Where is the Man in the Gabardine Suit?

The sunset in Pittsburgh last night was beautiful, lighting up the old steel city and making the fact that someone was clipping their nails in the bus a little more tolerable.


Indeed, the latter part of the day, from Pennsylvania into Ohio, was a casual cruise, almost pleasant. Between Can’t Remember and Columbus, I sat next to a young woman, early twenties, who smoked a blunt at a rest stop with this guy who got on in Newark and has been doing and smoking blunts for the entirety of the journey. She was replaced in Columbus by a guy, who may have been good-looking and home-plus at one point in his life, but was now rather toothless and homeless. He’d been given a ticket by the Salvation Army to go to Phoenix, where his brother was going to get him a job as a line cook at a restaurant. Both brothers  attended culinary school together, and the brother was now an Arizona sous chef. My seatmate was happy about his new beginning, but worried about the heat.

Happy to find some common ground (I didn’t think telling him I just went to a wedding wearing a dress I bought at the Salvation Army was quite common enough), I seized this opportunity.

“Oh, I also work in a restaurant, and working in the heat is the worst.”

“Yeah, dude,” he said, “I hate when it’s summer and they make you work the patio, and you’re sweating all over the guests. It’s so gross.”

Indeed, it is.

At 2:30 in the morning, we were ushered off into the Indianapolis terminal; apparently the bus is also a DeLorian because we walked into the 1970s. The entire place loomed like someone had thrown a Vintage filter on it – browns and grays and sepia tones, from the benches to the walls to the ceilings to the people themselves, sleeping splayed put on the floor, faded tattoos, tons of baggage held together with duct tape and rope.

What I didn’t think about was that the bus stops almost exclusively at Greyhound terminals, which do not, as rest stops do, have fast food eateries. Instead, they have the eponymous Greyhound Cafe, which occasionally serves something fast food-related (“proudly serving KFC”) but generally just has coffee, chili cheese dogs, hamburgers, fries, and soda.

The Indianapolis terminal also had an old time popcorn machine, sliders, and a shit-ton of jewelry. On sale.


Roadside hooker swag?


I have those in silver!

Coming up next: The fucking bus! Dildos! Rage against the popcorn machine!


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