“Come with me”: Strangers on a Greyhound bus (essay)

We pulled into the bus station for a ten minute break. My rain-smeared window was a stained glass image of the traffic lights, murals, and concrete of Tulsa, Oklahoma. A young man ran beside the window, and after boarding the bus, he sat next to me.

I wondered if I needed to say something. On one hand, fellow passengers generally seem fine with my not talking to them. Once, on an airplane, a woman thanked me for not talking to her because of how tired she had been. On the other hand, I have sometimes had interesting conversations with strangers in transit, and perhaps it would be a sacrilege to not reach out to another person I’m sitting next to for hours.

After some time, I saw that my seatmate was sleeping. It was only when we approached Oklahoma City several hours later that we would talk.

I pulled out my walkman and listened to a CD. It was Somebody’s Brothers, a duo of friends I had made in Richmond, Indiana, while I was a graduate student there. Brian, one of the singers, had given me the CD a few days earlier as a parting gift.

*

I lived in Richmond for three years while I attended seminary. I graduated on May 10, though I was not there to celebrate because I was volunteering in Scotland as part of my field education. After returning from Scotland on May 30, I stayed in Richmond for a little while, and then doors opened for me to travel home to San Diego.

I bought a one-way bus ticket. Although I normally traveled across the country by airplane, I chose to ride the bus because it was the most affordable option, it would give me time to process my experiences in Scotland, and I wanted to go on one last adventure to mark the end of my time in seminary.

Tulsa, Oklahoma

The night before I left Richmond, I ate dinner at the Renaissance House, where a Franciscan friar named John lives in community with several people, teaching them work skills and guiding them in a life of worship to God. Every Wednesday, after singing hymns and praying, they share a meal on their side porch, welcoming anyone who wants to join them.

John had often invited me to join the meals. I wanted to come because I believed it was important to share life with people, especially people without many economic resources, and what was a better way than by sharing a meal with them? Jesus had told his followers that whenever they gave food to someone who was hungry, gave drink to someone who was thirsty, welcomed a stranger, clothed someone who was naked, or visited someone who was sick or in prison, they were doing those things to Jesus himself. I wanted to visit the Renaissance House to share a meal with Christ.

However, I ate with them only once during those three years. The meals conflicted with my schedule, and hadn’t been a priority. By joining them on my last night in Richmond, I hoped I could partially make up for all the times I didn’t come.

The ten of us (including the cat that came for scraps) ate baked potatoes, rice, beans, ham, and apricots. Before I left, Brian, who joins the Renaissance House meals, gave me the self-titled album his duo had recently recorded.

One of the songs was a cover of singer Fran McKendree’s “The Skin and Bones of Grace”:

My eager hands, my stumbling phrase,
redeemed but left to choose,
this journey toward the cliffs of praise,
that I can't seem to refuse

No wasted breath,
no cheated death,
no laced-up botox face,
the firefight that saves my life;
the skin and bones of grace,
just the skin and bones of grace.

*

As we approached Oklahoma City, my seatmate awoke.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“San Diego. Where are you going?”

“L.A.”

We looked at each others’ tickets and saw that we would both be transferring to another bus which went to Phoenix, Arizona.

“We can help each other find the bus,” he said.

Our tickets said we had only five minutes to transfer to the next bus, so when we got off, we ran into the Oklahoma City station, looking for a sign to tell us where to line up. We saw no signs, only heard the occasional broadcast announcement telling us when the next buses were leaving. We had missed the last message, so we scurried outside, glancing at the city names on the bus windows. None said “PHOENIX.”

We learned that the Phoenix bus was late, so we sat on a curb and ate lunch. I ate one of the eight peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I had packed, and he ate a hot dog he had bought at a former station.

After eating, I remembered that my dad, who had also ridden a Greyhound bus across the country when he was my age, had played the guitar on his journey. Since I had my guitar with me, I thought I’d do the same. I plucked an instrumental song. The experience wasn’t as memorable as I expected: I could hardly hear my 12-string over bus engines and horns, and a young woman sitting near us got up and left.

“I’ll put this away now,” I said.

Another young man who had seen me playing the guitar joined us for a while. He was from India and was waiting for the Phoenix bus, too, and his destination was also California.

