Image provided by: Clackamas Community College; Oregon City, OR
About The Clackamas print. (Oregon City, Oregon) 1989-2019 | View Entire Issue (May 17, 2000)
10_______ A&E WEÓNEsdAy, M ay 17, 2000 The CI ac I< amas P rint On the Bus PARTONE “Attention, Greyhound custom ers,” the static voice booms. “Bus number 36445, service to San Fran cisco, California is now boarding. Please line up at door number one.” I practically have to peel my legs off of the plastic bench to stand up. Hot and tired, I gather my be longings and stretch, moving my stiff joints. I take my place in line behind a couple arguing loudly in Spanish and lean against the wall, closing my eyes. It’s going to be a long 12 hours. We board the bus at a dead-end pace, everyone fumbling for tick ets and with luggage. I take a win dow seat near the back and pray that I’ll have it to myself. I recheck my ticket stub for the thousandth time and rummage through my bag, trying not to think about what I’m doing or what will happen to me when I actually get to California. It’s too late for that, and besides, I’m going to be a star. My guitar sits reassuringly on the seat next to me, reminding me of everything that I’m not sure I’m ready to think about. Mom cried when I told her I was leaving. Dad looked serious and asked what about college. But hell, it’s the seventies, now. I’m an adult. I’ve got to be free, to do what I want. And what I want is to be someone. So here I am, on a hot bus full of crying babies and overheated adults, ready to begin again. With E 1. M ENTARY a rumble and a roar, the bus comes the other side of me. Now there’s to life. My heart pounds. My palms practically no room for my legs so sweat. I stare out the window at I curl them up underneath me and the gray of the loading station as sulk. Looking out the window, I see we pull away, picking up speed, we’re at another bus station. leaving my old world further and The girl sits down next to me further behind. and I’m overpowered by the smell We’re scheduled to arrive in San of patchouli and God knows what Francisco at 8:00 that evening. An else. She looks little more than fif old friend, Mary, is picking me up. teen, with the longest, whitest hair She left a year ago to join what and a pale blue dress. She’s skinny, everyone’s calling “The Revolu skinnier than anyone I’ve ever tion” and says I can stay with her seen and I have to keep myself from till I get on my staring. But feet. She says she seems macramé is friendly, so I huge down in smile. It seems strangely California and “I’m ironic that things Pm that she’ll Maribelle,” teach me to she an leaving behind are nounces and make these still a thousand times hanging plant sticks her better than the things holders. It hand out in a formal gesture seems like a Maribelle is moving good plan. of hello. I towards. I begin to shake it awk doze, thinking wardly and in about all the troduce my crazy stories self. I’ve heard about Haight-Ashbury “So you play guitar, huh?” She and Acid Tests and how things asks. “My boyfriend plays. He’s will be for me. I don’t remember in a band called ‘The Gypsies’. falling asleep, but apparently, I do, Ever heard of them?” because the next thing I know, a I shake my head. bony hand is shaking my shoul “They’re pretty good. Should der. have played at Woodstock.” I can’t think of anything to say “What?” I mumble, eyes still so I just sort of nod lamely. The closed. “There’s no more seats left. Can radio crackles and hums a Janis Joplin song. The air conditioner you move your guitar?” Annoyed, I grab the handle of wheezes and spits, emitting more the leather case and shove it to hot than cold. My stomach churns EDUCATION-SECONDARY EDUCATI “The Revolution” and before I know it, an hour has passed and we pull into another station. Maribelle announces that we’ve reached her stop. Something in me shrinks when I hear this. “But come have a smoke, okay?” I follow Maribelle up the aisle and out the door. We rest on a bench a few feet from the bus and I just sit silently as she searches through her handbag. She pulls out a baggie of handrolling tobacco and some papers and begins to roll a cigarette. I screw my courage and ask, “”How old are you? I mean, you look so young and I just won dered why.. .oh, well, nevermind.” My face burns. She’s silent for a moment, then says, “It’s the cliché. My mom’s dead, my dad’s a loser and I couldn’t pass 10th grade. I had to cut out. You know.” We smoke in silence. And I don’t know, but I just nod because it seems appropriate. It seems strangely ironic that things I’m leaving behind are still a thou sand times better than the things Maribelle is moving towards. And it makes me sad in a way, like I just need to be still and quiet for a while. We say goodbye and exchange numbers. I watch from my window as she carries her bags into the sta tion and out of my sight. Then I feel a tapping on my shoulder. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” To be continued next week... Roses are Re4, Violets are Blue, \Ne Offer Tuition Assistance Just for you! 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We can re ally get the movement going, y’know?” I smile. “What about you?” I feel embarrassed but I say, “I’m going to be the next Joan Baez,” And, even though it sounds a little foolish to me, Maribelle smiles as if she understands perfectly and I feel better, safer. “Actually,” she tells me, “I’m stopping off in Salt Lake City to stay with friends a few weeks, but maybe when I get to San Fran cisco, Mark can get you a gig somewhere.” We talk more about my music and my parents and what she calls connections throughout Portland that will keep you ahead of the game and close to home. 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