Greyhound and Prozac

Forget “Leave the driving to us.”  “Prozac and a New Grill.”  That should be the new tag line for America’s bus line.

DISCLAIMER:  The events described herein aren’t necessarily a bad thing…I just don’t want to die at the hands of a psycho, or in the grips of a dreaded disease…which could very well happen if I travel Greyhound again...

I must admit that I only recently started traveling via Greyhound (a total of 1 round trip, so far).  I’ve heard the horror stories about some of the things that happen in terminals and on the buses, but I always discounted them as mere exaggeration.  I presumed that people made up most of the stories just to make their 36 hour trip more exciting and give them something to talk about when they finally reached their long lost cousins house in Cucamonga ('cuz God knows they really don’t have anything else to talk about).  Well, I’m here to tell you (or concur with those who have had the joy of experiencing the joy of riding Greyhound) that Las Vegas has NOTHING on Greyhound.  If you want to gamble with both your life and your final destination (regardless of what it says on your itinerary) - Go Greyhound.

Here’s a recap of my trip home from Memphis, TN – a trip which, by car, takes 9-10 hours, depending on how many potty breaks you take:

We (my classmates and I) arrived at Greyhound terminal in Memphis, TN.  We were greeted by SWAT outside telling us not to spend too much time outside, as that area is know for drive-by shootings.  LOVELY – I don’t think I paid my life insurance policy last month….just my luck.

We (40 or so students) all moseyed into the ticketing area where, after almost 1.5 hours, we were greeted by a lady who looked and smelled like she just crawled out of the gutter right outside the terminal.  She had such a nice smile, sans 5 or 6 teeth.  Her hair (or someone else's hair, as it was a weave) actually had lint and other unidentifiable particulates randomly placed throughout.  I will give her credit for this – her name-tag was properly aligned with the mustard stain on her vest.  I think it might have been Grey Poupon, based on the color of the stain.  Right away, I knew I was dealing with the upper class of the Greyhound ticketing agents.  I eventually got my bags checked and my tickets in hand.  We all waited around for our respective busses to leave Memphis, and mine did so within an hour of being ticketed.



In the big picture, everything is going well so far……

We all board the bus to Nashville.  After we leave the homicide capital of the US (check out A&E “Memphis Homicide”), and have received our lecture from the drive about not playing out music too loud, and being admonished regarding smoking crack, and left OR right handed cigarettes, not drinking illegal substances and to keep our voiced down; the party started.  A mom (I’m guessing early/mid 40s) and her two daughters (18 – 24, MAYBE) were in the back 3 seats, next to the vertical coffin-sized restroom.  One of my fellow students (herein after referred to as Ricky, since that was his name) starts schmoozing with the older of the two daughters (we’ll call her hoe 1).  Ricky is a players player…he needs a show on MTV or something….

Ricky and hoe 1 immediately hit it off, and were talking aloud enough for the back half of the bus to hear them.  She just recently got out of prison in Texas and is heading back to Atlanta to see her dad (who, by the way, has custody of her 3 year old son, who is apparently a “devil child” and can’t be managed).  She said she hadn’t been “f*#%ed for months” and needs to “make mens happy again.”  That obviously got Ricky’s ears perked up (among other things).  The conversation continued down the path of debauchery, Larry Flint-like topics and the frequent mention of the talented body parts that can apparently milk a cow’s teat like a machine.  After only 1 hour of chatting her up, Ricky was playing peek-a-boo and touchy-feely with the aforementioned body parts.  30 minutes later, they were in the coffin doing the nasty.  I can only thank God for loud diesel engines, Febreeze and Clorox..

During all that activity, there was a lady behind me who just got out of the hospital, and was strung out on methadone and oxycontin.  Needless to say, she had no reservations and spoke her mind, calling hoe 1 a hoe, slut, tramp and a few other words I’d never heard before.

The ride to Nashville was only 3 hours and was full of the typical things that life is supposedly all about – sex, drugs and rock and roll!!