My travel buddy asked me what I did. I told him I had just graduated from seminary and recently volunteered as a musician at the Iona Abbey in Scotland. I explained that the Iona Abbey is a kind of monastery run by men and women of various backgrounds. Every week they welcome guests from around the world to live in community in which they eat, work, and worship God together.

He said he was returning home from visiting friends, and was born in Indonesia. He described his work in the food industry.

After some silence, he said, “Do you have a girlfriend?” This began a refreshing conversation about relationships, and he gave me some advice. He also told me about his girlfriend and how they were getting along.

We began looking at the nearby intersections and freeway off ramps for a bus, but none came.

“This is taking too long!” he said.

I didn’t feel bad sitting and waiting. It may be my temperament, but it also could be that I was almost used to it. This was not my first time being stuck in Oklahoma, and this young man was not the first stranger I’d met who would become a companion along the way.

*

Four summers earlier, I went on a road trip from California to Kansas with three friends. On our drive back, in Boise City, Oklahoma, we pulled into a Love’s gas station. After getting gas, the car wouldn’t start.

We eventually found a mechanic in Guymon, an hour’s drive east. Maddie and Jeff rode in the tow truck while Mario and I stayed behind, sitting against the wall of the Subway restaurant in the shade. After learning the car would not be fixed that day, Mario had the idea to hitch a ride to Guymon. We broke up our cardboard Nature Valley Crunchy Granola Bars box and wrote “NEED RIDE TO GUYMON / WILL PAY FOR GAS / THANK YOU.”

Within ten minutes, a navy blue Honda Civic pulled up. Through his rolled down windows, the driver told us he would give us a ride. His name was Ryan and he had just finished his shift at Dairy Queen.

Ryan wore a black, sleeveless shirt and had tattoos on his thick arm. I sat in the front seat. I wondered if Mario chose the back seat so that he could keep an eye on Ryan in case he tried to harm us. Between Ryan and me stood a two-liter Dr. Pepper bottle carrying a shallow pool of dark juice. Every now and then Ryan would lift the bottle to his lips and spit. I told him I had just graduated from university. He said he wanted to go to school to study tattoo design. He drove 100 MPH.

We reached Guymon and found the auto shop, and Mario and I thanked Ryan. He told us to call him if we needed a place to stay. He lived with his girlfriend and her mother in Elkhart, Kansas, about an hour’s drive north.

The timing chain to Maddie’s car had malfunctioned, and the mechanics needed a few days to fix it. A few days later, they needed more time. We could not afford to stay in our motel much longer, so someone gave us the address of a rescue mission. Then I remembered Ryan’s offer and called him. He picked us up about an hour later and drove Maddie, Mario, and me to Elkhart. Jeff had a family reunion to attend back home, so he rode a train to California.

On the ride to Elkhart, we drove between fields of corn. Ryan said that soon, on the 4th of July, these fields would be lit with fireworks. When we arrived, Ryan, his girlfriend, and her mother brought us to a Bible study at a Church of the Nazarene, which surprised us because we attended a Nazarene church too.

The next day, Maddie, Mario, and I walked to the library. Sometimes people driving in cars would slow down and give us funny looks. One librarian told us, “We’ve heard about you folks.”

Mario said that in such a small town, it must have taken that family much courage to host us. I had thought the courage was ours. On our first night, I lay awake on the carpet in my sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling fan, alert in case anyone tried to attack us or steal our belongings.

Over the next few days, we and our hosts opened up to each other. One night we cooked dinner for them. After dinner we would usually watch a Christian, family-oriented movie. On our last night in Elkhart, we visited the Cimarron National Grasslands. Ryan let me drive his car, and it was the first time I had driven stick shift. Aside from parking, I did fine. We drank from an artesian well, watched the sky turn dim orange over the Cimarron River, and stood in the middle of a road to look at the stars.

The next day, we said good bye. Ryan drove us back to Guymon, where the car would be fixed by the afternoon. Until then, the people in the shop loaned us a car. As we drove to a restaurant for lunch, my phone rang. It was Ryan. He said his car had stopped running and asked if I could buy a fuel additive for him to pour into his car.

My suspicions returned. What if Ryan had tricked us this whole time, and was now pretending that his car had broken down so that he could mug me? I bought the additive and drove to the edge of Guymon, down a hill that overlooked corn fields. Ryan stood by the hood of his car on the side of the road. I parked and gave him the additive. He poured it in his car, we shook hands, and thanked each other again.

