by amy batchman

That’s what the woman who had the foresight to bring air fresheners along called it.

The bus.

A man had a seizure at about 2 a.m., lying—rocking—thrashing—and bleeding in the isle. Several others on their way to the smoke break walked right over him, literally.

The girl behind me clearly had rather severe anger issues—“fuck,” “shit,” “god damn” all night long. Another guy, Curtis, “lost everything” to hurricane Ike, but was in Olympia, Washington when it happened. That was probably six weeks ago. He hasn’t been back since. He’s a tattoo artist. Quite good, it seems, from the pictures he offered me. Should I have let him ink me?

This experience and this place are like The Other. The flip-side, the back of the coin, The Other reality behind the curtain. Lost souls mill about, clearly unaware of their own selves really. Economically flipped. Religiously flipped from the Utah-mormons.

One great thing on the bus was this comment:

“Come on woman! Don’t fake it!

I know you can get this [pushing a stuck armrest into place].

When I saw my lady push a baby out of her body; I was like: ‘Shit!’

‘That’s it. No discussion—you are the strong one.’”

People befriend one another. The craziest shine bright in one way,

the kind ones shine in another.

My brother saw someone overdose in a bus station bathroom. Sounds about right to me.

When “Roy” seized it was so strange.

Calm.

Quiet.

Everyone else moved juuuuust enough to see his blood and spiddle.

The guy everyone thought was the craziest guy on the bus was, in the end, the one to help. Exclaiming “!He’s having a seizure—move over—wait, wait—I know what to do!!” He climbed over a few seats, rolled the man on his side, used his own hands to wipe the blood off Roy’s face and called for ice and more paper towels.

It was as though he was crazy enough to have missed the alienation-from-neighbors social training.

It made me sad. The bus driver just stood there a few moments, then slowly jerked to life and phoned 911. I’m sure that greyhound has instructed drivers to call for help and leave the liability to the professionals.

I’m no better. I too was part of the mute crowd. Like watching television—just watching. I felt scared.