Creepy news about a Greyhound bus in Canada, where a 22-year-old was sleeping and his seatmate decided to stab him 50-60 times and decapitate him. I guess there is something to be said for metal detectors at airports.
When I was 20 I moved to New York City from California by Greyhound, partly for the adventure and mainly because it was cheap. A one-way ticket was $59 (or, as the policy wonk voice in my head says, that is $104 in 2008 Dollars according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics inflation calculator). Leaving Oakland, I had $300 in my pocket, two small boxes of stuff in the cargo hold, a pillow, music, and a huge bag of chocolate chip cookies made by my roommates. And hair.
The “express” bus took four days, stopping in major cities for about an hour and picking up passengers in smaller towns. You stay on the same bus and they change drivers along the way. Having seen America from dozens of Greyhound bus stations, it is not entirely surprising to read that a nutcase was on board that bus in Winnipeg. By about 900 miles you know who is going the entire route and figure out who you want to sit near and who to avoid. Unless, of course, you are sleeping when someone sits down next to you.
Faced with 2,000 miles ahead of you, one of the tricks you quickly learn is to pull all of your stuff down and pretend you are asleep as the bus pulls into a stop. At least if there are other seats available. In Iowa, I was slow to do this and a young woman from Ames sat next to me, also headed to NYC to start anew.
Thankfully we hit it off, and my Walkman had two headphone jacks and a Bob Marley tape. By Chicago we were dating and went out for lunch. By Pittsburgh we were in a relationship. We dated for a few months after getting to NYC at the start of summer.
Two children, shipwrecked alone on a tropical island. Nature is kind. They thrive on the bounty of jungle and lagoon.
I have not taken a long bus ride since. When moving to Seattle from Brooklyn, I drove and tried to take smaller roads most of the way. I have driven through Nebraska twice and the only excitement I can recall was my cat wanting to pee at night. I turned the car onto a dusty farm road, put the cat on a leash and illuminated her litter box in the headlights. She was not amused, so we headed for Wyoming.
[Although I don’t like Motley Crue, the title is from their lyrics “Took a Greyhound Bus down to Heartattack and Vine with a fistful of dreams and dimes”]
One Response to “A fistful of dreams and dimes”
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Lovely post. I read the story about the beheading, and thought about writing something about it myself. I determined that I couldn’t do it in such a way that it would be anything other than sensational. So I didn’t do it. I’m happy to see that you found a way to make it relevant, interesting, and - dare I say it - sweet. Good work.