*

Eventually, the bus did arrive in the Oklahoma City station, and my second time waiting in Oklahoma was not as adventuresome as I thought it might be.

Bus #7234 had no air conditioning or Wi-Fi, but at least now I had two seats to myself. Whenever we stopped for a break, my buddy and I would chat about how things were going, and then gripe about the Greyhound experience. In Amarillo, Texas, for example, what was supposed to be a half-hour cleaning break lasted an hour longer. Greyhound was not entirely to blame; a tornado had just landed. In the darkness outside, tree branches twisted and rain lashed the windows and street.

While we waited, the young Indian man joined us. Once, a man with a gray mustache said something to him in Spanish, and he replied, “I don’t speak Spanish! Why do people think I speak Spanish?”

I spent most of the time looking at various people in the station: a young man sitting on a bench wearing white headphones plugged into his laptop, two women drinking Coke walking back and forth across the room. I overheard a young white man in a blue Kentucky t-shirt saying to a young black man and woman, “I like how we’ve formed a sort of travel bond here.”

I had begun recognizing fellow passengers, some of whom had been with me since Indiana. They seemed to recognize me too. Even the young girl I sat next to on my first bus from Indianapolis, whom I didn’t speak to and who didn’t speak to me, looked at me as though I were an old friend.

I quietly sang a song I had learned on Iona: “Come with me for the journey is long.”

We left Amarillo and in the middle of the night arrived in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where we walked into the spacious mission-style station with warm, comforting air. The young Indian man asked my buddy and me if we’d like coffee. I bought a hot chocolate. A worker announced on the speakers that Greyhound was giving us free meal vouchers. After picking them up, we sat on benches waiting. I told them my name, and they told me theirs.

“You can call me Leon,” said the young man from L.A.

Paul was the Indian man. “Like Saint Paul,” he later said.

We re-boarded our bus and rode through the night, stopping in Gallup in time for the sunrise. In the gas station, I stood in front of a map of New Mexico with a group of Latino men, one of whom had begun his journey a day before I had, in New York, and who was returning to his family in Tijuana, Mexico.

At last, at midday we arrived in Phoenix, where we were supposed to transfer buses for the last time before arriving at our destinations. Leon, Paul, and I had expected to part, but because of the delays, Greyhound put us on the same bus to San Bernardino, California. Again, we waited in line longer than the schedule said we would. Leon said there was no way now he was going to make it to L.A. on time to be picked up by a friend. But our travails had only just begun.

*

I sat on the left side of the bus next to the window. This was the same bus as before, only we had a new driver. A man walked beyond my seat and then turned around and sat next to me. He was wearing a black and red baseball cap. On his black t-shirt was a stark, white skull with black stars and vertical lines forming an American flag. He reached his tattooed arm over to shake my hand. His name was Jeremy.

When the bus began moving, Jeremy offered me a Reese’s Peanut Butter Stick. He said he had woken up at 6 a.m. to walk to the Phoenix bus station, about a five-hour walk. I told him I had started my journey in Indianapolis and had been sitting on the bus for two days.

“I’d rather be walking,” he said.

I agreed.

Some of the chocolate had melted on my fingers, and he gave me a napkin. He continued to tell me that when he was younger, he had been in prison.

“Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said. Then he laughed. “Or, right place at the right time. It’s always with you.”

I told him a little about myself. When the conversation ended, he pulled out his Smartphone with a cracked screen and began listening to music. I looked out the window at the jagged Arizonan mountains. He offered me one of his headphones, but I declined.

I began getting hungry, so I retrieved a chicken sandwich from my backpack, one which I had exchanged for my meal voucher. I offered Jeremy one half, which he quickly ate. A little later, I was listening to music when Jeremy tapped my arm. Out of my backpack had fallen my digital camera.

“You wouldn’t want that to go missing,” he said.

For a moment, I wondered if he had been tempted to steal it.

The bus slowed down, pulled over, and stopped for a few seconds. Then we returned to the freeway.

I brought out a notebook and began writing. Jeremy asked what I was writing, and I said I had recently self-published a novella and was working on the sequel. I showed him a copy of my book. He began reading it, but then said he didn’t read well on the bus.

