I should have known from the beginning this trip was a mistake. In fact I seem to recall having a feeling of reluctance a week before we left. Could I have known then? Maybe one day I'll learn to trust my instincts.
It started as a compromise, one of the few I had ever gotten him to agree to. He wanted to go on an Elvis Presley pilgrimage. I did not. I have never quite understood the fanatical hero worship true-heart fans still have for the man. I liked his music, but found his life to be rather sad. But I have been accused of being twisted. After all, I don't much care for the Beatles either. My reward for accompanying him on this journey was that the second half of the trip would be for me. I should have known better.
We went to Memphis first. Tupelo would have been the logical place to start since Elvis was born there, but Memphis was closer. After touring Graceland, Sun Studio and doing a little partying on Beale Street during the evening, we cruised on into Mississippi the next day. We visited the birthplace, a small two-room structure that reminded me of the house my granny had lived in when I was a child. Following a tour of Elvis "sites": Lee County Library, Milam Junior High, Tupelo Hardware, Johnnie's Drive-In, we settled into our motel for the night. That's when he tried to change my mind about going to Gatlinburg and the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina. That was my portion of the trip, what he had enticed me with to agree to come with him. He told me Gatlinburg was simply a gaudy tourist trap.
Well, yeah.
The argument started there but didn't stop. Past grievances began pouring out of both of us until finally the relationship imploded in my face.
I told him I wanted to go home in the morning. "What's stopping you?" he asked. I told him I wanted the bed. Chivalrously he let me sleep on the floor.
The next morning I was in the motel lobby trying to unglue my eyes with a cup of coffee. With my head pounding I attempted to weigh my options. I had very little money with me. We had agreed to pool our funds for this trip, sharing expenses. When I told him I wanted my share back, he told me, sorry, we had already spent my half of the money; all that was left was his half. Bastard.
A very sweet elderly lady with a thick East Indian accent tried her best to assist me. She gave me numbers for car rentals and I almost sucked my teeth down my throat when I was told it would cost over two-hundred dollars to drive the seven hours from Tupelo back to Shreveport. That would have put a serious strain on the only credit card I had with me. She said a bus would be cheaper. She was right.
So I found myself heading back to Memphis on a Greyhound. Before I could go west, I first had to go north to Memphis and then south to Jackson. Go figure. But as strange as this seemed I have seen the airlines do it even stranger.
I couldn't help but think of the last time I was in Memphis, just a few days before. We had rolled into town just after lunch and went straight to Graceland. Well, as straight as we could after getting lost twice. I was expecting a simple home tour, similar to the plantation home tours we have in Louisiana. Silly me. This is Elvis after all. I had not taken into account the complex of museums, gift shops, custom jets and movie theatres before you ever get to the mansion. You ride a shuttle up to the house and they give you a tape to listen to. I was surprised at how small the house was both inside and out. I was expecting a Hollywood-style mansion. I managed to shed a few tears at his gravesite, much to my amazement. It was really rather touching, the flowers, pictures, gifts and paintings people have sent or brought to lay at his tomb, with the song "If I Can Dream" playing softly in the background.
I found the seats on the bus, plush grey with rainbow pinstripes, to be surprisingly cushiony although the ride itself was rough as the bus shimmied and shook. It felt strange not to be wearing seat belts. The last bus I had ridden was in high school and school buses are not designed with comfort in mind. But the nighttime reading light above my head tipped me off. People spent time in these seats, long hours as they rode from place to place.
I heard a snatch of a song in my head; I couldn't place it, something about boarding a Greyhound in Pittsburg. Now it will drive crazy until I remember the whole song.
The seats were a comfortable change from the hard plastic chairs at the bus station. I had returned to our room only briefly to stuff my belongings into my Looney Tunes canvas travel bag. Neither of us spoke. I called a cab from the lobby and had it take me to the bus station. Unfortunately, the next bus didn't leave until 3:30 p.m. I had a long time to wait. The vending machines and I became good friends.
