Our Epic--Part Five

At the somewhat dirty and ominous station in Billings, where we were taking our first Greyhound bus, an older woman with a weathered face, who runs a ranch in Wyoming where buffalo from Yellowstone Park forage in winter, told me I should ask the lady behind the counter if she could make sure that Jenny and I get seats together on the bus.

So I did. She waved her hand dismissively. "It won't be a problem. The bus won't be that full."

Ok, fine.

Before anything was announced about boarding the bus, a line had formed by the door. A long line. I figured I'd better get in on this, so I woke Jenny up and we got in line with all our stuff.

It was 1:30 a.m. when we boarded and I was completely unprepared for what happened next. There are two seats on each side of the aisle and I hadn't realized that people really really want to have two seats to themselves, and if they obtain such a prize, they take dominion over it and don't give it up without a fight.

So we got on and the bus was nearly dark and way fuller than any of the previous ones had been. We shuffled forward, desperately looking for two empty seats, and couldn't find any. Finally we were over halfway back and I could see that all the shady characters that my brother had warned me about sat toward the back of the bus--kind of like high school days--and they all had two seats to themselves, and no one was leaping up to offer one to me.

What to do? It was just light enough to see a bunch of sullen and hostile faces watching me, and behind me other people jostled and pushed impatiently, so I couldn't turn around and try again toward the front. Of course there was no flight attendant to assist us.

If you know me, you know how I hate making a scene and/or asking for help. But in my loudest voice, and nearly in tears, I finally said, "Would anyone be willing to give up your seat so my daughter and I can be together?"

No one moved. No one spoke. They only stared sullenly. I couldn't believe it. This innocent child standing there and no one would make a move to help. It was horrible.

I would get off the bus and spend the night in the station before I would have Jenny sit with any of those men.

Finally in the darkness I found a young woman who said yes, Jenny can sit with her, and I found a seat with a college-age man three rows back.

I settled in feeling a terrible oppressive sense of fear and evil and danger in that dark bus, with Jenny out of my sight and reach, and a bunch of utterly selfish, at best, and evil at worst, people all around me.

And then my completely rattled mental state was interrupted by the man across the aisle. He was an ex-Marine and looked it, stocky, with a buzz cut. "I shoulda maybe given up my seat for your daughter," he said, "but I been travelin' for two days and I gotta have my space. I just gotta."

I just looked at him coldly.

"How old is your daughter? About 11? She's sure pretty. I got a daughter that's 11." And he whipped out his cell phone and showed me pictures of his daughter.

I thought but did not say, "You JERK. You have a daughter that age and you don't have the decency to give up your seat for mine???"

Then in the next ten minutes he proceeded to tell me his life story, show me more pictures of his kids, pat my arm a dozen times, tell me twice more that Jenny was beautiful, ask me what I thought of the Mormons, explain why he beat up the guys who beat up his son, apologize for his language, and tell me twice that Amish and Mennonite women are so beautiful but so modest.

I really hoped someone somewhere was praying for me. Mom, maybe, since she often wakes up at night.

Across from Jenny a large man dangled his fat arm in the aisle. I thought about what I would do, really fast, if I saw that arm reach across the aisle.

I checked on Jenny every few minutes and then she fell asleep and I did too, sort of, and at 4:30 I woke up and in the dawning light decided the guy beside me looked immature but kind and asked him if he'd trade seats with Jenny. He said he would.

Soon we were together and I felt like she had just been rescued from the lion's claws but she was utterly unfazed by the whole ordeal.

We draped over each other and fell asleep, and some hours later stopped in St. Regis, Montana, for breakfast. It was a cute little town with a good breakfast special at the little cafe, and all was well until we found out the bus had broken down and we would be there for two more hours. Which meant we would miss our bus to Portland that we were supposed to catch in Spokane.

Our bus driver, who was one more evil representation of Greyhound, got us all together outside the cafe in St. Regis and announced what was going on. No one is going back on the bus, he said angrily. No one. When we get back on, our stuff will be exactly where we left it.

"But I'm gonna need formula and a bottle," protested a young woman with a ten-month-old baby. The driver barked, "I'm sure they sell formula here somewhere," and walked off.

Greyhound is evil, I know it.