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The
Greyhound's motor hummed quietly through the night, massaging her temples
with sensual grace. The setting was perfect for slumber, but she propped up
heavy lids and pressed her forehead against the cold sheet of scratched
plexiglas. So many miles of blackness. She strained to see something. The
whole
point was to see something, but the world offered only her own reflection,
washed every second or so in the fleeting glow of passing streetlights.
She pushed back the seat and eased into the comfort cruiser's plush padding.
At
dawn it seemed like pair of vagrant's trousers, tarnished with wear and torn
in
the seat. Hours, miles, memories later, it surrounded her with warmth. She
thought of the first boy she ever kissed. She wore his jacket, his ring, his
old Rugby shirt with the ever-stained elbows. Nine men, two kids and four jobs
later, she wore a leash.
The young man next to her mumbled something, swatted an imaginary fly from his
nose, and fell back to blissful unconsciousness. Ten hours en route and he
slept the last eight. She wanted to smack him, but he was too gorgeous to
wound. She could never hold a grudge against a pretty boy, especially one with
lush auburn hair. A lock wrestled free from the spray and dangled by his
forehead. She wanted to eat it up. The boy had cheekbones you could count on.
Harry had no cheekbones. The poor bastard had no definable anything.
She looked again at the mock mirror and found the truth starting back at her.
Laugh lines, eyes flanked by marching wrinkles, a speckling of gray dashed
about her hair. She closed her eyes and imagined time passing faster than the
lines on the roadway. Diets, crunches, miles on the treadmill. They were nice
ideas, but they couldn't stop the aging. She'd trade a lifetime for the plaid
flannel skirts of her yesteryear, but high school halls were so far from this
dingy little bus, this forgotten strip of nothing.
The Greyhound sighed, slowed, and drifted slightly to the right. A moment
later
the brakes settled into the locked position and a dim cabin light drifted
through the mobile people cocoon. The driver's voice crackled softly, spouting
local facts and average temperatures. The rest stop offered bathrooms and
phones and a restaurant supposedly known for its pecan pie. He offered
forty-five minutes for coffee, leisure, and mindless chatter, then back on the
road. He was brief and quiet and so certain sounding, like one of those good
fathers she read about in Disney books. She thought of hers, then didn't.
"Where are we?" asked the pretty boy.
He squirmed and stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. She watched him
through the blackness, pretending not to hear. He asked again, so she turned
and met his hopeful eyes.
"Somewhere in the Carolinas, north I think."
"North if we're lucky."
She shrugged and looked away.
"Are you getting off?" he asked.
"I suppose."
"How about some coffee then?"
He stood and offered her his hand. She took it on reflex, then winced and
yanked it away. He frowned slightly and walked head down through the crowed
tube.
She sat silently while the bus emptied, her eyes glazed over, staring into the
night. She pulled a compact from her purse and checked her face. Her makeup
held, but her hair needed work. She ran a brush through a section of matted
blond curls, but gave up on the second stroke. She was tired of primping. Ten
years of looking just so did nothing for her life. Why should today be any
different? She tied it in a scrunchy, grabbed some cash from her purse, and
stepped to the street.
An unexpected burst of cool air rosed her cheeks and sent a chill down her
back. It had been a long time since she felt cold. She missed it all, snow,
jackets, cuddling by a fire. Even a half-assed Carolina winter felt real in
the
face of what Florida offered. She looked north and thought of snow angels and
New Year's in New York. She turned her collar up, stuffed her hands in her
coat
and walked to a deserted bench outside the restaurant. She watched as a stream
of headlights ignored the speed limit, silently wishing to swap lives with
someone, anyone at all.
"Hey," said the pretty boy, tapping her on the shoulder. "I thought you could
use this." He handed her a cup of coffee and smiled. "I guessed light and
sweet."
"Good guess," she said.
They shared a moment of comfortable silence, each staring into the nothing
spread about the road. No words, no trite conversation, just breathing and
thinking and a whole mess of not getting to know each other. It was the best
relationship she never had. Then he spoke and ruined it all.
"Something wrong?"
"Why?"
"You just look it."
"Do I?"
"A woman like you alone on a bus? It doesn't make much sense to me. Something
had to put you here."
"Really?"
"Well you sure as hell don't dress like bus people. I do, but that's more of a
college thing than anything else. I'm here because I'm broke. You're here
because something went wrong."
