I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk toward the office. When the other guys see me all packed and everything, they don’t say a word, but they stare longingly—there’s no mistaking it. Our eyes meet, and they are all so goddamn defeated.
I look away.
It’s over now.
I’m walking free.
Ch.17
The bus shudders to a stop and the doors open, letting in the night air all hot and thick—almost tropical—sticky—wet.
I’ve been riding for two days now, and I’d say I have about two days left.
I stumble to my feet, legs cramped and aching, barely able to walk down the aisle and the three steps to the pavement outside. My vision is still blurred from having been asleep just minutes before, but I can make out another passenger smoking a little way off. Bugs are chirping and crackling loudly all around us. There is little light. The damp and heat is like another world.
“Hey, man,” I call out, the sound of my voice so foreign suddenly. “Where are we, do you know?”
He coughs some before responding. “Louisiana,” he says. “What’d you think?”
I light my own cigarette—dizzy, teetering. “Honestly, man, I have no idea.”
Ch.18
It’s night as the bus pulls into the Charleston Greyhound station.
Or, uh, morning, I guess. Around two a.m. eastern fucking standard time.
I haven’t slept or eaten for about a day and a half.
I mean, those energy bars my mom had sent ran out after the first two days, and I’ve been traveling at least forty-eight hours since then.
Plus, my phone card ran out somewhere in the middle of Texas, so I haven’t talked to Sue Ellen at all. If she doesn’t come to get me at the station, well, I’m not sure what the fuck I’m gonna do. At least it’s warm down here—a whole lot better than the freezing-ass nights in Arizona and New Mexico. Still, sleeping outside pretty much sucks, no matter what, and I’ve been dreaming of food and a real bed for the last eight hundred miles or so. I’ve even caught myself praying that she’ll be there. Praying like—what’s the expression? An atheist in a foxhole?
Exactly.
Praying ’cause this could be my last chance.
Praying ’cause this is all I have left.
Praying ’cause I ain’t got shit else to do.
But, still, I mean, even if Sue Ellen does show up, well, I figure she’s probably gonna be pretty freaked out about me actually being here. I’m sure she’s gonna feel a ton of pressure and, as much as I want to be cool about it, this whole thing is a big-ass leap in terms of our relationship. The last thing I want to do is make it all the way here just to have her kick me out ’cause she thinks I’m moving everything too fast. Hell, as it is, I’m showing up with no money and my life in a goddamn duffel bag. If I push even a little bit, she could panic. If she panics, then I’m on the street. So it’s all very, you know, delicate. I’m just gonna play it like I’m her friend. I’m not gonna try and kiss her, and we’re not gonna have sex, and I’m gonna let her go about her day like she normally would. That’s the only way this is gonna work. And even then, well, fuck…
The bus shuts down and the lights come on, and my heart is going like I just slammed enough coke to drop me to the floor with convulsions.
I get my breathing together—or try to, anyway. Sweat soaks through my jeans and T-shirt—my whole body is shivering, despite the outside heat. The driver takes out my bag and guitar from the storage compartment underneath. There’re actually about ten other people getting off at this stop. They all seem to know just exactly where they’re going, climbing into waiting cars, walking off in different directions, leaving me alone in the deserted parking lot—trash strewn from one end to the other, the lights in the waiting area suddenly turned off by some unseen person.
Fuck.
Through the thick, strangling air and the dim overhead streetlights, I can make out what look like projects on all sides of me—two-story, institutional-looking brick buildings divided into run-down apartments with boards on some of the windows and graffiti all over. There are clotheslines strung up in rows—sheets, dress shirts, pants, dresses, socks, and whatever hang drying in the warmth of the night. A barely noticeable wind rocks the lines back and forth. A man’s voice echoes through the street—screaming something I can’t make out. I hoist my bag up on my shoulder. There’s nothing to do now but walk. That’s what you do when you’ve got nowhere to go—you walk and walk and walk and walk.
So I start walking.
And then a car pulls up next to me.
“Nic, hey, where’re you going?”
I turn, half wondering if I’m hallucinating or something.
But, no, she’s there.
Holy shit.
She’s there. I mean, here. Now. In front of me.
Looking the
