by Curtis Bunn
“OK, well, don’t catch the bus, Daddy. Let me buy you a plane ticket. If it’s really expensive, we can split the cost.”
“Cost isn’t the problem, remember? But no, I’m good; not doing planes, Maya. Maybe I will catch one back.”
She was not happy with me, but she wouldn’t dare push it. Not then. So I wrapped my head around going to Atlanta and e-mailed Kathy, who had dropped me another note that said she wanted to see me.
I will be in Atlanta, which is only about three hours from Charlotte, so maybe we can somehow connect while I’m down south. Here is my contact number. Call when you can.
I was excited about the chance to see her after so long, but also sad. Another part of me thought seeing her would soothe me. Not heal me, but certainly make me feel better. Yeah, I was confused.
I called Uber to get a ride to the bus station on Friday morning, and arrived at Greyhound looking forward to reading and resting and making the best of the twelve-hour trip. I read that it was mental how you handle long plane or bus trips, and I went into it as a necessary thing as opposed to dreading it. So, I was OK that it would take half a day when I could be there in less than two hours on a plane.
The bus experience was something I hadn’t had since college, so it was weird to me that the process seemed exactly the same. Other than being able to purchase my ticket and print it out on the computer, it was the same procedure: Stand in line for a bus that would leave at least thirty minutes late, sit on the bus another ten minutes before it takes off and hope and pray no one sits next to you.
Probably fifteen people were in line before me, but that meant I could get a window seat and place my bag on the aisle seat to discourage someone from picking it.
I pulled out my laptop and looked up the weather in Atlanta and for our entire route. But I was disappointed when I realized the battery was not fully charged. I had only about a half-hour of computer life before it went dark. And I didn’t know what the heck they were waiting on, but our eight o’clock departure didn’t pull out until almost nine. My battery was already dead before we left D.C.
Worse than that, this guy decided to sit by me on the second row from the front.
“Is anyone sitting here?” he asked. I looked around at the rest of the bus. There were plenty of available seats. There was not an empty row, but I couldn’t help but wonder why he chose to crowd me.
When you know you’re going to die, you become less politically correct.
“All these seats on this bus, why you want to sit here?” I asked. I did not try to hide my disappointment.
The man, who looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, was taken aback.
“What’s your problem? I like to be near the front, so I can watch the bus driver and see the road in front of me, see where we’re going. So if you have a problem, blame yourself. You picked the seat in the front.”
“Well, I didn’t mean any disrespect,” I said. “I was just curious. I like to stretch out if I can.”
“I don’t care who I sit by. I just need to be in the front.”
“OK. I’ll be sleeping and reading most of the time anyway.”
I really wanted to look at the sights in comfort and think. And pray. But I could tell this guy was a talker. Worse, a talker about stuff I had no interest in.
By the time we crossed the bridge and rolled past the Pentagon, I had learned about the man’s children, grandchildren, two ex-wives, his retirement from the Army…more than enough—especially since I didn’t ask him about anything.
We rolled along and I just nodded my head and said, “OK” or “uh huh” or “right” as he cleared seemingly every thought out of his head. I was almost totally checked out. I responded just enough to him to give the impression I was engaged.
When we hit the inevitable bumper-to-bumper traffic just beyond Potomac Mills outlet mall on Interstate 95 South, he caught my attention. He said he was a cancer survivor.
My ears perked up then. I looked at him for the first time, really looked at him. He was older that I first thought, but carried himself younger than he was. His hair was cut really low and neat. It was all gray. He had sideburns and a thin mustache, sort of a Clark Gable look. He wore a plaid shirt that was more hip than lumberjack.
And I noticed the YSL emblem on the stylish eyeglasses he wore.
“What kind of cancer?” I asked.
“Throat.”
“How did you do it?”
“Wasn’t me. It was God. I always believed in Him. After what I went through, I believe in Him even more.”
I didn’t want to pry, but I wanted to know.
“How did God get you through it?”
“Well, science, you know, medicine, doctors…had a part in it, too. They caught it early and were able to shrink the tumor with chemo and go in and take it out with surgery. But something could have gone wrong and I’m giving God the credit that it didn’t. Know what I mean?”
I knew what he meant, but I also wondered what he meant. Did he mean God wanted me to die? Chemo and surgery couldn’t cure my cancer. So if God saved him, is He forsaking me?
For a minute or two, he was quiet, which gave me the time to ponder that.
“Ever know anyone with cancer?” he asked.
No way was I going to tell him my story.
“Who doesn’t?” I said. “Not everyone has been to New York or been on television. But everyone knows someone who has or has had cancer.”
“Well, it’s an ugly, ugly thing. It can make you feel like you can touch death, like you can feel death. Don’t know anything else like it. Don’t want to know anything like it.”
I knew what he meant.
“What’s your name?”
“Eugene. You can call me Gene.”
“I’m Calvin. Calvin Jones.”
We shook hands.
“It takes a lot of strength to overcome what you did,” I said.
