If I don’t want to talk to people — and I definitely don’t — I have to practice. This afternoon in Atlanta was a failure.
(See if you can guess which speaker in the following playlet is a guy on the street and which speaker is me.)
“Hey man, you smoke weed?” “Sometimes, but I don’t have any on me nor am I looking to buy some because I have to get back on the bus soon.”
I remain amazed that I don’t get beat up more often.
11am, somewhere in South Carolina where they sell canned boiled peanuts
Riding the Greyhound is like eating at Burger King: if you go long enough without doing it, you forget how absolutely awful the experience is. I can remember sights and sounds — hey, everybody can — and those are handy and nice, but I really wish I could remember the sensation of not being able to find a comfortable sleeping position for hours on end. Maybe if I could remember the discomfort, the smells, the weirdos, the fear of the inevitable skin-on-skin contact with some soft-spoken old guy in a graduation gown at 1am in Charlotte, NC, then I could say, “Oh, that’s what the Greyhound is, right,” and then just take the damned train instead.
Seriously, paying extra for first class on the Acela Express is so worth it. You get free food and bev!
It’s 4am, ten minutes outside of Raleigh, NC
Must the people on this Greyhound be so aggressively Southern? Can’t they take a break for one miserable night?
