THE DIARIST CONFESSIONS
Glimpses of Me
Buses & Planes
Part two…what happened next
Trans-Atlantic Flight (1986):
We are somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. It seemed to be dark the entire eighteen hour flight.
The Air Force re-stationed us to West Germany. We lived off-base at Edwards AFB, near San Bernardino just last week. Last month we were at Disneyland.
People could still smoke on planes in those days. Between South Carolina and Berlin, my stepdad, Britt, chain-smoked.
I'll always remember him with his smug parted hair, legs crossed effeminately. A Carlton Menthol Light 100 perched between middle and index fingers.
I can see flashes of action scenes from the Burt Reynolds in-flight movie. Shotgun blast.
Car chase.
Mustache.
A tray table is down.
Britt is smiling, but oddly silent.
I can't remember Roseanne on that flight.
Memory erased her. She isn't there.
Southwest Airlines–30, 000 feet (1994)
Flying solo from PDX (Portland), to San Antonio International Airport in Texas.
I'm seventeen years old. I'm moving to San Antonio to live with Roseanne and Britt. They bought a house in Windcrest, a sub-suburb outside Lackland, AFB.
I can't stand another moment living with Pops.
“That's the Way Love Goes” by Janet Jackson plays on the airline radio station.
I'm past the point of no return, but desperately want to turn around. I start to cry.
Drink cart clatters and crashes up the aisle. Request a Pepsi, wiping nose. Steward asks if I meant beer? He models a Heineken.
I request a beer.
Steward replaced my empty bottles twice. I don't remember if I thanked him.
Stepping off the plane, I am engulfed by 98% humidity. I unbutton my shirt.
I've got a decent buzz. I smile like a fool to his execution.
Greyhound Bus 666–Middle of Desert (1995):
At four in the morning, the bus is virtually dark. Passing headlights cast about a ghostly light gray ambiance. The calmly humming bus motor is tranquil.
Fall asleep reading Richard Bachman’s “Thinner.”
Wake up with Sepultura blasting in headphones. Turn on the overhead personal light. Glance around at sleeping passengers.
We are in the middle of the southwest desert. No discernable horizon. Just piles of swirling white sands for hundreds of miles.
We hit a large mammal crossing the highway. Driver ushers everyone off board. Tells us we hit an elk. Stand to the side, smoking a cigarette. Notice that 666 is sequenced in the transit number.
A passenger offers to split a cigarette. We’d have to spark it in the bathroom.
I decline.
I'm hungry for nicotine, but I can wait. Shrugging, they slip into the commode.
Notice that 666 is sequenced in the transit number.
Bus stops moments later. Driver throws the passenger off the bus right there. Middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. Next bus stop is twenty miles south. As the crow flies.
No one is bothered. Everyone continues sleeping. Bus resumes its route. Driver glares in the mirror.
I read some more of “Thinner.”
Sacramento Greyhound Station (1997):
A couple of passengers invite me to smoke a blunt with them. I'll catch up after I call my Pops. They head down the adjoining alley.
Wait in line for a pay phone. My bus departs in fifteen minutes. North to Grants Pass, Oregon. Further north to Corvallis.
Use a calling card to call Pops. You are ¾ of the way home. Brag about your girlfriend Heidi. She's an Air Force Colonel's daughter. You can't wait for them to meet.
Pops tells you, “he's praying for my safe journey.”
Find out the guys with the blunt got hurt. Robbed and beat down. Ambulance on the way. Cops already on scene.
“That's why they call them Sacra-Maniacs,” she jokes.
Watch two girls on acid make out until the next stop.
Greyhound Stop–New Mexico (1994):
Sit on a stone ledge outside cafe. Finish fast food given by a stranger. Collect trash into greasy paper sack. Smoke a cigarette given by rad stranger.
Perch away from others.
Enjoy every drag of that Kamel Red. Study this vista. Feel powerful. Young. Uninhibited. Free.
To this day, I've never witnessed a more beautiful sunset.

Alaska Airlines Trans-Atlantic Flight (1987):
Flying back to the United States alone. I am twelve. Airmen helped me to fill out Declarations paperwork. I try not to get lost or ask anyone for help.
I don’t talk to strangers.
It is an eighteen and a half hour flight from Germany. There are long stops in Chicago, Dallas/Fort Worth, and LAX. In L.A. it's a three hour layover.
Read flight boards. Navigate between terminals. Use a food voucher at Wendy's. Read comic books.
“Big” is an in-flight movie. Tom Hanks, years before Epstein’s Island. I barely watch it — I've seen it before.
This time, Roseanne really wasn't there.

Greyhound Station–Corvallis, Oregon (1998):
I'm escorted across Fourth Street by a Corrections Officer. Deputy walks me from Benton County Corrections, to the Greyhound Station. I am in cuffs.
If I run off I'll get an escape charge. Same as tunneling out of prison. Escape one is a fucking ten year stretch.
Board bus uncuffed. Sleep until Downtown Portland station. Use a two hour layover to cash jail check. Buy a pack of cigarettes. Run into a childhood friend.
Guzzle Mickey's malt liquor from forty-ounce bottles. Smoke pot together. Take key hits of yallo.
Split up to catch respective buses. He is headed to Job Corps in Washington.
You are headed to ARC Rehabilitation in Idaho. Befriend a guy with a jug of whiskey. Buy shots from him. Get drunk rolling through Pendleton. Talk shit as you cross state lines, speech boisterous and slurred.
Failure to complete rehabilitation will cancel any time served. You've already been down for seven months. After this, you'll serve four more months.
Rehab is the alternative to prison.
It is 1:00a.m. when you arrive at rehab.
Wasted, stumbling, carrying on. After checking in, they assign you to wash dinner dishes.
They've been soaking since 9 o'clock. Roll up your sleeves. Curse at staff. Defiantly scrub pans. It is past 3:00 a.m. when you finish.
Fall asleep in your bunk, sober and irritated.
For part one, Glimpses and Shadows of me… check out here
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