.
And these were the things Joe Buck found as he was seeking to find his way.
part two
1
The power of a Greyhound bus impressed itself upon Joe at once, and during the first hundred east-bound miles he gave his attention over to it almost entirely: the sound the changing gears made, the breathing of the brakes, and, on the open road, the deep bass hum of a thing that was not exhausted by the miles but seemed to thrive on them. There was an empty seat in the front opposite the driver, and Joe sat up there smoking for a while, fascinated by what was taking place between the bus and the highway, the way the highway seemed to enter it underneath, all these miles disappearing into an enormous machine and the machine all the while seeming to get leaner and more fit. Before returning to his own seat, Joe wanted to make some remark to the driver. “It’s a powerful mothah, ain’t it?” But the driver didn’t look up.
Walking back toward his own seat, Joe felt like a circus performer dancing on horseback. This great being through whose center he moved had something in common with himself, but Joe was little better equipped to think about it than was the bus itself. He felt it, though, some kind of masterful participation in the world of time and space, a moving forward into destiny.
Back in his own seat, he smiled at this new sense of himself and blew a kiss at his new boots, and before long his eyes were closed and he was sleeping the deep black sleep of a creature who has not yet been born.
The first half of Joe’s big trip East was passed in this way. Sometimes his eyes were open, but even at such intervals he dreamed himself into whatever landscape he was passing through, still so confident of himself and his future that he gave them scarcely a passing thought.
It was on the afternoon of the second day, the day on which at five P.M . his arrival was to take place, that Joe became somewhat fretful. Perfection had begun to arouse his suspicions. It occurred to him that he might be embroiled in some colossal confidence game in which he was both victim and perpetrator. For instance: Exactly what in hell was he going to do in New York City? He kept glancing above him, taking reassurance from the presence of his black-and-white horsehide suitcase and all the fine articles it contained, and every few minutes he touched the hip on which his money rode. He searched the faces of other passengers, wondering if someone among them was a potential ally or if they were all strangers like himself, uneasy at the prospect of arrival in the richest and tallest of all cities.
The last rest stop was at a Howard Johnson’s in Pennsylvania. Joe took his suitcase with him into the men’s room and spent the twenty minutes grooming himself for his arrival in New York City. He shaved, splashed himself with Florida Water, changed into a fresh shirt, and gave a quick spit-shine to his boots. Even though there were other men using the facilities, Joe could not resist using the mirror in his own peculiar way. He walked away from it, prepared his expression, his attitude, then spun around to surprise his image. What he saw was tremendously comforting to him. When he click-click-clicked out of that men’s room, other passengers were already returning to the bus. Two very young girls, occupants of seats near the front of the bus who had been keenly aware of Joe Buck’s presence throughout the trip, were climbing aboard just ahead of him. One of them, stimulated by his proximity, giggled breathlessly. Joe was as pleased as he could be. As he passed their seat, he tipped his Stetson and allowed them full benefit of the sweet, crooked smile he had developed. Their reaction was wild and hysterical: For miles, in a kind of heavenly hell of painful titillation, the girls stifled screams, hid behind damp handkerchiefs and struck each other. Joe was reassured and couldn’t remember what he’d been worried about. What
And these were the things Joe Buck found as he was seeking to find his way.
part two
1
The power of a Greyhound bus impressed itself upon Joe at once, and during the first hundred east-bound miles he gave his attention over to it almost entirely: the sound the changing gears made, the breathing of the brakes, and, on the open road, the deep bass hum of a thing that was not exhausted by the miles but seemed to thrive on them. There was an empty seat in the front opposite the driver, and Joe sat up there smoking for a while, fascinated by what was taking place between the bus and the highway, the way the highway seemed to enter it underneath, all these miles disappearing into an enormous machine and the machine all the while seeming to get leaner and more fit. Before returning to his own seat, Joe wanted to make some remark to the driver. “It’s a powerful mothah, ain’t it?” But the driver didn’t look up.
Walking back toward his own seat, Joe felt like a circus performer dancing on horseback. This great being through whose center he moved had something in common with himself, but Joe was little better equipped to think about it than was the bus itself. He felt it, though, some kind of masterful participation in the world of time and space, a moving forward into destiny.
Back in his own seat, he smiled at this new sense of himself and blew a kiss at his new boots, and before long his eyes were closed and he was sleeping the deep black sleep of a creature who has not yet been born.
The first half of Joe’s big trip East was passed in this way. Sometimes his eyes were open, but even at such intervals he dreamed himself into whatever landscape he was passing through, still so confident of himself and his future that he gave them scarcely a passing thought.
It was on the afternoon of the second day, the day on which at five P.M . his arrival was to take place, that Joe became somewhat fretful. Perfection had begun to arouse his suspicions. It occurred to him that he might be embroiled in some colossal confidence game in which he was both victim and perpetrator. For instance: Exactly what in hell was he going to do in New York City? He kept glancing above him, taking reassurance from the presence of his black-and-white horsehide suitcase and all the fine articles it contained, and every few minutes he touched the hip on which his money rode. He searched the faces of other passengers, wondering if someone among them was a potential ally or if they were all strangers like himself, uneasy at the prospect of arrival in the richest and tallest of all cities.
The last rest stop was at a Howard Johnson’s in Pennsylvania. Joe took his suitcase with him into the men’s room and spent the twenty minutes grooming himself for his arrival in New York City. He shaved, splashed himself with Florida Water, changed into a fresh shirt, and gave a quick spit-shine to his boots. Even though there were other men using the facilities, Joe could not resist using the mirror in his own peculiar way. He walked away from it, prepared his expression, his attitude, then spun around to surprise his image. What he saw was tremendously comforting to him. When he click-click-clicked out of that men’s room, other passengers were already returning to the bus. Two very young girls, occupants of seats near the front of the bus who had been keenly aware of Joe Buck’s presence throughout the trip, were climbing aboard just ahead of him. One of them, stimulated by his proximity, giggled breathlessly. Joe was as pleased as he could be. As he passed their seat, he tipped his Stetson and allowed them full benefit of the sweet, crooked smile he had developed. Their reaction was wild and hysterical: For miles, in a kind of heavenly hell of painful titillation, the girls stifled screams, hid behind damp handkerchiefs and struck each other. Joe was reassured and couldn’t remember what he’d been worried about. What
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