Louis set down his carpet bag on the asphalt and surrendered. His shirt clung with sweat and the day gripped him in its hot fist. He was past trembling for a drink and too thirsty to gripe, and not a soul to hear him any how. Thursday had stripped away the life from him and Friday was too bright to see the end of.
The carpet bag at Louis’ feet contained a comb and a pair of socks. His final possessions. His feet were strapped in shadows from the bus station sign. The Missouri sun had everyone cooped up indoors and in the neighborhood sprawled across the street from him not even a dog barked. He was standing at the bus stop, but he knew the bus would not come. He had missed it by three minutes and the next one was not due for two more hours. The thought of another bus ride haunted him. Stale air, musty seats, the jangling of chains and hostile eyes of the other men that rode with him on a prison bus to the Jefferson City Penitentiary on February Eighth. Two years later, he’d taken the same bus back.
That long bus ride back to Jefferson City from the Penitentiary had been two days ago. It was August now.
Two days ago Louis learned that his wife had left and his house was owned by a new family. It was a humble house, but fiercely coveted by the white family that had turned him from the door. They were probably nice people. Probably went to church and gave money to the poor. But they had been told that the black man who owned the house before them was in prison, might come back. They would not let him stay for a night or take a clean set of clothes.
Louis had curled up his rage packed it into his carpet bag, and now it had grown so heavy that he no longer desired to carry it. He had no money for a soda pop, no money for a cold cut sandwich and a glass of milk. No store in this neighborhood would serve a glass of water to a black man with no intention to buy anything else. The worst part about missing the bus by three minutes was knowing that he would not have been able to pay the fare anyway.
He with his carpet bag at his feet and let himself dry out, all the way. His lips fused and when he blinked he could hear the sound of his eyelids peeling and sticking. If he were a leaf he would be ready to blow away like it was autumn time and never look back. But he was a man trapped in a life that no longer wanted him and not even riding the bus out of Jefferson City would change that.
