Riding the Greyhound
We were making a routine stop to pick up anyone that was headed north. It was very early in the morning. The guy next to me was talking about the interesting transitional space that riders are often in. He said he liked the chance to sit next to women and feel them up. Especially the heavy ones.
Riding the Greyhound is like traveling up Satan’s arse. You have to arrive an hour early and wait in line with strangers wondering when the bus is going to come. Panhandlers, low-lifes, and drug addicts. Pedophiles everywhere.
I read in the local paper that the librarian’s daughter had been convicted of the murder. Riding through small towns in the dead of night, I just feel vulnerable and afraid. I live in Salisbury, Maryland. I have family in St. Louis.
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