|
|
|
interstate buses in 2001
Friday, October 26 2001
I knew the moment I saw smoke pouring out of Manhattan that American freedom was going to be an early casualty. Here's a list of the information crackdown as it stands now. We're the land of the free and the home of the brave alright, sure enough, until we get scared.
At 4:30pm, I broke off work for the day and got ready for my trip to Silver Spring, Maryland. I'd be traveling by interstate bus, the first such bus I'd be riding since permanently abandoning bus travel for hitchhiking back in 1989 (the last Greyhound I took was from Albany to Montreal in August, 1989).
I caught the subway into Manhattan for the first time in over a week, riding it up to 42nd Street. From there I walked over to 8th Avenue and 41st Street, stopping for supplies in a Duane Reade pharmacy, where I bought Krazy Glue, two boxes of generic Tussin DM gelcaps, and some peanut butter M & Ms (since I'd had nothing to eat all day).
Once I'd picked up my ticket in the bus terminal, I thought it prudent to eat something more substantial. So I ducked into a no-name burger and fried chicken restaurant very close to my gate, gate 71. Judging from its menu and prices, I immediately assumed it was, you know, a fast food place, but boy was I mistaken! The fat ladies staffing the grill and cash register were not exactly virtuosos in their craft. It would have, for example, been prudent for them to keep a few burgers on the grill in anticipation of future orders, but instead they only put them on as orders were placed. Right away I regretted my decision to make a meal of burgers and fries. The fried chicken beneath the heat lamps and pre-assembled cold sandwiches in the refrigerator were, after all, available immediately. While I waited around for my food to be laboriously hand-constructed, other customers cursed the speed more vociferously than me. It was so depressing to note the common sense things that could have been done to speed up the process, so I looked away instead.
A further indication of systemic incompetence was the amount of fries I received. I ordered the "regular" amount, not the large, and for some reason they gave me far more than I could possibly eat (not an easy thing to do with me). Capping the experience, the burger had to be the worst thing I've ever paid money to eat. It has absolutely no flavor whatsoever. For some reason, though, all the bus drivers came to this particular restaurant for their food.
The bus I rode to Silver Spring was about two thirds full and I found myself sitting beside a youngish acne-riddled guy with a window seat. I'd bought the tussin gel caps to suppress my coughs and make the experience more, you know, pleasurable. But even after I'd eaten four, I continued to cough. (This wasn't a psychoactive dose, but given the ephedrine and low-levels of DXM, it was a mild euphoriant.) I also used willpower to suppress my coughs and could, at times, go for twenty minutes between them, but even so, whenever I did cough (and it was always a mild, inoffensive pair of coughs), through the corner of my eye I could see the guy seated next to me look over at me. Everybody, in their various misinformed ways, is on edge about anthrax these days, but damn it, when the tickle in my throat reaches a certain threshold, I have to cough!
The bus I was riding belong to the Peter Pan bus company, which is evidently a subsidiary of Trailways and therefore also a subsidiary of the great busing monopoly Greyhound (BUS8C07). But as buses go, it was a comfortable ride, with at least as much leg room as Southwest Airlines (LUV). There was also a movie shown during the drive, a cheesy little family picture about the love of a father for his newly-reunited teenager daughter during a summer vacation. The daughter plays hard to get with a local beefcake, telling him that her father is actually her lover, and a light-hearted pedophilia scandal ensues. It was a dreadful movie, but I was part of a captive audience and the nighttime scenery of New Jersey was no distraction.
The best thing about the drive from New York to Silver Spring was that it was a straight shot, with no stops along the way. It was the functional equivalent of a low-altitude airline flight, with none of the security hassles. I could have brought a bag full of box cutters and loaded Uzis had I been so inclined.
My bus arrived about a half hour early in Silver Spring. As I was getting off, it smelled like the old lady in the front seat had grievously fouled her Depends®. She'd made two trips to the bathroom during the ride and had even fallen to her knees during one of these. It's nice not being an old lady, for the time being at least.
After I got off the bus, I waited around in the cold bluster with the others outside the locked station. There was no hope of calling Gretchen on the one telephone available because there was a substantial line in front of it. Cell phones have yet to fully penetrate the bus riding demographic.
When she finally showed up, Gretchen was driving with her childhood friend Dina, the AP correspondent normally stationed in South Africa. Back at Gretchen's parents' palatial palace, I said hello and cracked a few tussin-intensified jokes with the parents, as well as the groom and bride to be, and then we all went immediately off to bed. Tomorrow would be the first of a couple of long, exhausting days.
For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?011026 feedback
previous | next |
