Thoughts of You, On This Greyhound Bus
I’M ON A GREYHOUND BUS FROM CHICAGO TO NASHVILLE…
Somehow, I thought a long road trip would be the perfect way to clear my head of you.
You ended up being my perfect escape, and now, I find myself here, trying to escape you.
I feel just as unstable as the foundation that was built between us.
Here I am, in this Greyhound bus station, alone in my thoughts of you, surrounded by strangers and chaos, as I try to sort out the chaos that is in my head.
This place is filled with
everything I’ve been disconnected from.
It’s the America we’ve been watching
on documentaries and Netflix Originals
lately, ridden with all the problems
working-class America faces daily.
Problems that feel inescapable.
The brotha sitting in the corner
by the bathroom
looks and reeks like
he’s been at this station for days.
It’s that familiar, pungent smell,
mixed with hard city living,
and having given up on it entirely.
It lingers strongly in the air, making it seem as
though it’s coming at me from all angles,
with each person that passes me by.
I’ve been standing in this line for what feels like hours,
waiting to retrieve a ticket I have already purchased online.
At least I’m traveling much lighter than how I feel on the inside.
I stare at my small carry-on bag,
surrounded by tattered bags,
dusty bags, duffle bags,
big black garbage bags,
all piled up, as if on a motionless
conveyor belt at baggage claim.
They form lines that are just as broken
as the owners standing next to them.
There’s a white, middle-aged
man in front of me.
The tone of his thick southern accent
and the way he delivers his words
is nostalgic of everything
that is politically wrong with this country.
There’s a liberation in his voice,
as he talks about
his days in jail, and how
his lady would complain
about the Greyhound delays
and mishaps on her way to his conjugal visits.
There’s also, la señora.
La pobre señora.
My heart weeps, as she tries
to get clarity on why this damn
company keeps making changes to her return ticket.
Where are the Spanish-speaking attendants in this sanctuary city?
Roscoe behind the counter
has been attending
Greyhound passengers
since seven this morning.
It is now 11pm.
He could be watching Love and Hip-Hop
right about now.
He gives la señora the resting bitch face.
Sorry Maria Alejandra, but the closest
you’re getting to Spanish with Roscoe
is the ‘Lo siento’ he learned in high school
Spanish class and the leftover taquitos he saved
from lunch earlier.
Speaking Mexican is not apart
of his job description.
So, this is what second class citizenship feels like?
Whoever said money doesn’t buy happiness
should give them a one-way ticket and $19
to be left at a Greyhound station.
I board the bus.
Claim my window seat.
I am free of the chaos.
My thoughts go back to you.
I see you everywhere I go.
I’ve imagined you in more places
than I’ve actually see your face.
You are an accessible 40-minute train ride away,
yet you won’t let me access anything
that goes on inside of you.
You have a quiet strength
and a disguised vulnerability
beneath your stoic facial expressions and macho exterior.
Even in your direct, short and sometimes rude way
of communication, I’ve caught glimpses of soft undertones.
I worry about what could be
if I live this out fully with you.
I worry about what won’t if I don’t.
I don’t do well with regrets.
The wheels on this bus are now
zig-zagging between the shoulder of the
expressway and the right lane.
Did the driver fall asleep?
Is his ass drunk?
I just can’t get comfortable on this bus.
I squirm to get comfortable between
the window and the 90’s version of
Becky Conner sleeping peacefully next to me.
I’m determined. I need sleep.
I’m just as determined to find
some kind of comfort in the discomfort of you.
It won’t go away and
I don’t think I want it to.
I fight myself on the inside.
I’m on the cusp of letting this thing we got flow,
and insisting that you too explore the possibility of
us being something more than the definitionless
version of this relationship.
Finding balance
between these emotion-filled
thoughts that zig-zag between
my head and my heart is exhausting.
I’M ON A GREYHOUND BUS FROM NASHVILLE TO CHICAGO…
I was a phone call away from
booking a flight back to Chicago
with American Airlines,
after being in that crazy station,
on that crazy bus.
But I think there’s more
to discover on this long road.
In an era where feminism is growing and unrelenting,
I’ve never felt more in control of myself and where I’m going next.
But when I am with you,
all I do is lose control, not knowing
where you’ll take me next.
You are my dream.
You are my nightmare.
You make me weak.
You make me mad.
You make me feel safe,
the way you tower over me.
You are the one man
that isn’t afraid to grasp me
in your palm, as if all of this belongs to you.
I kinda love that.
The feeling of being chosen
in those moments feels so good.
A couple on the back of the bus
all of a sudden gets into a verbal
fisticuffs, waking up every passenger
Out of their slumber as we approach St. Louis.
The driver stops the bus.
“You just mad cause I left yo ass!” she says.
“Oh, you got shootaz?
Naw, you just mad cause you
not comin’ home wit me tonight!
Bus driver, he ova here bein’ abusive!”
“Obamanisha Jenkins, please shut up,”
I whisper under my breath.
I’m tired and ready to go home.
Tyrone nonchalantly gathers
his belongings, from beside her,
only peppering the argument
with minimal remarks
to her hysteria.
“Ma’am please calm down.
You are the aggressor in this situation,”
the bus driver says.”
The driver proceeds.
Tyrone switches seats only to sit behind me.
He’s cool and calm.
How do couples end up like this?
How did their relationship start?
Resistance isn’t the cure to you.
There is something so intoxicating
about your toxic silence that
manipulates me to come to conclusions
I don’t want to at times.
I’m back home now.
I have more clarity.
It’s all been in my head, the things
that have yet to happen with you.
Or probably never will.
It dawns on me…
I haven’t been running away from you.
I’ve been running away from myself.
It isn’t you I’m afraid of.
I am wildly vulnerable and ready
to take more of this drug you’ve
given me and that I’ve gladly accepted
in dosis, in fear of an overdose.
Letting go is overrated.
You can’t let go until you
go through it all the way.
Until you get the answers you need.
Or just too tired to hold on any longer.
I’m not tired.
Nor have I had enough of you
when I probably should.
The mystery is behind this door.
It’s wide open.
I am terrified to walk through it.
I won’t do it.