The Nashville terminal was rather uneventful, except for the fact that I missed by connection.  Why, you ask?  Well, let me tell you.  My itinerary said I was to catch a bus to Louisville, KY at 6:25.  So, I got in the line for Louisville.  I waited in line during the 1:20 layover, and made the most of my stay by eating a Snickers and drinking a Diet Sprite (gotta cut back on the calories somewhere).  Well, they made a boarding call and the line started moving.  Once I got to the front of the line, the driver, who was taking tickets, said I couldn’t get on the bus.  Needless to say, I was somewhat shocked.  The said my next ticket was for Nashville to Indianapolis, NOT Nashville to Louisville.  OK, so….now what?  He made me go to the ticket counter to get it straightened out.  In the meantime, that son of a bitch drove off.  I’m stranded.  The ticket counter lady, another toothless wonder, took 20 minutes to figure out what happened.  I had to wait for a connecting bus, which only took 30 minutes or so.  Once I finally boarded the bus to Louisville, it was a pretty decent ride.

Since my ride TO Louisville was somewhat tolerable, my time IN Louisville was simply scary.  I’ll try to be brief – A guy fought with a vending machine - literally.  He was punching it when the bag of Bugles didn’t fall.  The rent a cop, who was actually armed, came over and calmed the guy down.  Unnerving, none-the-less.  There was a lady speaking to herself.  No, I take that back – she was having a conversation with someone/something.  It was like listening to a one-sided phone conversation.  The pauses, the intonation, the laughs, the voice variances; some one was communicating with her.  Perhaps she was a Scientologist….who knows.  Seriously though, it was freaky.  I mean, we all talk to ourselves on occasion.  Heck, I’ve even argued with myself sometimes.  But, this was something completely different.  All I could do was watch out of the corner of my eye and wait for her body to split in two, and the other personality would reveal itself.  As I was standing in line to board the bus to Indianapolis, a lady came in through the door next to our boarding door, walked up to me and asked “Where are you going?”  She was about 5 feet tall, 85 pounds, but she had a Hannibal Lecter look in her eyes.  I was actually afraid to answer.  What if I said Indianapolis, and she hated Indy?  Was she a serial killer who hates Indy?  Does she target bald dudes?  What if she prefers American Tourister over Samsonite.  I’d be screwed.  I told her Chicago, and she smiled and walked away.  That was it – she said nothing more.  I took a deep breath and quietly grasped my luggage handle.  I wish I had my blankie.  I still wonder if she has a Kenmore freezer somewhere with the cut up body of Indianapolis-bound riders….

I boarded the bus to Indy without any more issues.  Then, from out of nowhere, I heard a familiar laugh – it was hoe 1.  I won’t belabor this with a repeat of the trip from Memphis, but she earned another $100 with a trip to the restroom again.  When she returned to her seat (3 behind mine), a familiar scent penetrated the already stale air.  If I ever travel Greyhound again, I’m going to take a Summer’s Eve in my carry-on.

I did actually doze off for a bit on the ride from Louisville.  There’s nothing better for a good nap than your skull rattling off the frame of a window and your knees buried into the reclined seat of the sweaty fat guy in front of you.  We arrived in Indianapolis and it was a pretty nice terminal – the nicest so far.  The only funny thing about the Indy terminal was my reaction when I heard the loudest rumbling sound ever.  I was sitting on one of those ultra-comfortable all metal benches and the whole place started shaking.  I thought for a moment that I was in San Francisco and the San Andreas Fault finally gave way.  I stood up and held my arms out, ala surfer dude, waiting to fall down from the seismic activity.  No, it was a train.  I didn’t know this at the time, but the Amtrak station is adjacent to the Greyhound terminal.  After I settled down, we were informed that the bus to Dayton was going to be 2 hours late.  Nice.  At least I had the joy of my hangy-downies being rattled every 20 minutes when a train passes through.  Of course there are the people talking to themselves, the stinky people, the ones who are hacking and bringing up phlegm and all kinds of SARS-like bacterium, and let us not forget the ticket counter employees.  Side Note:  If anyone reading this is an employee of a Dental Insurance provider, I am officially providing you a virtual goldmine of potential revenue leads.  If you land the Greyhound contract, please be so kind as to give me the industry standard commission.

I arrived in Dayton 2 hours after we left Indianapolis.  I was never so happy to see the “Gem City” as I was that morning.  I gazed lovingly upon the miniature skyline as the sunrise back-lit the Kettering Tower.  I smiled when we drove past the desolate streets in the Oregon District.  A warm feeling surged through my body as we hopped on the newly reconstructed freeway leading towards home.

As God as my witness, I hope to NEVER ride Greyhound again.  Yes, there is a chance I had a unique experience.  However, from what I’ve heard, it’s typical.  I can only recommend that we all create an emergency travel fund and always travel on airlines only.  Remember, if you schmooz Greyhound and land the dental contract, I want my commission!!!!