| I'm
writing on the bus, tapping virtual keys into my handheld, because
Donna Kuhn told me to write her a letter on the bus. She told me
to write about all the interesting people and send her a letter.
Donna knows that I need to write on the bus, and wanted to help
motivate me, I reckon. OK, I can get motivated, more or less. I'm
not so motivated that I'm going to write separate letters for
Donna and my travelogue, though. This letter is officially my
on-the-bus writing. Everyone gets it who wants it. Last night,
that idea seemed utterly fascinating and hilarious to me. But last
night, I was baked off my ass.
Memphis. Can't say much about the city, but the area around the
bus station doesn't warrant tourism. Areas around bus stations
rarely do, of course, unless you're passing through Nashville, my
previous stop. The architecture around the Nashville station was
lovely, and the sun was kind enough to rise there, allowing me to
take a photo. I also photographed the Nashville station's mens'
room, because I felt it was skanky in a cool way.
I'm rarely entertained by the people around me and this group
of travelers seems pretty nondescript. There's a woman across from
me talking into a leopard-spotted cellphone. There's a camo-clad
man who, in every station since Atlanta, has put his head on his
bag and lain out on the floor. Oh, look, the child behind me has
begun to play kick-the-seat. No doubt an altruistic desire to help
me move my pen. A firm look settled him down.
We're driving past the Memphis ball park now. It's ugly. I find
this an ugly town, though it is intriguing that its citizens
appear to have erected a giant aluminum pyramid.
Now, there is the case of the chap I sat next to last night. He
was a sort of combination interesting and insensitive that added
up to ridiculousness. He snored, of course, I mean, they all
snore, right? And he occasionally whimpered to himself. But he was
set apart by his absolute determination to sleep spread-eagled. He
hocked his body down to the bottom of his seat, and proceeded to
slowly spread his legs into an impressive butterfly position that
was sadly blocked by my existence. One shouldn't be a stickler for
personal space on a Greyhound, but I felt a wee bit violated by
the way his leg attempted to corner mine form both the side and
the front.
That wasn't a very interesting story, was it? I'm sorry, I'll
give up on trying to discuss the passengers now. I'm just not
finding them very interesting. Arkansas seems pretty but the roads
are painfully rough…
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