Random thoughts from a Greyhound bus
“I Love Eggs!”
That statement alone was enough inspiration to write this article, as I read the slogan on a billboard while traveling on a Greyhound from Austin to Dallas.
It was an advertisement for the “Texas Egg Council” and immediately my mind changed from being tired and bored to overcome with curiosity. What the hell is the Texas Egg Council? How does one get appointed? Are they city-elected council members? What do they discuss when they have a meeting? Do they look at products such as egg beaters, eggnog and Cadbury eggs favorably or do they hate their very existence? With my mind in one of these moods, I decided to get my notebook out and start this article.
After spending too much time thinking about the egg council, my attention was soon turned toward a car that was broken down on the side of the road. The hood was smoking and one of the tires was completely blown out. I felt bad for the guy until I saw the sticker on the back of his car, “Built Ford Tough.” Sometimes I think the higher power has the greatest and most subtle sense of humor of all.
As I stared out the window, smiling at this clown on the side of the road, my pen slipped off my notebook onto the floor. As I reached down to pick it up, something inside of me told me something just wasn’t right. I looked to my left and realized that my suspicions were true. The grown man sitting across from me was wearing black Velcro shoes. Shocked, I stared at them as if I had seen a ghost and slowly began to sit back up.
When I returned to my fully upright position, I noticed the Velcro king’s T-shirt – “Big Johnson’s Poker … Liquor Up Front, Poker in the Rear.” I really liked those T-shirts when I was 11. This guy must have gotten on the wrong bus. He was on the bus going to Dallas; he was trying to catch the bus to 1990. All I needed to see was a Co-Ed Naked Lacrosse shirt and a troll doll and my head would have exploded. Side note: There are a disturbing number of porno shops on I-35.
After a dull 20 minutes where I did a little more thinking about the egg council, I began to blankly stare at the exit signs. “252b … 253 … 254 … 257 …” What happened to exits 255 and 256? And someone tell me why they skip exit numbers and at the same time add letters to others. It makes zero sense. E-mail me if you know the answer, and if your answer gives me a sense of closure, I’ll buy you a used Yinka Dare jersey. (Home or away, your choice!)
Side note: The bus driver looks like Judge Mathis of daytime TV fame and also seems to have the same temper. He just yelled at a girl who couldn’t be any older than 12 for chewing gum. What a badass.
Finally we get to stop at a gas station/truck stop. We are instructed that we have “10 minutes, not a second sooner.” Not to mention that if we are not on the bus, our “asses would have to hit the bricks by yo’ lonely.” I don’t want to hit the bricks by my lonely, so I swiftly go inside to get a Sports Illustrated and a Coke. Problem.
No Sports Illustrated. I look for Rolling Stone. Nope. I settle in my mind with The Source. Nope. My choices were as followed: Tatoo Magazine, Black Tail Magazine, Barely Legal, Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler and Better Homes and Gardens. I bought my Coke and hopped back on the bus.
As we drove through Waco, I got a dull feeling in my body. Waco is like the dining room at your parents’ house. You never go in there, never hang out there, there is no TV in there, you go there maybe once a year and when you do, you can’t wait to get out. It is the worst room in the house. The only reason you know it exists is because you walk by it all the time, watching it collect dust. That’s Waco, a place that is boring. No one likes being there, and you don’t really know why it’s there.
Side note: Devin the Dude’s new CD, Just Trying to Live, is the best album to come out this year.
I prepared to write more, staring at all the people on the bus as if I were watching Jenny Jones – waiting for wacky antics to break out, for Rude Jude to come out talking all funny, making fun of the Judge Mathis look alike. In the end though, I slowly drifted off.
“Hey guy! Wake up, we’re here. This bus ain’t no motel.”
I woke up, wiping drool from my mouth as we pulled into bus station. We were 40 minutes late, and no one was surprised. I got off the bus and watched as my bag, which contains my camera, CDs and a picture frame was thrown around like Warren Moon hitting Haywood Jeffries on a 15-yard slant route. (Oilers, baby!) I am not surprised.
I got my stuff, headed on my way. Sometimes when you have time to just think to yourself, it is not always constructive, but it is always interesting.
