We passed smaller cities that were still a part of Los Angeles but paid them no mind. Suburbia ended once we crossed over the Riverside County Line. It was as if everyone living outside of Los Angeles County suddenly just became unimportant. All the development halted like it had hit a brick wall. The farmland that I had left behind in Stockton once again reared its head as if reminding us that none of us would outlast it.
Two and a half hours later, the driver announced that we were going to momentarily stop in a small town called Palm Springs, and then Indio. Marcus leaned over and asked me if I was going to get off to stretch my legs for the five minutes we were going to stop.
“Nah, think I’ll just stay put this time.”
“Cool. Hold our seats then. I’ll get you something from the vending machines. You got any favorites?”
“Pretzels,” I answered, without thinking about it.
“Pretzels it is then.”
When we pulled off the interstate and headed down into Palm Springs, the sun had begun to finally set and was fire red. Tall mountains loomed up on the opposite side of the bus. A steep, jagged incline rose from the desert floor and disappeared into the thin stratus clouds above. I could see that the peak of the tallest mountain was still snowcapped. I watched lights going up a lonely road through the desert, toward something just above the base. Palm Springs was as rural and absent of real life as Stockton was when I had left in the middle of the night, except here it was just going on seven-thirty. The drive from the freeway took quite a while before we got to civilization. The closer we got to the mountains, the more flat earth we traversed, until a few stoplights emerged out of the quickly darkening desert.
When we pulled into the station, I was surprised at the number of people waiting around. Most of the people on the platforms looked absolutely miserable. An old woman with a walker that was being held together with duct tape pushed herself slowly toward the bus going back into Los Angeles. A large crowd of men was clustered together on the platform, and all of them were smoking. Near the terminal, several Mexican men were sitting against the wall with their knees to their chests and their faces hidden beneath sweat-stained straw cowboy hats. I watched Marcus meander carefully up the platform, assessing all of them. It was as if he was weighing everybody for some kind of future judgment. A few of the men noticed him and made a gesture to him in acknowledgment. When Marcus got to the small row of public pay phones, he dropped in some change and made a call. I watched him as he stood there patiently letting it ring. He never moved his lips or said a word. When he hung up a few seconds later, he seemed a little distressed, looked up at the bus, and then headed inside the terminal.
Outside, just below my window, I watched the porter pull a man’s bags out from under the storage compartment. Someone was getting off. Palm Springs must’ve been his home. When the man took his bag from the porter, I watched him slip away on foot, alone, across a dirt lot into God knows where. No one came to pick him up or give him a ride. Did God even keep tabs on all the people traveling by bus? Was there a patron saint of Greyhound riders that protected us?
The thought quickly crossed my mind to get off and try to call my Aunt Sharon to tell them that they had missed me. But I was being foolish, as I realized that they knew this and probably weren’t concerned about me in the slightest. I also didn’t have their phone number as my genius mother didn’t see fit to supply me with it. Maybe she knew and just didn’t want to tell me, trying to give me some false hope and something to think about during the layover. I could’ve called her as well, but she was probably somewhere racing around San Francisco with Dick, wearing another new dress and fresh pumps. She was most likely furious with me, but I knew it would be pointless. The only phone number I knew by heart was my grandma’s. It had never changed in all the years that I’d been alive, and for that I was thankful.
I looked up and saw Marcus coming up the aisle, holding several small bags of potato chips and a few bags of pretzels.
“Two bags of pretzels.”
“Wow. Thanks, Marcus. What do I owe you?” I asked. He seemed surprised.
“Don’t worry ’bout that. I’ve got you covered. Remember…you’re from The Grotto!”
“I’m from The Grotto, it’s true,” I laughed. I popped open one of the bags of pretzels and began chewing them down with fervor. I made short work of my snack, absentmindedly, as I couldn’t help but stay fixated on the endless one-story buildings that made up the bulk of Palm Springs. The layover ended abruptly, with the sound of the large metallic monster moaning back to life. The engine compartment behind my head started making loud, squeaky noises, like a fan belt was getting ready to break loose or disintegrate at any given moment. Marcus paid the continuous noise no mind and sat back in the seat, next to the lavatory, from which he could look all the way down the aisle. I watched him rest himself easily against the wood laminate wall and close his eyes, as if he were casually leaning against a tree in an open field at midday. I was a little stunned at his ability to block out the offending noise, but the engine gradually quieted after a few blocks. The bus made its way along a wide and smoothly graded roadway that was lined with tall, thin palm trees that reached upward, awkwardly trying to escape the hot ground like it was too painful to touch. We moved along, traveling ever farther from the interstate.
