The stop over in Santa Fe was a long one – four hours. We were switching busses, and it took that long to empty out the bus, unload the baggage, then hose out the old bus and wait on the new bus, which would have to be cleaned and refueled before we could board. The wait was not so much an exercise in will power as it was in futility. I was exhausted from crossing two time zones, sore from sleeping in a more or less upright position, and I felt disgusting because I hadn’t shaved or showered since I left Cincinnati. Traveling cross country by bus means seeing humanity (or the absence of it) up close and personal. All of people’s bad habits – the nail biting, nose picking, ass scratching, snoring, and sniveling tendencies sweat out of their pores and soak into the seats and thicken the air. Eventually, everything is infected with it. There’s no escaping.
First thing when I got off the bus I made a bee line for the restroom to take a massive shit. I’d been holding it in for miles, trying to avoid using the toilet on the bus. Those things are worse than port-o-potties at a summer music festival. The fan never works so the stench of people’s bowels is always encased in the coffin sized closet and smacks you in the face when you open the door. And, more often than not, the person who used it before you was some sweaty fucker suffering from explosive diarrhea or motion sickness – or it was some cunt who tried unsuccessfully to flush a used tampon. Better to hold it in as long as you can and hope for a long enough pit stop.
I finished up and splashed water on my face after I washed my hands. The water was lukewarm and tasted like old minerals. On either side of me there were guys shaving and trying to clean themselves up. I was a little envious, since I had made the mistake of packing my razor and toothbrush in my suitcase, which was going to be moved from the bus I just left onto the bus I would ride all the way to Phoenix. What a rookie mistake, I kicked myself. I should’ve known better. I thought about going to the store in the depot and buying a disposable razor and at least give myself the appearance of not being a bum. But I didn’t want to spend money on something I knew I owned. I could shave once I got to where I was going, right? Besides, the water did help a little.
It was early morning in Santa Fe. My stomach was empty because I hadn’t had anything to east since somewhere in Wyoming, where I broke down and bought a pack of stale cheese and crackers. But again, I knew exactly how much cash I had and it had to last me for a while. So instead I bought myself a cup of coffee that was colored water more or less, and wandered around the depot trying to eat up the time until it was time to board.
The depot, like the Santa Fe skyline, was antiseptic and brown. Lots of stucco and tile, indicative of the southwestern style. Mexican blankets hung on the walks and over archways. Large prints painted to look like rural art depicting cowboys on horseback surrounded by rocks, tumbleweeds, and cactus; sometimes they were herding cattle and sometimes they were fighting Indians or bandits wearing sombreros. Framed black and white photos of Santa Fe through the years. A picture of Pancho Villa and an even nicer picture of his grave. A copy of New Mexico’s statehood decree. A copy of the treaty that made New Mexico (and Texas) U.S. territories. Kiosks filled with colorful pamphlets to entice the weary tourist into spending money visiting western museums and the “contemporary gallerias and shopping centres.”
The four hours stretched and stretched until finally the bus was ready to board. Before we could get on the bus, though, the passengers had to pass through a check point and have our carry on bags x-rayed. I guess in addition to the graves of bandits, stucco, and the thoroughly modern shopping, Santa Fe was also home to a military base. I wondered if it was some Area 51 deal where the government was making sure extraterrestrials weren’t slipping through the net. I hadn’t seen any check points at any other depot I’d ever been to; but I wasn’t all that worried. It was just one more stupid thing to get through.
When it got to be my turn, I handed the first soldier my boarding pass and driver’s license. He glanced down at it. Then up at me. Then he handed it back. “Place your bag on the conveyor belt.” His tone was emotionless. Almost metallic. I put my satchel on the conveyor belt and the soldier – who happened to be a young woman with a fairly attractive face despite the uniform – pushed it into the x-ray machine. The guard who had looked at my boarding pass motioned me forward. What, I thought, you’re not gonna check my shoes for a bomb? It wasn’t as bad as the airport; the last time I flew I was in line for almost an hour and I nearly missed my flight. I figured this would be pretty easy. Plus, it was working to my advantage. There was only one line, and I was near the front of it. That meant I had a better shot at getting a decent seat. The really good ones would be taken already by the people who had come in on that particular bus; but generally, the busses emptied out at major depots. All I had to do was confirm that I was not, in fact, from another planet, get through the security checkpoint, and board. I wasn’t all that anxious to sit down for another day; but I was looking forward to the end of the trip.
