Ohio is a damn drain.

Anyway, I'm writing this vignette to tell a brief tale of something that happened two months ago, on my long ride from Atlanta to California. It happened somewhere in Arizona, on the road between Tucson and Phoenix. Unfortunately, I remember neither that night nor my geography clearly, and couldn't tell you if I was traveling west from Tucson to Phoenix, or west from Phoenix to Tucson, and it's actually kind of relevant to the story. For the sake of argument, I'm just going to say that I was traveling from Tucson to Phoenix. If you are familiar with Arizonian geography, and know this to be inaccurate, please don't write to Pablo or I complaining that my story has discrepancies. It's not that the tale is untrue, it's just that I can't be bothered to remember the layout of your damn dirty state.

Anyway, at a place which might have been Tucson, a middle-aged white woman boarded the bus. She had shoulder-length black hair, a slim build, and generally looked far happier than the rest of us on that bus. She did a sort of semi-cautious bop down the aisle, and asked if she could have the empty seat next to mine.

"I'm sorry?" I said, removing my headphones.

"Can I sit here?" she asked again.

"Of course," I said, and put my headphones back on.

A few minutes after we got underway, she asked, "What are you listening to?"

Closer to her now, I could hear her with the music playing, but instinctively turned it off to respond. "Sarah McLachlan."

"Oh yeah?" she asked. "What's that like?"

"Sort of Celtic pop ballads," I replied.

"Huh," she said, seemingly confused by the concept. I gave a wan smile, which might or might not have been visible under covers of beard and darkness, and when she was silent for a bit, I turned my headphones back on.

A few minutes later, she asked, "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

"I'm twenty-six." I turned my headphones back off.

"OK," she said. "Just curious. You have one of those faces where it's hard to tell."

"Oh?" I replied, uncertain what to do. I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to ask her age, though, so I asked, "Where are you headed?"

"Home to Phoenix. I've been visiting my family in Tucson. "

"Oh, did you have a good time?"

"I did, but I'm anxious to get back home. I've got a new house, just bought it a couple of weeks ago, and I love it. The neighborhood is mostly black, but I really like my place."

"Ah," I said, offended.

"Where are you headed?"

"Sacramento."

"Really? From where?"

"Atlanta."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I have friends there, and I'm taking a sort of vacation."

"Well, good for you. From coast to coast, huh? Cool. Are you tired?"

"Nah, it wasn't hard to get used to sleeping on the bus. And I've had plenty of time to sleep."

"Well, cool." She didn't ask how I made my living, and I certainly didn't broach the subject. There was more small talk, though. She made some more directly racist comments. I treat public displays of racism the same way I treat public nose-picking: I ignore it. This tactic really doesn't work well for me, as it seems to encourage them. Remind me to come up with a new social strategy.

We shared jokes, too, rather morbid ones. There was some talk of the bus crashing, being hijacked, and/or exploding. I suggested that only the black box would survive, and she grinned at me suggestively, seemingly trying to decide whether or not to make the obvious dirty joke. She held it back until we reached Phoenix. As we approached the Phoenix bus station, the driver turned on the intercom and began rattling off destinations and where to board for them: those going to Las Vegas were to go to Gate 1, those going to Flagstaff were to go to Gate 2, ect. When the driver finished, the lady next to me said, "At Phoenix, you can choose Gate 1, Gate 2, or the box."

I gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh and quickly looked out the window. We didn't talk much after that.