I spent the time watching an adorable little girl, dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin and maybe about five years old, who had already learned the art of pouting prettily. I gathered she was there with her family to see off an elderly relative. At least that was the scenario I imagined for them. She asked for Fritos from the vending machine and after being told no, begged, "Please, please" in a sweet, engaging manner. Who could resist such as child? Well, mom could because she never did get the Fritos. She begged for a bottle of water and I was struck by the changes time brings. When I was her age, I begged for a bottle of Coke or that rare delight, chocolate soda. Now they ask for Dasani. She didn't get that either and mom sent her to the water fountain. She was too short to reach it and I had the impulse to go over and lift her up. But sadly, in this day and age that might have been so easily misconstrued. Would there be accusations? Why did I, a stranger, have my hands on that child? I find it heartbreaking that I feel compelled to quell sudden impulses of kindness.
We were 45 minutes late leaving Tupelo but after several hours that hardly seemed worthy of complaint. Some of the passengers talked on the ubiquitous cell phone, many read, and some like me looked out the window. We stopped in towns with names like New Albany, Holly Springs, Byhalia, tiny Mississippi towns that would have been forever unknown to me if not for the bus that carried us through.
As we came to the outskirts of Memphis, many of the passengers got restless, excited. I was only passing through, but some of them were going home. A man behind me called his friend to come pick him up at the station. "I'm on Shelby. I'm on Shelby." I saw that Shelby was the intersection we had just passed through. A few minutes later I heard, "I'm on Winchester. I'm on Winchester." Apparently he was giving his friend a play-by-play on his progress. "I'm on Parkway. I'm on Parkway." I wondered why he repeated everything twice. "I'm on Central. I'm on Central." Finally, "I knew you'd come get me, wanna know why? I knew you'd come get me, wanna know why? I knew you'd come get me, wanna know why? Why? OK, I'll see you when I get there."
People were chattering around me, anxious to get home. The man with the phone announced, "I don't care what anyone says, there's no place like Memphis." A chant started building, "There's no place like Memphis, there's no place like Memphis." I felt foolishly out of place.
Besides the circuitous route I was required to take, I also had a three hour layover to spend in the Memphis bus terminal, which couldn't have been more different from the one I had left behind in Tupelo. The waiting room was vast with multiple sets of numbered doors where passengers had to line up before they could board. All around me were uncomfortable- looking metal chairs, videos games, change machines, a huge bank of pay phones and pay lockers to stash your stuff if you wanted to take a stroll around downtown. There were even seats with tiny TVs, like you see in the movies. I shuddered at the sight of an extensive set of vending machines and made my determined way to the snack/gift shop.
I wanted something hot, but they specialized in cold sandwiches and salads. Since I had the time I briefly considered finding a restaurant somewhere else on Union Avenue but didn't feel comfortable stashing my bag. So I settled for nachos. At least the cheese sauce was hot. The counter attendant was happy to serve only to then frown ferociously at the cheese sauce dispenser. She smiled apologetically at me as she dipped out the last of the cheese. "Nobody fills up the cheese but me. Why they do me that way? You'd think they don't like me."
I settled down next to the window facing Union and slowly sipped my coffee. I welcomed its heat. Despite the warm air outside, the bus had felt rather cool. Casually I peered out at the traffic creeping its way down the street. A woman perching on the window sill a few feet away told me there was some sporting event being held down by the river. I never did find out what kind.
A waitress stopped by to fill up my Styrofoam cup with more coffee. I held it to my face and inhaled deeply. That's always my favorite part about drinking coffee. Taste varies from cup to cup, but the warm steam in my face and the rich aroma in my nostrils never fail to sooth me. My waitress was the chatty kind. She indicated a couple sitting talking quietly a few booths away. In a confidential tone she revealed, "He has to travel back and forth every weekend from Pennsylvania because he and his wife weren't able to sell the house before the family moved to Tennessee." She stared off into the distance looking remote. "The same thing happened to my dad and step-mom when they retired to Florida. My step-mom had to go back to Illinois and work another year in order to get her retirement." She had tears in her eyes, the sadness of their forced separation as poignant to her now as if it was happening today.
