For the last two years, my wife and I have commuted back and forth from Boston and New York City to see each other on holidays and weekends. It was stressful, time consuming, and I really wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Really.
At the end of May, this pilgrimage comes to an end, and thankfully, we can spend more time under the same roof.
For the first two months, I rode Greyhound, succumbing to the idea that surely this national bus company must really have this New York-to-Boston thing down. Many of these were possibly the strangest bus experiences I have ever endured.
But now, I will relay just some of them for you.
Hear now, of the two months of the Greyhound.
THE PILLY GIANT
So much of a successful bus ride depends on your seatmate. Ideally, you do not have one at all. Failing that, they are asleep and unobtrusive. Failing that, they are friendly and have food or water to share with you. Failing that, they’re quiet for most of the trip.
Failing that, they don’t kill you.
But the Pilly Giant was an impressive counterbalance to all these qualifiers. He was truly in a class by himself.
He was a large, alert man with a thick neck beard, wearing a pilly polyester lumberjack shirt, smelling of Febreze. His legs were kept open at an obtuse angle of about 130ยบ, his left arm jutted into my side. The right arm extended into the aisle, hooking anyone who traveled to the bathroom.
In between mucous-laden coughs, he would swig Pepsi from the two-liter bottle in his lap, belch, and then stare at me. Probably because I was staring at him.
This uneasy seating arrangement lasted a very, very long time. But we managed to not ever speak to each other, instead, staring at each like rival box turtles in the same aquarium.
THE GREAT COMPOSER
Let’s talk about the typical make up of the New York to Boston bus ride before we go any further. Most of them are not like the Pilly Giant. Most of them are freshmen who are visiting their friends and family in Boston. These are usually a chirpy wholesome bunch. Among their ranks are probably a few girls in their pajamas/sweat pants, who are going to sleep the entire trip; some guys who are going to display their radio-voices and their biceps (Dude! We should go out for some beer!); some people who clearly have some kind of inconvenient family outing; and a few individuals like myself who are clearly going to see their significant other.
But then, there was the Great Composer. Take your average gawky college freshmen, and add a huge dose of Brad Pitt in 12 Monkeys.
Now imagine that he is forever taking off and putting back on a sweater that really should have been destroyed by a bear in a remote part of America.
He’s writing on ruled paper, some kind of elaborate musical score that looks like it’s going to take awhile. The creative process agitates him, sometimes he will hit his hand against the paper, or gesticulate towards the heavens, marveling at his own cognitive power.
Now imagine that he is getting a call every ten minutes from his mother or father, as he writes in musical notation on ruled paper.
When he talks on the phone, he scratches his head as if he had been handcuffed for seven years or so.
During that seven years, he was unable to wash his hair.
Finally, he holds up his cell phone and screams, “Could someone tell my father that I’m not driving the bus? Thank you!“
I am now taking the time to tell his father that he was not driving the bus.
JESUS WEPT
A guy who was maybe 22, mock-screamed “Satan” in an effort to sound like what he thought a heavy metal band might sound like if he was at the helm.
Ha! Ha! For five hours.
I think there was some discussion in between, I could be wrong.
