I sat inside the bus terminal, looking at people around me. Some sat on hard plastic chairs with sharp edges from where the backs had been torn or chipped away. Others stood up against the glass windows with moisture on them, smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking from brown paper bags.

A woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker telling the ticket holders that the bus leaving for Chicago, St. Louis, Oklahoma City Dallas, with connections to Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Phoenix, Indio, and Los Angeles, was now boarding.

The ticket was $99 one way. I saved the money from working at a car wash, which I quit after two weeks of working there. Satisfaction, the owner said. Customer satisfaction is what we strive for, he told me with a slap on the back, not knowing that the only satisfaction I wanted was to leave as soon as the first paycheck was signed. Go get ’em boy. Go get ’em, he cheered.

Pulling out of the station, I looked around my hometown from the backseat of the bus. There it all was before me, the place where I grew up. St. Mary’s on the corner, the soup kitchen for the poor and powerless. Cap n Cork liquor store across the street from a gas station. I bought my cigarettes there for seventy-five cents. Henry’s bar where I had my first drink; a scotch and soda. I was leaving it all behind. Head West young man.

The sun rose over the Mississippi in St. Louis, waking me as light came through tinted windows. A full bus. Filled with Mexicans, blacks, old people, runaways like myself, and kids with dreams of  being more than what their talents allowed. 

I listened in on conversations; a young woman wanting to get into the porn industry, Mexicans speaking in Spanish about finding jobs and new lives, some black kid who had his heart on being the next Sly Stone. An old lady snoring. Noises of the road.

Chili. The best bowl of chili I ever had was in Oklahoma City. It was red with beans and thick from ground hamburger. I crumbled up  packages of Saltines in the bowl and ate it slowly; enjoying every bite. Chili would become my staple; cheap and plentiful.

The future porn star sat next to me. She had a piece of chocolate pie. The redhead said chocolate was her favorite. Of which I responded, I’m vanilla as they come. The seventeen year old laughed. So did I.

Where are you going? she asked.

California. Los Angeles.

Gonna be a movie star?

Nope.

Then why are you going there? I mean, the only reason to head out there is to be famous. Right?

I suppose.  I’m just running.

From what?

I don’t know. I just needed to take off. Leave.

I hear you.

Red clay. Mountains look like giant walls of red clay. New Mexico. I looked on in wonder. How could a place be so beautiful yet so abandoned.

The bus pulled into the Greyhound station around midnight. I got off to stretch my legs and smoke. There were all these Indians walking around. Talking to themselves. Some drunk. Others just waited like the rest of us; alone, tired, and hungry. I counted my money. Forty-eight dollars left. Tired and hungry. I bought another bowl of chili.

Downtown L.A. moon rising. I decided to call home and let my parents know I was OK. Meaning, not dead. The phone was answered on the first ring.

David?

Yeah.

Where are you?

Los Angeles.

Dear God. You know, your father is out there on business.

I wasn’t aware.

He’s at this hotel downtown. Let me get you the number.

OK.

David. I love you.

I love you, too.