A thirty-something couple sat down at the table across from mine with cups of coffee and sweet rolls. From the glimpse I got of the brochure she was spreading out, they were heading east towards the Great Smokies. She tapped one picture with a fingernail, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Aren't they awesome?"
"Yeah, they're sweet", he replied with the barest touch of sarcasm. I don't know what he meant by that, but it made me want to smack him. I couldn't help wondering if she, too, would soon be catching the bus home alone.
Finishing my sparse meal and coffee, I headed back out to the waiting room. I was approached by a young man, I guess in his early twenties, struggling with four large bags. He asked me if I wouldn't mind dragging the lightest for him, he was a little overwhelmed. He was typical of the eager fresh faces that sit yearly in my classroom, going for their BAs in Business, English or Liberal Arts. I told him I was happy to oblige. Heaving a sigh of gratitude, he confided, "My father died last year and now I found out my mom has been diagnosed with cancer. I'm going to Nebraska to take care of her." I'm always uncomfortable when strangers reveal such deeply personal pieces of their lives with me. He told me he had loaded as much of his stuff as he could carry into his four bags and had to leave the rest behind, including his car. "I'll have to come back later to get it." Why he didn't just drive his car to Nebraska in the first place instead of taking the bus he didn't say. I didn't ask.
I took a seat and pulled a book out of my bag. Before I could open it a spry elderly lady sat down next to me. Despite the lateness of the evening, her hair was perfectly coiffed and she had the kind of shape the word petite was invented for. "What are you reading?" I have found that the people you meet while traveling fall into two categories when they see a book in your hands. They either see it as a sign to leave you alone to your privacy or they see it as an opportunity to strike up a conversation. I showed her the cover. "I'm going to Chicago to see my son", she told me, ignoring the book. "I'm 79 years old and I'm from Philadelphia, Mississippi. Have you ever been there?" I admitted I had not. "We're the county seat of Neshoba County which is the headquarters of the Choctaw Indian Tribe. The current Chief is Martin Phillips. We're 80 miles from Jackson and only 8 miles from the Pearl River. We have two casinos, two golf courses, two museums and the largest campground fair in the nation." I stared at her rather nonplussed. She sounded like a brochure.
"Well, it was nice talking to you." She patted my hand and wandered away. She sat down next to a rather hard-looking woman holding a sleeping toddler. "Hi, I'm 79 years old and going to see my son in Chicago. I'm from Philadelphia, Mississippi. Have you ever been there?"
The woman was clearly uninterested, but tried to be polite. "Is that close to Pittsburgh?"
A man, his uniform identifying him as a bus driver, stepped in front of me leading a young man and his guide dog to the row of seats across from me. The dog sniffed my knee as it went by. Sitting down by its master's feet, it lunged quickly and snapped up a lost French fry from under the bench. I guess despite their training a dog is still a dog.
I was in awe at the kind of courage it must take to travel without the use of your eyes, changing buses, each terminal different from the last, having to keep up with luggage and luggage claim checks you cannot see. The driver seated him next to a young woman and left him to search for the young man's bag. He was in the mood to talk and attempted to strike up a conversation with her. Shortly she excused herself and never came back to her seat. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, but I found that unutterably sad. So many able-bodied people act uncomfortable around the disabled. Is it a sense of guilt? So we distance ourselves. We don't bother to connect. I know I didn't.
A girl sitting behind me had long, lush green hair. I started to ask her if she had ever seen the classic movie, "The Boy with Green Hair", an anti-war parable from the 1940s. But I didn't, thinking of my students, and sure that her response would be, "Huh?"
