A small journey of the sanguine
From San Antonio to El Paso (by bus)
There were ten of us lined up for the six am bus to El Paso. Nine other guys, and one dog. All groggy, clutching bags, bottles, and tickets. I was the clear outsider, by looks and by so much more. I was choosing to take the Greyhound, rather than flying, despite costing about the same, despite it being about ten hours. For the experience.
The other guys didn’t have the luxury to slum it. This was their life, not a lark. They didn’t have the papers to fly, or the money, or the ID. Some didn’t know you could do that. Hadn’t been on or near a plane before.
One guy wasn’t even sure where he was going. “Heading west. Don’t matter zactly where, as long as it ain’t San Antonio. That’s for sure.”
We stood lined up in a station somehow buzzing with sleepy people, until a woman let us on. The same woman who after calling out about twenty small Texas towns, and seeing nobody line up, ended with an exasperated “Last call for everything!”
I got to know almost all the other nine guys during the four half-hour truck-stop breaks.
There was Chris, who was “Headed to Google, to read them my book, so they’ll publish it.” He then went on a ten minute rant, fueled by something other than just adrenaline, about mindfulness, God, Vatican, Allah, Google, Facebook, death, drugs, and then Google again.
Mid rant he stopped, shouted to the driver, “Hey driver, I’m gonna stay here. Can I get my stuff off?”, then wandered, backpack dragging along the ground, into the small gas station, waving goodbye, and shouting, “God bless. I’ll see y’all in Heaven.”
There was E, a tall man with rotting teeth and an almost permanent smile. A guy in his second day on the bus with another to go.
Headed to Phoenix to “Maybe find some plumbing work. Can’t get work in Oklahoma with felonies. How many I got? Oh a few. Haven’t caught a charge in over seven years though, so maybe they about to be wiped down to misdemeanors. Gotta check with my officer bout that.”
E was always happy, no matter what. He stood smiling for close to fifteen minutes listening as a preacher preached at him. The rest of us had shooshed him away with a quick “No habla espanol”, despite everyone speaking Spanish except me.
When the preacher finally left, E laughed out loud, “Yo. I didn’t understand half of what he said.”1
There was P, with his thick, lame-legged, plodding dog Arrow. Another guy who couldn’t seem to find anything negative to say, feel, or think about the world and our situation. He was also a few days into the ride, with another to go. Why, I didn’t ask and he didn’t say.
He did want to talk about Arrow though. A lot. About her back right paw that was truncated and smashed “like the tip of an arrow.”
He’d found her under a drug house — “Them druggies used to beat her. I rescued her and now she’s rescued me I guess you could say. She treats my anxiety, my PTSD.”
That sanguine spirit, despite up to three days on a bus, despite little sleep, despite lots of past problems, despite what to everyone but themselves was a bleak situation, extended to everyone, especially Jamal.
Jamal2 had a good reason to be happy at that moment.
He was free, for the first time in fifteen years. Released from Louisiana State Penn two days before, and now riding to San Fernando Valley.
“What’s the best part about being out? Being free.” Duh Chris.
Where exactly in the valley he was headed he wasn’t sure. Had to check his ticket. Really about twelve tickets that was as long as a Rite Aid receipt, which he checked every stop. It had been sent to him by his aunt, or the confirmation number had. Which he’d written on his wrist.
Jamal had introduced himself in the first ten minutes of the ride, when it was still dark and cold, as he shuffled up the aisle yelling “Xcuse me bus driver. Xcuse me. Could ya put a little heat on please.”
“Cold ain’t it” he’d said smiling at me, the few teeth left in his mouth shooting in all sorts of directions.
At each stop Jamal used my phone to call his aunt. He didn’t have a phone, so he would sit for most of the breaks dialing a number from a folded up piece of paper.
Jamal also didn’t have any money. Just a few bucks, so D treated him to whatever cold food he could buy, on his EBT card. D also offered to treat me as well. I declined, although he was persistent, worried I hadn’t eaten anything the whole trip.
D, a tall, bald, and God-fearing man, was also coming from Louisiana, also going to San Fernando Valley, although he was vague about if he’d been in the same situation as Jamal.
D also used my phone, calling various California numbers. Talking to whoever was on the other end about logistics, God, and urging them to realize things were different now. Things had to change. They had to find God like he had.
When on the bus, he spent the entire time in the last seat, sleeping and reading the Bible, his hand moving slowly over the lines as he mouthed out each word.
The others mostly kept to themselves, or slept the entire time. One guy read a Jordan Peterson book, another never moved, didn’t get off the bus, his face glued to the window, watching the world go by.
Ten hours after we started, we pulled into El Paso, shook hands, and I went on my way, while they waited for their next buses.
Two days later I got a call from the number Jamal had dialed. It was his aunt asking where he was. I told her what I knew, she sounded worried. I asked her to call me back if she located him. I’ve yet to get a call. I hope it’s because she simply forgot, had bigger fish to fry.
I don’t want to make a mountain out of a mole hill. It was a short trip, not really a big deal in the grand scheme of things. People take Greyhounds all the time.
Still, it never ceases to amaze me how in such a rich country there are so many people whose lives are completely detached from most people’s experiences. Stuck in a cycle of prisons, joblessness, drugs, and wanderings. All of it building, in theory, to nothing.
Complicated lives that most of us judge as painful, broken, loathsome, and pitiful.
The idea that they can also be filled with laughter, happiness, and contentment seems impossible.
And yet people are resilient. Even amongst the most “broken” there is also plenty of joy, happiness, and beauty. And little self pity among those we pity.
And lots of generosity.
Being offered a meal by a guy with little more than his ETB card isn’t a first for me. I’ve been bought meals, drinks, and given gifts, by people who have close to zero while I have way more than that. At their insistence.
It’s a nice reminder how stingy we successful can be. How so caught up in our own stuff we forget how good (in theory) we have it, and how natural it is to share.
So while the ten hour Greyhound ride wasn’t that a big deal, I’m very glad I did it, and I will do more of them. I need to be reminded of all of that.
I just hope Jamal’s aunt calls me.
Note: Everyone pictured agreed to let me take their picture, post it, and write about it.
Funny that I met another Chris, who was “writing a book about world religions”, yet that was so very different from me. A parallel universe me brought to my attention by Greyhound.
I don’t know why Jamal was in prison. I didn’t ask. He might have done something awful. But I believe in redemption, and if you can’t believe someone can be forgiven, at some point, who has served all their given time, then I don’t know what the use of prison is.
I recall reading the words of an ex-con who said that the best thing about being out of prison was having a light switch, and lights that he could turn on and turn off. In prison, you have no control over the lighting.
So the ex-con would turn the lights on, then turn them back off. He had no money for any other form of entertainment, but he had a switch that he could flip and make things happen under his control, and that was enough, at least for the time being.
Thank you for these little glimpses into other worlds.