Looking at the world through the safety of a four-foot window, I quickly lost count of the fast-food restaurants, 7-Elevens, liquor stores, pawnshops, steakhouses, and all-night diners. My focus shifted a few times from the world outside to the partial reflection of my face on the glass. I kept looking myself over like an object on display, as if I didn’t recognize who I was. I stared unwavering, trying to study my face. My brown eyes failed to blink. My lips were taut and sealed, absent of either a smile or a frown. My dark blond hair looked heavy and matted against my head. Strangely perfect. I couldn’t read the emotion, but I knew from my own thoughts that it was nothing drastic, nothing dangerous—or at least not yet. I told myself that I wasn’t Charlotte’s son anymore. I knew from what I heard over whispers that I was “that kid traveling across the country alone.” I was the one who had been told numerous times to sit up front next to the driver, but here I was in the very back row against the window, freaking myself out with my own reflection.
I looked over, carefully at first, to see if Marcus was still dozing. I could hear faint music coming from his headphones, but I didn’t recognize it. I glanced down at his hand, which was gripping the square metal box that had the word Walkman embossed on the front. There was a small window that displayed two small wheels, slowly turning in time, advancing the cassette tape. I couldn’t make out most of the writing. The only thing that was clear was Side A.
“Miles Davis,” he muttered low. I sat back and molded myself once more into the corner. He smiled and closed his eyes.
“It’s alright, I wasn’t really sleeping,” he said. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to disturb him, as he seemed at peace. I went back to staring out the window. Low in the sky, just above the horizon, the first bright star of the evening blinked. Mountains that looked like crumbling chocolate melted into the reddening sky that was fading into a darker shade of early twilight. We moved along the floor of the desert at top speed, now past most of the urban development and surrounded by fields of palm groves. Several billboards advertised date plantations, date shakes, and even a Date Palm Fairgrounds.
The small towns along Highway 111 came and went quickly, each marked by an oblong green sign with the name of each place in reflective white lettering. Cathedral City, Rancho Mirage, Palm Desert, Indian Wells, La Quinta, and finally, Indio. I slipped the notepad from my shirt pocket, clicked the pen top a few times to warm up my brain, and took a few more notes about Palm Springs. Stuck for words, I drummed the pen against the window and chewed on the pen top. Marcus looked over at me, noticing that I was obviously bored out of my skull.
“You taking notes?”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s in
teresting to read later. If I didn’t write anything down, I’d probably just forget it, you know?”
“I do,” he rejoined. “I’ve always done a lot of writing. It’s a good habit.” His eyes were cast outside the glass with mine, watching the world disintegrating slowly from the safety of our metal shell.
“It builds character,” he added.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you read much?”
“Yeah, that’s about all I do anymore. I spend a lot of time alone in my room.”
He chuckled a little. “I guess you could say the two of us have a lot in common. I spent a lot of time alone in my room as well, doing absolutely nothing but getting lost in a book, for quite a long time, too.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he responded.
I shook my head and turned away. “I don’t know.”
“What? C’mon now, don’t leave me like this…” His expression was exuberant and pleading.
“I don’t know. People just don’t usually talk to me or ask me questions. Most people aren’t really this nice either. I guess I was just expecting everything to be different.”
“What did you expect to be different?”
“Being out here alone, by myself. I was really scared for the last few days about leaving my mom, but it’s not what I thought.”
“Well, Sebastien…” he leaned in toward me, “…here’s your first lesson. Don’t wrap yourself up in all the bad stuff, and definitely don’t expect everything to always go against you. Sometimes…” he sat back, considering his words, “…you just don’t know. Things usually have a way of working out for the best.”
Listening to Marcus talk made me feel better. The world seemed to move a little closer to being in its proper place, and I felt at ease—less like a department store figurine and more like someone with a friend. I was starting to feel like more than just an unwanted accessory of my mother’s. The thought occurred to me that he was probably going to be getting off and I’d be alone again.
“How far are you going?” I asked, now concerned.
“New York City. Just a few more days and I’ll be there. Hard to imagine.”
“Are you going back to see your family?”
Marcus looked me over again very carefully. He seemed to think about every question that I put to him, instead of how I just blurted out whatever came to mind.
“I’m going home to see my father,” he answered quietly.
“Does he know you’re coming?”
He smiled again. “I suppose he does, probably.”
We both watched the bus turn off the highway and down a side street. After a few blocks, we pulled into one more terminal. The overhead speaker clicked on just after the air brakes sneezed as we parked.
“Indio. We’ll be here for fifteen minutes only.”
I yawned and stretched my arms in front of me. “You getting off, Marcus?” I asked.
“Nah, little man. I’m staying put. You want to get out and stretch?”
“Yeah, why not? You want a soda?”
“Dial it in. I’ll watch your seat.”
Marcus’s words repeated over and over again in my head. I had never heard that expression before, “dial it in.” I knew it must’ve been a good thing. I stepped over to the Coke machine on the platform, which was trapped behind a black steel cage, and paid for two cans of Coca-Cola. They came down, ice-cold, one at a time. A short distance away, I saw an empty pay phone connected to a brown pole. The thought of calling the house nagged at me. If my mother picked up, or was even home, I’d be yelled at. I knew the way I was feeling was more from habit and not from any real concern. I didn’t want to call, and I knew it. It would just end up being a waste of change.
I looked away, distracted by several people moving across the platform who were leaving the bus behind with an exhausted look of frustrated thankfulness. It was confusing, but I understood it. I just wanted to get to Pennsylvania as soon as possible.