The bus pulled over more frequently. The driver explained that the bus was having electrical problems. Jeremy said a similar thing happened to him on his last trip to San Bernardino, and they ended up waiting in Indio for several hours.

“It’s going to take forever,” he said.

The more we pulled over, the more people shouted at the bus driver, asking him why he wasn’t calling Greyhound for a replacement bus. He didn’t answer them, which made them even angrier.

By now Jeremy had not spoken for a while, and his face had become red. He pulled out what looked like a plastic green pen, put it to his lips, and smoked it. He slouched in his seat and, wearing his headphones, mouthed the words to a rap song, shaking his fingers.

Crossing into California over the Colorado River through lush trees and grass gave me hope, but Jeremy said that at our rate, it would take eight hours to reach San Bernardino. We stopped in Blythe for a twenty-minute break. Earlier I told Jeremy he could use my cell phone, so now in return he bought me a Snapple, which I drank in the shade behind the gas station. A group of us including Leon and Paul stood there, staring at the bus or the street. Some men smoked cigarettes. Jeremy walked behind the trees, perhaps exploring.

We got back on the bus and the driver said it would take longer to wait for a new bus than to drive to San Bernardino.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” someone said.

“This bus is going slower than my granny!” someone else said.

Despite our break, the bus worsened. At one point, we were stopping about every two minutes.

We took another prolonged break on the side of the freeway. Most of us got off the bus and stood beside brush and a barbed wire fence. On the other side of the fence was sand, a field of bushes, and scattered glass bottles. I picked up small stones and threw them at a bottle. It shattered in half.

We got back on the bus and drove to Chiriaco Summit, where we rested for about fifteen minutes. I walked to the Chevron station to fill my Snapple bottle with water. As I was leaving, I heard a fellow passenger say into his cell phone, “The bus driver can’t even see you.”

I looked toward the bus, parked between other buses and trucks. Who was he speaking to? Was there a network of thieves on the bus, waiting for the appropriate time to steal some of our belongings or do something worse? Was Jeremy one of them?

I went outside and saw Leon and Paul, and we walked to the bus, where I saw a man stooping by the luggage compartment. That didn’t seem too dangerous. We stood in front of the bus for a while. Leon said he had made new arrangements to be picked up in L.A. Paul said next time he is going to take an airplane.

I boarded the bus and went to my seat. Jeremy was not there, nor was his backpack. I immediately thought about my digital camera, and imagined Jeremy stealing it from my backpack and running away. But I didn’t look for my camera. I wanted to trust him.

The bus began moving and I looked around, still not seeing Jeremy. The bus driver asked everyone, “Is anyone missing?”

I stood. “We’re missing someone.”

The bus continued moving, and people shouted at the bus driver.

“Who’s missing?” someone said.

Through the window, we saw Jeremy walking out of the Chevron store.

“The guy with the red hat,” a woman said.

Jeremy got on the bus and sat next to me.

A young man across from us said, “I guess the buddy system works.”

“Are you all right?” I asked Jeremy. It was a phrase I had picked up in Scotland.

After that, the bus ride went smoothly. We reached San Bernardino at 9 p.m., though it would be many more hours before I arrived in San Diego. As I walked off the bus, I shook Jeremy’s hand. He wished me luck with my writing, and I wished him well in his new job. I shook Leon and Paul’s hands, too, and wished them the best.

*

Each week on Iona, whenever people would leave, they would line up on the jetty waiting for the ferry, and those who were staying behind would shake their hands, give hugs, and wave. Maybe this ritual was a form of giving thanks for the strangers who had transformed into friends, for the experiences we had shared together.

Iona was a crossroads to which people from all over the world traveled in the expectation that, in meeting each other on that island, they might witness something of God. Maybe being on Iona helped me recognize something of God even also on a bus.

Every Saturday on Iona we had a service to welcome the new guests for that week. I would sit in the music loft, beneath stained glass portraits of Saints Brigid, Columba, and Patrick, and say the following with the whole assembly:

We saw a stranger yesterday.
We put food in the eating place,
Drink in the drinking place,
Music in the listening place.
And with the sacred name of the triune God
He blessed us and our house,
Our cattle and our dear ones.

As the lark says in her song:
Often, often, often goes Christ
In the stranger’s guise.