“Sir,” another guard spoke to me, “could you step over here?” My heart sank a little. There wasn’t really a question in his face. When I stepped to the side, they started letting other passengers through. My bag was sitting on the table. It was open. The soldier who pulled me out of line pointed down and asked, “Is this flask yours, sir?”
Fuck. “Uh, yeah. It’s mine.” The flask had been a gift from this girl I used to be friends with. We didn’t have much in common except that we both liked to drink and both hated pretty much everybody else. She was gorgeous, intelligent, and well-read, with fire red hair and a temperament to match; that meant she was completely out of my league. She ended up getting hooked in with a traveling anti-war protest group. She left town and I lost touch with her. The flask, she had told me, was so I would never forget her.
“You are AWARE, aren’t you sir, that alcoholic beverages aren’t allowed on the busses?”
I thought I heard a sneer in his tone; but his face was deadpan and his eyes were colorless. He didn’t even have laugh lines. Of course I knew that. But it wasn’t like I was stinking drunk and being obnoxious. They’d kicked a guy off in the middle of Kansas for it; he was clearly drunk, on his way home from Vegas where he clearly didn’t do well, and he was yelling at people and swinging and empty bottle of vodka around. There are few things more annoying than a Midwesterner on a binge, and everybody hated him. I just wanted him to shut up so I could sleep. The bus driver told him three or four times to sit down and shut up, and when the guy didn’t, the bus driver pulled over, opened the door, and physically tossed the guy off. Most of the passengers applauded. Thing is, he left the poor drunk bastard in the middle of fucking nowhere. There were miles of corn field on either side of the road and not even a house in sight to walk to and use the phone.
But I wasn’t that guy. I wasn’t making trouble. I wasn’t bothering anybody. I’d been taking sips to help me sleep and stave off the full impact of my hangover. Passengers walked by me and looked me over on their way to occupy what remained of the decent seats. I looked at the guard. Nothing. Not a shred of humanity in his demeanor. I suspected that there was something about the uniform that drained the person wearing it of the fundamental human emotions – empathy, sympathy, compassion. Granted, they were more trouble than they were worth most of the time; but at that point, I could’ve used one or all three of them.
I smiled my most apologetic looking smile. “Listen,” I said, “it was a going away present. I haven’t even cracked it open yet. I would’ve packed it in my suitcase, but I didn’t want something to happen and end up with it all over my clothes.” I looked sorry and shrugged.
He pulled it out of the bag. “You can’t take it with you,” he said. “Actually, we could detain you just for getting it this far.”
“But I bought my ticket,” I said. “I’m going to Phoenix.”
The guard shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. We can keep anybody off if they break policy or look like they’re going to be a problem.”
A problem? I wasn’t being a problem. I hadn’t been a problem. “I HAVE to get to Phoenix,” I reasoned with him. “People are waiting on me.”
“Why are you going to Phoenix?” the guard asked. A few more people trickled past. The line was getting shorter and shorter.
“A job.”
The guard handed the flask to the girl working the x-ray machine and she put it in some box under the table. For a split second I thought I detected a slight light of amusement in his colorless eyes.
“Come on,” I said. “It was a gift.”
The guard didn’t answer; he just watched as the last of the passengers walked by. The line was gone.
There was no way I was going to win. I picked up my shuffled through bag and looked at him. He nodded his consent like he was doing me a favor and I headed out the door. By the time I boarded the bus, the only empty seats were the two seats in the very back, directly in front of the pisser. I made my way back, tossed my bag into the overhead compartment, and slid into the seat. I closed my eyes, tried not to think about the smell, and hoped that I wouldn’t wake up again until Phoenix.
