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...
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in that excited, nervous sort of
way. I close my eyes, taking deep
breaths and trying to reach some
sort of calm. I wish I had some
thing interesting or funny to say,
anything to stop the whir of
thoughts in my head.
“So, why are you headed to San
Francisco?” I ask.
Maribelle studies me for a
minute, then begins, “Well, Mark,
that’s my boyfriend, left two
months ago and we’ve just been
waiting for him to get a pad and a
solid job before I followed. He
says the work is good down there.
Even found a room for rent down
on Belvedere, in the Haight-
Ashbury district. We have to share
it with two other guys, but it’s
cool.” She gets a dreamy look in
her eyes and says, “Things are re
ally gonna start happening, now,
with Vietnam and all. 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.
Spring time has arrived!
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