came, I didn’t feel like struggling against it just to watch the constant river of headlights passing outside the window. For the moment, drifting into darkness was better.
I was barely able to open my eyes, as they were crusted shut and blasted dry from the air-conditioning vent. My lips were cracked, and the inside of my mouth tasted like the strange blue water that was now very evidently fuming from the bathroom toilet.
The overhead lights dimly shone down from above. The engine was still. The bus had stopped. I got up and noticed that I was the only one still aboard. Everyone else had disembarked, including Marcus.
As I made my way down the center aisle, I couldn’t hear any noise coming from the overhead intercom outside, but the exterior of the pale concrete and iron terminal was brightly lit up like an airport or a UFO landing site. It looked like the middle of the day outside, but it was closer to nine p.m. From the rafters of the overhang, I saw a sign that read Blythe.
Outside the bus, Marcus was having a cigarette with the driver. “Look who’s awake,” he announced, as I came down the metal steps. “I didn’t think you were ever gonna wake up. You looked dead to the world back there.”
I rubbed my eyes, assaulted by the intensity of the bright light. “Where are we?” I asked.
“California-Arizona border,” the driver bellowed with a smile. It took me a second to realize it, but he wasn’t the same driver that got on in Los Angeles. The man’s name tag read Monty.
“Looks like the middle of nowhere,” I said after glancing around at the alien structure, which was surrounded by a massive, flat parking lot and sat a long distance from the freeway. My eyes had a difficult time piercing the blackness that was being held off by the flaming white lamps.
They both laughed at me. “It is. Literally,” Monty answered. Monty was older than all of the drivers so far. His hair was white and curly. He was darker than Marcus and had an easiness about him that made him look comfortable in his oversize Greyhound uniform. He might’ve been driving some type of transport his whole life just by the way he was standing close to the bus, smiling and palming his cigarette. He had deep lines around the edges of his mouth.
“You best go use the latrine now, youngun’. We’ll be leaving directly.” He spoke his words kindly, with just enough purpose.
“What time is it?” I asked, as I thrust my hands into my coat pockets, yawning.
“Just past eight-thirty. Be leavin’ up outta here in ’proximately ten mics.” Monty spoke to me in a type of elusive military/truck-driver code that seemed perfectly normal to him and Marcus. As I wandered into the terminal, I felt relieved that I had figured out some of what he had told me.
Inside, soft music was dropping down from the high ceiling above. The large center of the lobby was devoid of any of the riders and residents that I’d seen back in Los Angeles. Blythe was a stark contrast. Along the main wall stood a long row of old-fashioned enclosed telephone booths from another era. They had sliding glass doors for privacy, which were edged with dark wood, and the inside had a soft amber light shining down on a small wooden seat next to the dialing pad. Almost every one of the twenty or so phone booths had someone inside. Maybe this is what you’re supposed to do when you come to Blythe. Call home. Maybe it had something to do with crossing a border. I turned away, having no desire to call anyone. It was three hours later at my grandma’s in Pennsylvania, and they were most likely in bed. It was too late to call. My grandpa wasn’t the type of person who appreciated late-night interruptions. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want a phone call from me either in the middle of the night at the border of California and Arizona. It just wasn’t worth it.
On one of the large walls hung a huge painting of a sprawling green forest with a winding stream
I was barely able to open my eyes, as they were crusted shut and blasted dry from the air-conditioning vent. My lips were cracked, and the inside of my mouth tasted like the strange blue water that was now very evidently fuming from the bathroom toilet.
The overhead lights dimly shone down from above. The engine was still. The bus had stopped. I got up and noticed that I was the only one still aboard. Everyone else had disembarked, including Marcus.
As I made my way down the center aisle, I couldn’t hear any noise coming from the overhead intercom outside, but the exterior of the pale concrete and iron terminal was brightly lit up like an airport or a UFO landing site. It looked like the middle of the day outside, but it was closer to nine p.m. From the rafters of the overhang, I saw a sign that read Blythe.
Outside the bus, Marcus was having a cigarette with the driver. “Look who’s awake,” he announced, as I came down the metal steps. “I didn’t think you were ever gonna wake up. You looked dead to the world back there.”
I rubbed my eyes, assaulted by the intensity of the bright light. “Where are we?” I asked.
“California-Arizona border,” the driver bellowed with a smile. It took me a second to realize it, but he wasn’t the same driver that got on in Los Angeles. The man’s name tag read Monty.
“Looks like the middle of nowhere,” I said after glancing around at the alien structure, which was surrounded by a massive, flat parking lot and sat a long distance from the freeway. My eyes had a difficult time piercing the blackness that was being held off by the flaming white lamps.
They both laughed at me. “It is. Literally,” Monty answered. Monty was older than all of the drivers so far. His hair was white and curly. He was darker than Marcus and had an easiness about him that made him look comfortable in his oversize Greyhound uniform. He might’ve been driving some type of transport his whole life just by the way he was standing close to the bus, smiling and palming his cigarette. He had deep lines around the edges of his mouth.
“You best go use the latrine now, youngun’. We’ll be leaving directly.” He spoke his words kindly, with just enough purpose.
“What time is it?” I asked, as I thrust my hands into my coat pockets, yawning.
“Just past eight-thirty. Be leavin’ up outta here in ’proximately ten mics.” Monty spoke to me in a type of elusive military/truck-driver code that seemed perfectly normal to him and Marcus. As I wandered into the terminal, I felt relieved that I had figured out some of what he had told me.
Inside, soft music was dropping down from the high ceiling above. The large center of the lobby was devoid of any of the riders and residents that I’d seen back in Los Angeles. Blythe was a stark contrast. Along the main wall stood a long row of old-fashioned enclosed telephone booths from another era. They had sliding glass doors for privacy, which were edged with dark wood, and the inside had a soft amber light shining down on a small wooden seat next to the dialing pad. Almost every one of the twenty or so phone booths had someone inside. Maybe this is what you’re supposed to do when you come to Blythe. Call home. Maybe it had something to do with crossing a border. I turned away, having no desire to call anyone. It was three hours later at my grandma’s in Pennsylvania, and they were most likely in bed. It was too late to call. My grandpa wasn’t the type of person who appreciated late-night interruptions. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want a phone call from me either in the middle of the night at the border of California and Arizona. It just wasn’t worth it.
On one of the large walls hung a huge painting of a sprawling green forest with a winding stream
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