A Guide to Using Greyhound Buses

Summary

The article provides a candid and colorful account of the typical Greyhound bus experience, highlighting the diverse passengers, the variable behavior of the drivers, and the mix of discomfort and unexpected comforts that come with this mode of travel.

Abstract

The narrative delves into the author's personal experiences with Greyhound buses, emphasizing the ease and affordability of this travel option for those who are not wealthy enough for alternatives like Amtrak or airfare. The author describes the range of characters one might encounter on a Greyhound journey, from the friendly to the unsavory, and the drivers who range from humorous to solemn, some with unfulfilled aspirations of law enforcement or military service. The article paints a picture of a microcosm of society on the move, where each passenger has a story to tell, and the journey itself, with its discomforts and rare moments of solitude, becomes a backdrop for reflection on life and the search for simplicity.

Opinions

The author finds Greyhound travel to be straightforward and inexpensive, a means to leave a place without needing a clear purpose or destination.
Drivers are depicted as generally amiable, provided passengers are well-behaved, though some resort to humor or strict rule-enforcement to cope with their own disappointments.
The passengers are a mix of individuals from all walks of life, each with their own stories and reasons for travel, creating a rich tapestry of human experience.
The author critiques the lack of privacy and cleanliness in the bus bathrooms but finds beauty in the nighttime scenery and a sense of peace in the possibility of accidental death.
There is a sense of irony and resignation in the realization that the stories and lessons shared by fellow travelers are often from those who feel they have not mastered life themselves.
The article suggests that the simple pleasure of having extra space to oneself on the bus is a luxury that goes unappreciated by most, symbolizing a deeper societal disregard for the value of simplicity and solitude.

A dissection of the average experience

I didn’t know what I was doing in that city. I never know what I’m doing anywhere. I only know how I’ll leave. It’s always on a Greyhound.

It’s almost too easy. They go everywhere cheap and all you have to do is sit back and look out the window and pretend that motion and direction are the same things.

The drivers are nice to you as long as you’re not obviously drunk or touching people when it gets dark. Sometimes they’re funny and friendly. They tell jokes like, “Why are Tigger’s paws always dirty? Because he’s always playing with Pooh!” and “What’s the worst part about having sex with a three year old girl? The fact that you have to kill her afterwards!” Nobody laughed at that last one but me, and I was just being polite.

Sometimes they bark out a list of rules when you get on the bus and they try to be hard about it because they really wanted to be a cop or join the army but they couldn’t pass the physical and became asshole drivers instead.

Sometimes they say prayers for a safe journey, but it never feels like they’re violating your civil liberties. For the most part they just drive and leave you alone. They’re all right. Even that lady who told the joke about the three year old. She was just lonely.

It’s not the worst way to go once you know what to expect. There’s a baby crying on every bus, and a couple is always fighting. Teenage girls are going to visit their boyfriends and teenage boys are going to live with their stepmothers. There’s a pair of nuns up front who don’t speak English. Women with creased faces buy one-way tickets and men in camo pants eye you up because they think you want to steal their bags. And there’s an old man sitting on a bench and looking down at the ground outside every bus station in America.

It’s all the people who aren’t rich enough for Amtrack or airfare and aren’t bothered enough to care how they get to wherever it is they’re going. And when they start talking, and they always do, you find that each of them has a story they want to tell. No matter how old or young, everyone has some lesson they want to teach. And I sit there and listen and learn all about life from people who have no idea how to live it. Nobody knows how to just shut the fuck up and look out the window anymore.

The bathrooms are tiny and filthy and you have no choice but to piss all over yourself when the bus swerves, but the street lights look like blurred stars exploding in the window when it rains at night, and you can sleep knowing that if there’s an accident and everyone on the bus dies it wasn’t your fault.

Someone gross and snoring will sometimes sit beside you and sweat on your shoulder even though its twelve degrees outside, and someone else with a big head shaped like an onion and dirty hair that smells like fish sticks will sit in front of you and recline their seat into your lap. And you’ll be trapped and sleepless and sad for the entire ride.

But then other times you get two whole seats to yourself, and when that becomes your idea of luxury you know you’ve found something that no one else is even looking for, and if you gave it to them for Christmas they’d return it the next morning as soon as the stores opened.

And then you get to think of yourself as the little drummer boy, playing for Jesus even though he’s too young to understand, even though nobody in Bethlehem really likes percussion and they think you’re some cheap ass for not bringing gold or frankincense.

And it’s a shame when you realize that you won’t get to be in the Bible, and it doesn’t seem right. But then nobody gets to be in the Bible anymore, no matter who they are or what they do, and the sooner you realize that the easier it all becomes.

But it’s still a shame.