A YIELD sign should have risen and explicitly hit me in the face the same way Nosferatu wakes up and brings horror to his victims. Cause when I entered the Greyhound Bus station the man behind the counter sporting a beanie cap (granted it’s eighty-freaking-degrees in Florida) looked at me blankly as I got closer.
For a good five seconds time stood still; I just stood there looking at him as he looked at me. I was confused. Why was he just staring and not gesturing towards me or even opening his mouth to utter a sign of life? So I looked away and scratched my head, then the door moved. A man walks out, looking a bit flustered, and greets me.
Was it then that I should’ve said “thanks, but no. I won’t be going on your bus”?
It’s my fault I missed the train, like by only three minutes, but any amount of time after the late departure time leads to the same self-ass-kicking. So the bus was the next reasonable (cost-effective) resort to get from Gainesville to Miami. So, I was pretty much stuck to riding the bus down.
I reluctantly gave the man my ID so he could print my ticket. Inhaled deeper as I took the print out from him. Sealed to my fate with ticket in hand, I waited patiently for the bus to arrive along with the other passengers.
The other passengers waiting in the station were quiet, minding their own business. But outside a man and his girlfriend stumbled out from a car, pulling out what seems to be the man’s luggage, his shoes and his bottle of vodka.
On top of the car the bottle rested, brazenly displaying its remaining quarter of potato juice. They must’ve been chugging the bottle and doing who knows what sexual indecencies; their private form of affection that took place in the limited car space became really public fast.
The man grabbed the woman forcefully, I assumed the open-air and unlimited amount of space brazened the man, that he picked her up and had her straddle him on his waist. And off the man went, showing her off like a runner waving their flags during a victory lap. Though, this man only proudly exposed the woman’s ass crack and his flattering checkered boxers.
They laughed and made out.
I at first was happy to see them show public affection (maybe he’s going away for a very long time – I like to interject a story to give reason to absurd actions), though I felt it passed the line when he plopped the woman onto her feet and left his pants where they dropped – by his feet – and stood there laughing. Then he started gyrating his hips from side-to-side, then twerking, then trying to bounce his junk to her in the most romantic way he knows how.
I believe he whipped it out about a handful of times before the women, out of sheer embarrassment, hugged him good-bye one last time and left her betrothed dancing the day away in front of the bus station windows – though he lifted his pants halfway, seemingly semi-embarrassed, as he checked his surrounding and found himself alone.
A lot of laughs were given as the man flaunted his dance moves and demonstrated his impressive talent of keeping his pants afloat just right below his ass.
As he was going to produce another flurry of dance moves, the bus pulled around the corner.
A group of grumpy looking disheveled humans poured out the bus door, they were all led by the master grump driver who seemed to hate every second of his life.
The passengers picked up their luggage and went away without a farewell wave to the disgruntled worker. The new group of passengers came out from the station to make a disordered line along the wall of the station.
The station speaker announced, “All Aboard to Miami…” with a trail of intelligible ramblings. Everybody encroached closer to the bus door.
I quickly ran back inside to alleviate myself before the long ride. And as I stepped back outside, I managed to get the lofty position of being the last one to board.
The gentleman with the beanie cap was next to the driver and both were talking to each other while they looked at me come to the bus. I pulled out my ticket and had it out for the man to take, but the driver didn’t move his arm or say a single thing to me – he just looked away. Feeling a bit defeated, I walked shamefully (for some reason I felt this way) to the door.
I believe its customary to greet and/or ask for a ticket to passengers, giving them at least some kind of acknowledgement about them traveling with him. None of this occurred. And because I’m a creature of habit and quite possibly a gluten for punishment, I came back to the driver to give him my ticket.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I have my ticket.”
“You just pass me, disrespecting me.” The driver belligerently blurts out. “You should stay with drunk man. Why don’t you go with the drunk guy?”
All of a sudden I felt attacked by pretty much everything. The sun beamed its late afternoon heat and brilliance onto my face while the silent beanie cap friend stood looking unmoved as his driver friend sent a barrage of undeserved chastising my way. All I could do is hold back my anger and ask him “Sir, are you ok? I don’t know what you want me to do? What should I do, sir?” I asked, covering the sun from my face.
“Just get in the bus.” He grumpily barked.
I went in without another word to him, found a seat and began to pull back my heart rate. At least the driver had the forethought to keep the drunk man from coming in the bus, which was the one thing I found positive about his actions.
This is going to be a long ride I thought to myself. A long ride to Miami.
To sum up the journey in the most capsulized way I can, I would describe the experience as being carted away in a bus headed to an insane-asylum. I say this because there were a handful of persons having solo conversations out loud, people fighting with one another and subversively fighting with the driver.
Now I know the reason why the air-conditioning was turned way down, it’s to pacify the passengers and driver.