It costs $30 to run away
from yet another place I don’t wanna be—
to see if these bus wheels
will roll me outta this sticky patch of anxiety …
this time it’s 2 days, 2 nights straight on the go,
final destination, Chicago--
and this first stretch? 9 hours to El Paso.
Last thing I hear is
“Don’t sit next to the potty!”
“Or another smoker” I think when the
first thing I see, assaulting me is a sign--
“No Smoking.”
But I climb, smell the rank of the lower 48
and hundreds of bodies, past and present,
in which I start to marinade.
I feel and wade my way through
encroaching delirium in 90-degree March Phoenix heat
back to the only open seat
next to this wide-eyed, wild-haired,
leather-wearing cat
right next to the john in the back …
He smells like smoke--*sniiiiff* …Camel Lights …
and I hope, “Maybe these next 9 hours
won’t go so slow, you know …”
They don’t. I
sit next to the shit pit piss pot
next to crazy cool in the hot back,
talking 'bout UFOs and subliminals,
patriots and criminals,
dreams, demands, philosophies,
angels, demons, monstrosities--
we exchange autobiographies!
It goes by so quick
in the back of this slow silver bullet
trying to find targets through night’s blindness
after dreams gone MIA
or to fix ripping seams before something crucial falls away for good.
We got all sorts of different stories, kinda,
but man, no matter where you go,
lights out the window all look alike at 70 miles per hour,
and faces, too, can look the same
between each depot
and from front row to back row,
but for miles at a time,
I inevitably cling to the string of life’s itinerary,
plotting dot-to-dot, my future philosophy
by way of the people put in my path
as we see how we survive in the aftermath of our meeting.
It’s miraculous … take my 9-hour friend:
He’s 5 days in smokers’ hell
by the urine smell
all the way to south Texas.
He'll try to get his job back
as a cook at the Marriott
after he quit to make it
in fast-paced L.A.,
but couldn't fit in--
he side-tracked to Seattle along the way,
tried to get lost, but couldn’t stay,
so he thought, “Maybe … I just belong at home
where I didn’t have answers,
but no questions, anyway.
Time’s been pinching at my heels
with the dust I’ve been kicking up
lining all my wrinkles,
but now that I’m facing this direction
the barbs aren’t digging in anymore …
Guess ultimately and in the end,
all most folks ever wanna do
is to go home.”
(Never figured me and this stranger
would possibly wear the same size hope.)
We part and depart
in El Paso—
me to a Dallas transfer
he to his little city he ended up missing
more than he ever thought he would--
he escaped,
but couldn't stay away.
Now I know he's shakin'
in the back, bakin', waitin' for
the next break when
he can have a smoke,
but by tonight, he'll be safe, home …
I'll still be on the road,
goin' to Chicago
with more answers
than I thought I would ever need,
but still wonderin' what his name is …
Julie Elefante is a writer and editor. Many of her current projects can be found at www.rockscissorspaper.org
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