“No one can know what it’s like…unless you’ve been through it. They gave me two months of chemo, eight rounds, but they didn’t know it was going to work. It was about fifty-fifty. That’s some scary—excuse my language—but that’s some scary shit. To think: If this doesn’t work, I’m going to die. That’s not easy to live with.
“I mean it’s different from war. I was in Desert Storm. I knew being out there meant we could roll over a land mine and that could be it. Or take some fire. But that came with the territory of being in the Army, fighting for your country.
“I saw some ugly, awful stuff over there—guys I knew, standing next to me one minute fighting, laying dead next to me with a bullet to the head the next. I saw stuff you would never want to see. My dreams are still filled with them. I can’t watch movies about war. Brings back too many terrible thoughts.
“But, still, when I survived that without losing a leg or an eye and with my life, I was more relieved than anything else. On the flight home, I went to the bathroom and cried. I had seen too many people die. Death is not pleasant, no matter how you experience it. But to actually be there…well, that’s a burden no man should have to see.
“Anyway, though, I felt like God spared me because I was two feet from guys who were just blown up. And getting on that plane home meant more than that I had survived. It meant I had been spared. Nothing could challenge me the way living with the fear I had during my Iraq tour. That’s what I thought.
“Then six years ago happened. Had pain in my neck. Wasn’t sure what was going on, but it lasted too long. Felt like a sore throat. I gargled and took medicine and nothing worked. It takes a lot to get me to go to the doctor, but something about this just didn’t feel right.
“An hour after being there, they said I needed to speak to a specialist. An oncologist. I don’t pretend to be the smartest guy in the world, but when I heard ‘oncologist,’ I knew my ass was in trouble.”
He said it with a comic tone, but the same thing happened to me, so I could relate.
“Immediately, I started praying. I asked, ‘God, w
hy would you let me survive all that death in Iraq to come home and die of cancer? It doesn’t add up, so I’m going to believe You spared me over there so I can make a difference over here. If I wasn’t doing enough, I got your message. Get me through this and I will be a faithful servant.’ ”
“How did you live thinking you could die?” I asked. “That has to be terrifying.”
“I started thinking about all I didn’t do, all I could do if I didn’t die,” Gene said. “I thought about my kids and grandkids and my ex-wives. I thought about it being not fair to have to live with thinking I was going to die. It crippled me.
“I was scared in Iraq. But I was petrified with cancer. It’s hard to have a clear thought thinking you’re going to die. Everything becomes magnified, more serious. And some things become less important. It wasn’t until after the surgery and the doctor said things went well and all was good…it wasn’t until then that I truly breathed. For months, I was just existing, hardly living. It’s been some time now, and I’m doing OK. But that was the scariest time in my life. And you know what? It was the most confusing time of my life. I had to actually think about dying. It was just tough.”
I believed God moved Gene to sit next to me. He talked too much, yeah. But he got to a point that resonated with me, making it a good thing he was there.
“Let me know if I’m getting too deep into your business,” I said, “but did you think about natural treatment options that didn’t require chemo?”
“Yes,” Gene answered. “I thought about it. But because it hadn’t metastasized to the lymph nodes, they didn’t want to waste time. They said it was fifty-fifty, but the sooner they shot me up, the better chances they had of getting it.”
He was a stranger, but suddenly I wanted to open up to him. Wanted to; I couldn’t.
“You look good, so I guess the prognosis is good for you, huh?”
“You can never tell,” Gene said. “I know at my next checkup they can say it has returned. I almost don’t even want to know now. I just want to keep living. And that’s what I do: I keep living because I could be dying.”
I looked off to my right, outside the bus, and places passed by. Gene stopped talking for an extended period for the first time since he sat down. It was as if he knew I needed time to digest all that.
“I live in Baltimore,” he said. “And I saw the bravest thing I’ve ever seen on television the other night, on the news. One of the anchors, a man who had been there for nine years, announced on the air that his brain tumor returned and it was too big to operate. He said doctors gave him four to six months to live.
“He did it with such grace and poise. I would have been a wreck. He said he’s a Christian and he has faith in God. I was so impressed with him. I could barely handle thinking I might get that diagnosis. And there he was talking about his fate on TV. It made me feel like I was weak.”
I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t say anything. I could only grunt—and turn to the window. Gene received a phone call and turned his body away from mine and lowered his voice so I couldn’t hear.
I propped my elbow on the armrest and placed my head in my hand and tried to get comfortable to sleep. Or give the appearance of sleep. I closed my eyes and thought about what Gene said about the TV anchor. He was strong, telling millions of people about his condition. Did it make me weak that I told hardly anyone?
It was a personal choice; I knew that. But was my silence born of fear or not wanting to talk about it or not wanting people to feel sorry for me? Those were the reasons I told myself. And I believed them. But was it more? Was it because I wouldn’t be strong enough to talk about it effectively enough to help someone? What I came to understand was that I had to be about two things: living my life and helping others. Simple as that.
Coming to that realization startled me, but also ignited me. I still was not going to blurt it out to just anyone. But I wasn’t going to hide it anymore. And I had to figure out how I could help others through my crisis…if possible.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Headed to Jacksonville, Florida. My grandson is turning twenty-one. Need to be there for that. And you?”
