On the Bus

For the writing prompt "Travel"

If you asked me today, why a kid from New Jersey would choose to attend a state college in rural Missouri, I might smile and say, “Because I wanted to get away.” If I were being honest, I would admit that during the peak of the baby boom, an indifferent student with average grades didn’t have a prayer of getting into a “good” college or even a crowded local state school. And of course, there was the problem of money. Many states, like Missouri, were creating college systems and filling their dorms with city kids and overflow students from the Northeast. Tuition, out-of-state fees, and room and board turned out to be less than the cost of commuting to an unavailable college in New Jersey.

My counselor said that he had visited Central Missouri State College, and that it wasn’t a bad place; even a student like me would be admitted. I didn’t know in advance, but found during my first weeks on campus that my counselor had given the same advice to several of my fellow graduates
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The summer before college, my dad used a week of his vacation to drive out to see the campus. My dad spent his career working as a grocery clerk for a chain store. It was an adventure that I still remember. We stayed in cheap motels, the kind you see in forlorn movies with hapless characters who are trying to forget their pasts. We skipped historic places and tourist destinations and instead visited all the chain grocery stores that my dad read about monthly in Chain Store Age magazine.
My one lasting memory of that campus visit was less about the college and more about my dad and how the man he was shaped who I have become. We were sitting in the hallway outside the Admissions office waiting for my turn. A female student rushed by us, arms loaded with books. I’m not sure what she dropped, but I think it was a handkerchief. My dad stood up awkwardly, bent over and picked up the object, called out to the girl and walked over to her with his uneven gait, a gait caused by a poorly healed broken leg that occurred years ago while he was in the Army. An older lady sitting next to me commented that my dad was a true gentleman.

We returned home to New Jersey and I spent the summer working in a grocery store too, trying to save money for college.
In late August, suitcases packed, my dad drove me to the Port Authority building, the ground transportation hub, in New York City where I boarded a Trailways Golden Eagle bus for my trip to Missouri. I laugh when I think about the concept today, but in 1965, a bus trip that featured a stewardess, on board meals, comfortable seating and a bathroom seemed the height of luxury. I can’t imagine today who would want the job of stewardess on a bus, but I remember the young women were all perky and blonde and thin. Afterall the center isle of a bus is quite narrow. Imagine trying to serve trays of meals to fifty passengers in that crowded space.
With brief stops in major cities along the way, I glided in luxury to Saint louis, MO where everything changed. After an unpleasant wait in a crowded waiting room with my suitcases close by, I listened for the boarding call for the departure of the Trailways Silver Eagle, still an intercity bus, but with no frills except a bathroom.

Other passengers referred to the bus as a “milk run”, meaning it stopped at even very small towns on the route (Now I-70) from Saint Louis to Kansas City. Later, I would learn to take the Golden Eagle to Kansas City and a shorter milk run back to my destination.

My first ride on the Silver Eagle taught me about endurance and body odor. A very large lady deposited herself in the seat in front of me and immediately reclined the seat back onto my knees. When I asked her to raise the seat a little, she told me she had a bad back, forcing me to support her girth for the duration.

The bus depot at my destination was conveniently near the highway. On my one visit to the campus, I didn’t recall how far the campus was from the highway. I picked up my two suitcases and headed for the campus. I’ve forgotten the movie, but I remember the reference. “It was hot. Damn hot!” I was a sweaty mess as I finally approached the campus. A kindly professor pointed me in the direction of the boy’s dorms and wished he could give me a hand but had a meeting.

My dorm room was tiny and outfitted with three beds, three closets and two other roommates who had never met anyone from New Jersey.