A mother and father were seeing off their teenage son, who was on his way to San Antonio. With them were three or four smaller children, siblings presumably, tired, cranky and whiny. Mom was screaming at them, as she tried to photograph the event. "Look happy, dammit!"
They made an announcement that it was time to board the bus. At least I believe that's what it said. I never did understand a word that came out of the loudspeaker all evening. I just pretended I was a lemming and followed the crowd to the boarding gate.
I was glad to see that once again I had a seat to myself. The bus was fuller than the last one but quieter, more subdued. I imagined it was due to the dark night outside of our windows. I passed the time watching the attendants load the luggage. One of the passengers, an extremely petite young black woman stood beside the bus and watched them closely as if supervising their efforts. One young man, a tall, strapping, good-looking kid, would carry one bag at a time, usually the lightest one. It would have been easy to throw out a judgment blanket, using him as an example of today's lazy youth. Until you saw his partner, not as tall but twice as round, loading himself down with two to three bags at a time. He had a strange stride and on closer examination I realized one leg was shorter than the other and he was wearing a special shoe. Could the weight of the bags have been easier to deal with than multiple steps on that foot? There was a third man standing around, sipping a drink through a straw and laughing at both of them.
Good old J.R., as our driver told us to call him, said the stretch of the trip between Memphis and Jackson was an express route and there would be no stops along the way. I tried to get to some sleep with only partial success. I kept waking up with my mouth hanging open. At least I didn't drool.
We got into Jackson about 1:30 a.m. For some reason this bus terminal reminded me of train stations I've seen. Fortunately the layover this time was only about an hour. I would have loved to have had something hot to drink but all they had was coffee. I couldn't face another cup of coffee so I bought a Mountain Dew and some cookies from the vending machines. The cookies got hung up in the machine and I had to leave them there. After a quick look around, I even tried to shake the damn thing. I felt like it sneered at me. Grrr.
Before long they allowed us back on the bus. Once again I had a seat to myself. Across the aisle a gentleman, also sitting alone, took off his hat, lovingly placed it inside a plastic bag he produced from somewhere, folded the edges precisely under and gently set it down beside him in the empty seat. When he left the bus later in Monroe, I watched him remove his hat from the bag, place it back on his head and then ever so carefully fold the bag into a nice neat little package before slipping it into his pocket.

I dozed off and woke to a strange sound. I couldn't place it, a strange roaring noise. With some surprise I realized that it was rain falling on the bus. It sounded different than rain falling on a car. I wiped my hand across the window as if I could wipe off the rain from the inside. The full moon hung like a fuzzy ball above me as we traveled down the road. I watched reflections in the window of signs familiar and unfamiliar passing by: Shoney's, Waffle House, Pizza Hut, Texaco, and something called "Cheeburger, Cheeburger". It was interesting to see what is still awake along the highway at night, factories, gas stations, parking lots. I could see distant flashes of lightening beyond them.
The temperature seemed comfortable and mild when I was off the bus, but it felt frigid leaning against the window. Still I wouldn't sit on the aisle seat. That would have felt exposed. It was much safer curled up underneath the window where I could keep my face turned away and pretend that I was alone.
It was raining in Shreveport when we arrived at 6 a.m. and obviously had been for awhile. I felt a bizarre sense of unreality as I walked outside to look for a cab. I was home, but it could have been any city street at 6 a.m. on a rainy Tuesday. I could have still been in Memphis or Jackson or Tupelo for all the familiarity I felt standing on that sidewalk.
My cab driver was chatty, asking me questions about where I had been. I simply told him I was traveling. He told me he was from Rapid City, South Dakota and spends two months out of every year traveling to places like Europe, Asia, and Africa as well as to Key West, Hawaii and Canada. He said this year he will spend a month fishing in Canada. He said, "My kids are grown, I'm not having to raise my grandchild like so many people my age are having to do these days, and I have no significant other, so I'm free to do what I want." I smiled at the thought. Is that what this bus ride has handed me? Freedom? Maybe this trip wasn't a mistake after all.