"My jeans tell you all that?"
"No, that designer blouse of yours does the trick. You could have flown to
wherever it is you're ultimately going, but you didn't and I find that
interesting. There's got to be a story behind it."
"You a writer?"
"Shit no. Pre-law. But that stuff can be pretty dry. Between semesters I
become
an avid people watcher. I like to size 'em up, you know? Every now and then I
go deeper and try to step into their lives and figure them out from the
inside.
It's good practice for the courtroom."
She blew the steam from her coffee and sipped it slowly. "So what else do my
clothes tell you?"
"That you left in a hurry. Bus trips are long trips. People on busses go one
way and intend to stay. You brought a knapsack? That's nothing. I bet you
take
more than that to the gym."
"How do you know that's all I brought?"
He smiled sheepishly and kicked a patch of dirt on the ground. "I noticed you
when you got on in Tallahassee. I've been riding since Tampa."
"Where you headed?"
"Boston, and you?"
"Not sure. I was thinking New York, but I might get off in D.C. if time
doesn't
start passing."
"That's another tip off."
"What?"
"A lady like you with no set plans."
She poured the remainder of her coffee on the grass and tossed the
empty
container to a nearby trash can. "What's with all this woman like me crap
anyway? You don't even know my name."
"You're right I don't," said the pretty boy, pushing back the hair from his
eyes. "Care to help me out on that one?"
"No."
"Oh I see."
She straddled the picnic bench to face him square. "See what?"
"You've got guy troubles. That's what this is all about."
"No sale kid," she said, laughing despite herself. "That's too easy.
Every woman has guy troubles, even the ones without a guy."
"So what is it then? Money, family, a career gone bad?"
"You're a real piece of work. You know that?"
He nodded and watched her fidget her way into a patch of silence. She
looked to the trash and longed for the cup she tossed. She needed something to
hold, something to busy her hands, but the table was bare and her purse was on
the bus. Moments ticked away, but he just sat there, daring her to give in.
She
did.
"I was happy once. I was popular and pretty and drove this wicked
little
Camaro. Everyone knew me. Everyone. Now I'm just a jobless mini-van pilot who
hates her daughter for turning into the me I was when I was young. I'm so damn
jealous of everyone. I just had to get away."
"Away from who exactly? Her? No, I don't buy that. It's not a who at
all, is it? It's more a what, right? You're running from time, hoping to bump
into the girl you used to be."
He took a pin from his letterman's jacket and fastened it to her coat.
"Here, this might help." He lifted her chin and planted a soft kiss on her
forehead. "It's all right," he said. "Really."
She smiled and for the first time, noticed his eyes. They were brown,
warm, and colored with the innocence of youth. He believed in things. She
could
tell. He cared. He tried. He laughed hard and often. In his world, mountains
were still climbable and he'd try every one. He'd yet to see a fake corporate
smile. He'd never been cheated on, or lied to. Santa came every Christmas and
he always kissed someone on New Year's Eve. She wanted desperately to be the
girl he held when Dick Clark did his business. Just once. Just one more dance
at the prom.
He knew she was thinking it over, running through the pros and cons in
her mind. He backed off, stayed silent, just watching, waiting, and hoping her
state of despair was enough to send her over the edge. It was. At her
prompting
they made wild, hurried, passionate love right there on the table. She kissed
him afterwards and raced to the bus like a love struck schoolgirl.
He watched her for a moment, then pulled a pack of Newport Lights from
his coat pocket. He tapped the package to his left hand, knocking the tobacco
in place. He mouthed a cigarette, fumbled with his lighter, and struck fire on
the third attempt. A pack a day, just like his pop.
He thought about the old man as he sucked a batch of smoke to his lungs. Time
sure beat him up. He pictured him passed out on the couch, beer on the coffee
table, football on the tube. Mom would be out gardening or shopping or raising
hell at some PTA fund-raiser. She never slowed down that one. Always moving.
He took another drag, but all at once the cigarette tasted bitter. He snubbed
it on the table and flicked it to the grass. A moment later he was crying.
Tim Toterhi is an author, martial arts instructor and business consultant. He
has published several short works of fiction and is currently writing a
women's self-defense empowerment book. Copies of his novel, "MacLoughlin's
Game" can be found on-line at: www.e-pulp.com/mainstrm/game.html. He can be
reached at:
clutchtt@aol.com.
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