The Greyhound Bus To Heaven
The Greyhound Bus To Heaven is just a regular Greyhound.
It has those course seats with the faded 80’s tribal print patterns.
It has those TVs hanging from the ceiling, encased in cracked grey foam.
It has a bathroom with no sink, just a little basket of moist towelette packets, and when you open one up, the little towel inside is completely dry and the color of rust, as if those packets have been sitting there for hundreds of years, which they have.
The driver on the Greyhound Bus To Heaven is a nice guy, but the guys who work at the bus station are professionally rude. They don’t care about your problems, and they don’t care about you. They just want to smoke a cigarette and goof around with the female employee Cynthia, who isn’t even good looking, but maybe you’re just in a bad mood. Give it a few minutes and maybe she’ll start looking pretty charming, and maybe after another few minutes you will start to relate more to the grumpy station employees than the strangely cheery bus driver with his manicured mustache and baggy eyes. After all, do you really enjoy your job? Did you, I mean. Wouldn’t you rather be smoking a cigarette or flirting with Cynthia than listen to all the annoying idiots bugging you with the same stupid questions and concerns?
One way or another you better have your ticket printed, your bag tagged, and your luggage voucher in hand, and you better get there 30 minutes before your scheduled departure time, because the Greyhound Bus To Heaven doesn’t wait for anybody. Not you. Not John G. Rockefeller. Not even Mahatma Ghandi. Shit. You better believe it.
Everyone takes the Greyhound Bus To Heaven. Everybody. Not just poor people and crazy weirdos. Everybody. And everybody gets off at the last stop.
The only person who stays on is the weirdly happy bus driver. And the Charlie Manson looking guy with the baggy pants and the facial scars who is hiding in the bathroom doing God-knows-what. I mean it. Ask God when you get to Heaven and he’ll tell you what that guy is doing in the bathroom. He’s doing lines of meth. That’s what he’s doing.
And don’t get all hoity toity and judgmental about it okay? We’re all on the same bus here, you know what I mean? You can dismiss him now and laugh at him, but he lived a life same as you, and he died same as you, and you’re going to the same place he is. It might take another couple go-arounds before he finds his way out of the bathroom, but he’ll get there. One way or another. So you might as well start loving him now.
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put this all on you. I’m talking to myself really. This is all really just for me.
The Greyhound Bus to heaven drives through Northwest Washington. Shut up. Don’t say anything. I don’t care where you come from. That’s where it drives through. It just does. You get on the bus, you drive through Northern Washington and then you get off at Heaven.
Northern Washington is a beautiful place. Dark green pine trees dipped in soft white snow. Huge shining mountains. And at night, stars.
When you live in a city it is easy to believe that God doesn’t exist. Everything around you that is huge was built by people, but when you’re driving through Northern Washington, it’s hard not to imagine God’s giant hands scooping out valleys and patting down mounds of mountain, like clay or a sandcastle or that foam putty that kids have these days.
You can sleep on The Greyhound Bus to Heaven. Or you can read a book. You can even do lines of meth in the bathroom apparently-
Sorry. I love him. He is just as beautiful as anyone else. Amen. Whatever.
- You can sleep on The Greyhound Bus to Heaven. You can do a crossword. You can watch a movie on your laptop. You can can strike up a conversation with a stranger. You can try to get some work done. You can play solitaire on your lap. You can do whatever you want.
I’m going to look out the window and pretend I’m all alone in a huge empty world one last time before I have to start loving everyone.