I left the blinking light of the empty phone kiosk untouched and climbed back up the stairs with my cold sodas.
“Alrighty, there he is…” the driver greeted me, as I made my way up the dangerous-looking metal steps.
“Another day, another soda.” It was the only witty remark I could think to say. He laughed out loud as I disappeared inside and made my way back to my seat. Outside, Indio seemed to make absolutely no impression on the world at all. It looked like a ghost town or a studio set from an old Western movie that someone now thought to occupy. The Greyhound Terminal was surrounded by flat earth, wooden structures, and palm trees. A breeze pushed the treetops around high above us, as if they were screaming, waving for help, and hoping someone would notice them. If you didn’t look up, you could’ve missed them completely. Maybe down here on earth I felt the same way.
Night started to close around us completely. The freeway was an endless stream of white headlights coming from well past the far horizon. The bus was the most comfortable for a few hours just after each layover, when they had filled the gas, emptied the toilet, and given the engine a rest. The air-conditioner was steady and cool and lacked the sooty gas-chamber odor that it normally forced from its tiny vents.
“You said your mother’s getting married?” Marcus asked. He was drinking his soda as if it were the greatest drink on earth. He was fixated on the shape of the can or what was printed on it.
“Yeah, San Francisco.”
“Any reason why you weren’t invited? Seems odd you not being there, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been to a few of her weddings already. They never last,” I answered. “She’s only interested in the idea of being married.”
Marcus chuckled. “What does your moms do for work? She got a job?”
“My moms? I’ve only got one?” I answered, confused.
“Moms…it’s your moms, the lady that you love. The only one. Got it?”
I stared back at him with a blank expression. It took a second for it to settle in. “Oh…yeah. I got it.”
“You got to learn to blend in, little man. It’s important. No one ever told you ’bout all that, did they?”
I shook my head no. He just grunted “hmmph.”
“So what does she do?” he asked, getting back to the main subject.
“She’s a bank teller, handling money, opening checking accounts. Stuff like that. She works in a bar at night as well.”
“Well, at least she’s got a gig. That’s something—and don’t say ‘I guess’!”
“She works in a bank, but we never have any money for school clothes, food, or the rent. She always has money from the bar though—single dollars.”
“Singles, huh? That might be a conversation for later, but it sounds like you should be happy she’s getting married. Who’s the guy?” he asked.
“Dick,” I grunted in disgust. “I really hate him. He’s an obnoxious insurance salesman.” I did my best to sum him up in as few words as possible.
“Damn.” Marcus’s face cringed as if he had just bit into a lemon. “That can’t be good.”
“Tell me about it,” I answered, dejected. “It’s not. He went to prison a few years ago. I overheard them talking. He doesn’t think I know.”
“Prison?” Marcus responded curiously. “Did you hear what he went in for?”
“Yeah.” I lowered my head.
“Well, don’t clam up and be ashamed about it. You ain’t the one that went in,” he smiled. “C’mon now, what was he in for?”
“I heard him say that he held up a liquor store and also set a house on fire when they tried to arrest him.”
“Damn, that ain’t right. Robbery is one thing, but arson is a whole other bag of problems. Maybe that’s why he sells insurance.”
“I don’t understand,” I responded.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be clear to you later on. People who set stuff on fire shouldn’t be trusted. At all. Got it?”
“Okay,” I answ
ered.
“So, your moms doesn’t see anything wrong with her working in a bank and marrying a man who has a taste for armed robbery and who will set himself on fire when backed into a corner?”
“I guess I never thought of it like that.”
“I bet he did.” Marcus finished his drink and put the empty can, along with mine, into a small paper bag and then stowed it under his seat. “Smells like real trouble, if you ask me,” he rejoined.
“Why, because he went to jail?”
Marcus gave me a stern look. Maybe I’d said something wrong. I had a tone in my voice when I blurted out what I had said. It was difficult for me to swallow all of my anger.
“First, to answer your question, no—I don’t have a problem with him going to prison. A lot of people go to prison. It’s just a fact of life. Almost every man in my family has done a bid, or served time somewhere.”
I was shocked. Dick was the only person I’d known who had been to prison. “Really?” I answered, my mouth agape.
“Second, jail is one thing and prison is another. Don’t confuse them. Trust me when I tell you that there is a world of difference between the two.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked on cue.
Marcus just shook his head with a slight grin. “You really want me to tell you, huh?” he asked. He seemed reluctant.
“Sure, why not? I honestly don’t know.”
He looked around the bus quickly and then shifted in his seat a little, moving closer, as if he was about to tell me an important secret.
“Ever see someone get pulled over on the side of the road by the police?” he asked.
“Yeah, all the time.”
“All the time?” he answered incredulously, with a broad smile. “Well, guess where he went.” I knew better not to answer right away. “He went to jail. May have even stayed the night. But in the morning, he probably went home or someone came to post his bail. Someone paid hard cash for that man’s freedom.”
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