 2010 - 10:42 PM

The cab we took to the station slowed to 2 miles an hour a block away from the station, the cabdriver kept talking to us so that we couldn't ask him to quicken his pace. But I guess I wasn't in too much of a hurry to get to the station anyway because I had been dreading the bus trip for weeks.

Collin and I could only go to the Rose Bowl if we took the Greyhound bus back. From LA to Portland, the bus takes 23 hours.

So when the cab finally halted at the station's entrance, we popped out and unloaded our few belongings. Just after handing the man our fare, we turned to find a homeless man in our faces asking for precisely 87 cents. This man wasn't stupid. He knew that anyone taking the cab carried cash. He underestimated our gall, however, and we turned him down.

Once in the station, we collected our tickets from will-call and entered the waiting room. It was bustling with people, and a TV squawked from overhead. Collin and I sat uncomfortably on the wire seats and discussed the crossword puzzle in my hands.

With 45 minutes to spare before the bus arrived, Collin got up to use the restroom. As he walked away, I saw from the corner of my eye a man lift himself from his seat on the floor. I sensed him pace around me and my belongings and as I feared, he slid into the seat next to me, leaned in close, and asked me if I knew what time it was.

"I know you're sitting in my boyfriend's seat!" I sassed.

"I didn't ask you that! What time is it?" He pressed.

"I don't know." I said raising my eyebrows, moving my stuff away from him, and turning my back to him.

Despite my rudeness, he stayed there. But that didn't stop him from pressing the girl two seats away from us for the time.

She humored him and continued talked to him as he asked for her number, telling him that she was, in fact, a lesbian. He didn't take "I'm gay" for an answer. He pressed on.

When Collin got back, he looked at the guy and then looked at me.

"Did he say something?" Collin whispered.

"YES!" I hissed impatiently, angry that he had left me alone.

Collin and the man exchanged words and reluctantly, the man finally moved.

After a while Collin and I stood up and got in line with our bags, the girl who humored the man right behind us.

"How goes it?" I asked; my question loaded with implied understanding of her discomfort.

She and I stood in line chatting for a while trying not to look at the guy whose eyes were boring into us from behind. She explained to me that she traveled quite frequently, and when I asked what she did, she quickly replied "model."

I perused her features, noting the half-finished tattoo around her arm, the drawn-on eyebrows, and the fleshiness of her physique.

"What was your name?" I asked.

"Diamond," she replied with an attempted straight face.

Ah...

Before we boarded, the man came up behind us and handed Diamond a card he had pulled from his wallet with a scratched number in the corner. She rolled her eyes and told me that she should have told him she was 14, "but that probably wouldn't have stopped him."

It was my first hour of experience with a Greyhound bus, but I had already had to fend off aggressors, to make small talk with prostitutes, and contemplate the implications of pedophilia.

The ensuing hours on the bus were filled with less direct contact with uncommon characters. Collin and I sat side-by-side and slept through the night save for the stops every two hours or so.

Finally, we arrived in Portland, and although the trip wasn't horrible, I know that I will be making travel plans further in advance next time I take a trip.