Personal Journal Entry, July 21, 1995: Flying past suburban shadows at 60 mph on greyhound, heading east, stopping only for too few smoke & meal breaks and too often for unknown reasons other than to annoy passengers eager to be further from what they left behind in San Francisco or points thereafter; The American West by bus. [155]
In Sacramento, I had an untoasted-cold bagel with cream cheese then back on the road. Someone said something about the American River, but we kept going anyway. Greyhound never does stop for beauty alone, but it did stop somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas for a smoke. Beauty by happenstance. A child cried.
Reno for dinner, 6:00pm, no time to gamble. I only have $25. I wasn’t hungry but it was a dinner stop. Cup of black coffee and toast. Now 23 dollars remaining in my pocket. I had a smoke; GPC brand. In a greyhound minute we’ll all be off again –some to work construction in Salk Lake City, others to climb the Rockies for a summer adventure.
Two passengers across the aisle are from the Czech Republic here to tour the USA for first time; oh how huge the States must seem to them. They tell me the Republic is doing fine now, turning capitalist; they hope the US will befriend it; “money abundant, only a few minor problems brought about by turning free market; drugs, robberies, murders, depression”; nothing the USA didn’t have to deal with 100 years ago (and failed).
Some on the bus must assuredly be visiting family, or meeting their sweetheart in some small Utah town (population 300). Still others are probably embarking on one last trip knowing that they are dying; all of us are definitely dying in the way that life hinges its meaning on this common conclusion. I suppose I am dying in that way too, but I’m also headin’ to Denver.
My girl will be in Denver to meet me. So will Jerry, sunburnt and tired from the road, riding his 1100cc motorcycle all the way from Jacksonville. Scott’s still lingering in SF trying to hustle a way out while sleeping with an attractive Height Street waitress 10 years older than him. Hollywood must seem so far away from him now.
Tomorrow Colorado! Hopefully I’ll be able to turn $130 in food stamps into an adequate purse to present to my girl for fuel to get us back over the mountains. Salvation is never free.
The bus is pushing east again; wrestling with the hills and contemplating the desert and with the desert, and I sit and contemplate contemplation. Tomorrow Denver; but first we will face the wheeled asphalt night and see what’s around the next bend.
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