“Atlanta.”
It was the perfect time to tell him why I was going there. And he was waiting for a reason.
“Oh, just to get away. I’m a schoolteacher and one of my colleagues killed himself last week. After getting through that, it was the perfect time for me to get away.”
“Man, I’m sorry to hear that. I experienced the same thing after Iraq. I guy in my unit saw more than I did. He came back to the base once with someone’s arm in his backpack. Said he and his team took heavy fire one day and three of five guys were killed, right there beside him. I could tell that he was damaged by all he saw… How could he not be damaged?
“We got back here, to the States and I heard he got treatment. But it didn’t take. Took a gun to the head and bang. Sad. He was a good man. A good soldier.
“Worst part was that I could see it coming. I could see how bad off he was. He talked strange, about staying over there to rescue guys that were confirmed dead and stuff like fighting a war in America. He said he would kill himself if he failed to kill the Taliban. He would seem fine, but then talk crazy. He wasn’t that way before we got over there. Being in that war killed him. And I didn’t—or couldn’t—do anything to help him.”
“My friend was bipolar. Didn’t learn it until after everything happened. He set it up for me to find him. Hung himself.”
“I know that had to be tough. I’ve seen that scene.”
“So I need to get away.”
“You ain’t running from something, are you?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Just asking. I travel a lot on the bus. And many times, I find out people are running from something—or someone… Trying to find a new life or at least leave the old one behind.”
“Isn’t that the same thing—leaving an old life behind and finding a new life?”
“You’d think so, but a lot of people don’t know what starting over is or how to. They just know how to leave a life behind.”
Once again, Gene made me think. I wasn’t leaving a life behind, but I did have a new life to live. Did I know how to do it? Did I know the life I wanted to live? And then I asked myself a question I never considered before:
What haven’t I done that I would like to do?
Figuring that out would be a start to living. I still had to figure it out and then do it.
“I’m going to take a nap,” I told Gene. “I stayed up pretty much all night so I would sleep on the trip. Sleep is coming down on me now.”
I got myself as comfortable as I could get and pondered what I wanted for the rest of my life until I drifted off. It was one of the first times I did not cry myself to sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SPEED
When I woke up, I was disoriented. The sun was about an hour from setting as we cruised along somewhere in North Carolina. We were on Interstate 85 South. I saw a sign for the Charlotte airport.
We were about an hour from North Carolina when I dozed off. To be in Charlotte meant I got in about three hours of sleep. I needed it. I was exhausted. But not so tired that I didn’t realize the irony of waking up in Charlotte; that’s where Kathy lived.
Knowing that made me feel closer to her. I woke up Gene so I could get by him to head to the bathroom. I smiled about that as I worked my way down the narrow aisle. Most people were either sleeping or listening to music. A few gazed out the window while others read books.
I had to psyche myself out about using the bathroom on the bus. I made sure to get off in Richmond to pee. But there was no option on this occasion. I had to go. The bus bathroom was one of the downfalls about taking the bus. It stunk.
I held my breath and turned my head away from the toilet as I relieved myself. But I could not avoid the stench. It was intense and made me immediately think about taking a flight back t
o D.C. when it was time.
Halfway back to my seat up front, I noticed the bus wobbling. The ride was unsteady and forced me to almost fall into someone’s lap. I made my way to my row and Gene stood up so I could get to my seat. Something, however, told me to take a look at the driver, and the man who had to be in his early sixties, seemed shaky.
I backed out of the row and walked the six feet or so to the front. I noticed sweat pouring down his neck.
“Hey, you OK?”
The driver grunted, and the bus started to veer to the right. My instincts kicked in. I hurried to him, grabbed the wheel and prevented the vehicle from careening off the highway.
“Gene,” I yelled.
I looked down at the driver and he was struggling to keep his eyes open.
“Can you stop the bus? Stop the bus,” I said. He did not respond.
I could hear rumblings behind me from passengers who could sense something bad was happening.
“Gene, he’s passing out,” I said, panic in my voice. “Pull him out.”
I moved aside with my head on the road and hand on the steering wheel, keeping us from crashing. Gene and a woman who was sitting up front carefully pulled the driver out of the seat and laid him on the floor.
“Call nine-one-one,” I said as I slid into the driver’s seat. He was a taller man, and I couldn’t find the seat adjustment. Immediately I called on my skills from when I drove for D.C. Metrobus for a year. My route was in Southeast, and after a period where it became dangerous for drivers, I quit. Kids were robbing passengers, commandeering busses at gunpoint. I didn’t need that.
I managed to get the bus under control, but I was scared. What happened to the driver? Was he OK? I felt like Sandra Bullock in the movie Speed.
“What’s wrong? He OK?”
“Take the next exit,” a woman yelled. “He’s having a heart attack. There’s a hospital over here, near the airport. Carolinas Medical Center.”
I kept looking back to see what they were doing to the driver. The woman had opened his shirt to get him air. Gene checked his pulse.
“Can you feel anything?” I asked.