Blaze

“Sure.”

So Johnny bought the tickets and they got on the bus, which seemed mostly filled with guys in uniform and young women traveling with little kids. The driver had a pot belly and a satchel ass, but his gray uniform had creases in the pants and Blaze thought it was really sharp. He thought he would like to be a Greyhound Bus driver when he grew up.

The doors hissed shut. The heavy engine rumbled up to a roar. The bus backed out of its dock and turned onto Congress Street. They were moving. They were going somewhere. Blaze couldn’t fill his eyes up enough.

They went over a bridge and got on Route 1. Then they began to roll faster. They went past oiltanks and billboards advertising motels and PROUTY’S, MAINE’S BEST LOBSTER RESTAURANT. They went past houses and Blaze saw a man out watering his lawn. The man was wearing Bermuda shorts and wasn’t going nowhere. Blaze felt sorry for him. They went past tidal flats with seagulls flying over them. What John called Hell House was behind them. It was summer and the day was brightening.

Finally he turned to John. If he didn’t tell someone how good he felt, he thought he would split wide open. But John had fallen asleep with his head on one shoulder. In his sleep he looked old and tired.

Blaze considered this for a moment — uneasily — then turned back to the Scenicruiser window. It pulled him like a magnet. He sightsaw and forgot about John for awhile as he watched the tawdry Seacoast Strip between Portland and Kittery slide by. In New Hampshire they got on the turnpike and then they were in Massachusetts. Not long after that they were crossing a big bridge, and then he guessed they were in Boston.

There were miles of neon, thousands of cars and buses, and buildings in every direction. Yet still the bus kept going. They passed an orange dinosaur guarding a car lot. They passed a huge sailing ship. They passed a herd of plastic cows in front of some restaurant. He saw people everywhere. They frightened him. He also loved them because they were strange to him. John slept on, snoring a little in the back of his throat.

Then they breasted a hill and there was an even bigger bridge with even bigger buildings beyond it, skyscrapers shooting into the blue like silver and gold arrows. Blaze tore his eyes away, as if it had been an atomic bomb blast.

“Johnny,” he said, almost moaning it. “Johnny, wake up. You gotta see this.”

“Huh? Wha?” John woke slowly, knuckling his eyes. Then he saw what Blaze had been seeing through the big Scenicruiser window, and his eyes popped wide. “Mother of God.”

“Do you know where we should go?” Blaze whispered.

“Yeah, I think so. My God, are we goin over that bridge? We got to, don’t we?”

It was the Mystic, and they went over it. It first took them up to the sky and then below the ground, like a giant version of the Wild Mouse at Topsham Fair. And when they finally came out into the sun again, it was shining between buildings so tall you couldn’t see the tops of them through the Big Dog’s windows.

When Blaze and Johnny finally got off at the Tremont Street terminal, the first thing they did was look for cops. They need not have bothered. The terminal was huge. Announcements blared from overhead like the voice of God. Travelers schooled like fish. Blaze and Johnny huddled close together, shoulder to shoulder, as if afraid opposing currents of travelers might sweep them apart, never to see each other again.

“Over there,” Johnny said. “Come on.”

They walked over to a bank of phones. They were all in use. They waited by the one on the end until the black man using it finished his call and walked away.

“What was that thing around his head?” Blaze asked, staring after the black man with fascination.

“Aw, that’s to keep his hair straight. Like a turban. I think they call em doo-rags. Don’t stare, you look like a hick. Squeeze up next to me.”

Blaze did.

“Now gimme a di — holy shit, this thing takes a quarter.” John shook his head. “I don’t know how people live here. Gimme a quarter, Blaze.”

Blaze did.

There was a phone book bound in stiff plastic covers on the shelf of the kiosk. John consulted it, dropped his quarter, and dialed. When he spoke, he deepened his voice. When he hung up, he was smiling.

“We got two nights at the Hunington Avenue YMCA. Twenty bucks for two nights! Call me a Christian!” He raised his hand.

Blaze slapped it, then said, “But we can’t spend almost two hundred bucks in two days, can we?”

“In a town where a phone-call costs a quarter? You shittin me?” John looked around with glowing eyes. It was as though he owned the bus terminal and everything in it. Blaze would not see anyone with that exact same look in his eyes for a long time — not until he met George.

“Listen, Blaze, let’s go to the ballgame now. What do you say?”

Blaze scratched his head. It was all going too fast for him. “How? We don’t even know how to get there.”

“Every cab in Boston knows how to get to Fenway.”

“Cabs cost money. We ain’t —”

He saw Johnny smiling, and he began to smile, too. Sweet truth dawned in a burst. They did. They did have money. And this was what money was for: to cut through the bullshit.

“But…what if there’s no day game?”

“Blaze, why do you think I picked today to go?”

Blaze began to laugh. Then they were in each other’s arms again, just like in Portland. They pounded each other on the back and laughed into each other’s faces. Blaze never forgot it. He picked John up and twirled him around twice in the air. People turned to look, most of them smiling at the big galoot and his skinny pal.