Mosquitoland(20)

Back then, I closed all my papers with Boom. It added a certain profound punctuation—a little high class among the meandering bourgeois. If I remember correctly, I received a C minus.

But even today, inasmuch as an anomaly is a thing that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected, I can think of no more appropriate word to describe myself.

I hate lakes but love the ocean.

I hate ketchup but love everything else a tomato makes.

I would like to read a book and go to a f*cking party. (I want it all, baby.)

And, pulling into the Nashville Greyhound Station, I am reminded of how much I hate country music—but blimey, I just can’t get enough Johnny Cash, the grandfather of that very genre. And, of course, Elvis, but I don’t really count him as country. Those were Mom’s two favorite musicians. We used to sit on her old College Couch in the garage, and listen straight through Man in Black or Heartbreak Hotel—vinyl of course, because there really is no other way to listen to music—just soaking in the scratched-up honesty of those two baritones, because damn it all, they’d lived life, and if anyone had a personal understanding of the pain of which they sang, it was Cash and Presley. At least, that’s what Mom said. As I grew up, my tastes changed, but when I think about it, even the music I listen to now has a certain tragic honesty to it. Bon Iver, Elliott Smith, Arcade Fire—artists whose music demands not to be liked but to be believed.

And I do.

I believe them.

Carl pulls the bus into the station and grabs the mic. “Okay, folks, welcome to Nashville. If this is your final destination”—he smiles, and I wonder if those chipped teeth are courtesy of the accident—“well, you made it. If not, you done missed your connecting bus. Just go on up to the ticket desk, they’ll set you up. And don’t forget your vouchers. Lord knows you earned ’em.” He clears his throat, continues. “As a Greyhound employee, I apologize for the incident outside Memphis and hope it don’t discourage you from choosing Greyhound in the future. As a human being, I apologize for the incident outside Memphis and wouldn’t blame you one damn bit if you never rode another Greyhound again. Now get the hell off my bus.”

I make it a general rule not to clap for anyone. Seeing as how few concerts and sporting events I attend, it’s never really been an issue. But after Carl’s rousing oration, this bus is going wild, and I find myself slapping my palms together in spite of my rule.

I grab my backpack from the overhead bin and slide into the aisle, keeping my good eye on Poncho Man. After—let’s call it the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom—I made two important decisions: number one, I would lay off The X-Files reruns, as my capacity for monstrous imaginings has had free reign for long enough; and number two, I would not turn him in. The X-Files thing, I decided in about three seconds. The not-turning-in-a-perverted-troll-of-a-loafer-strutting-poncho-wearing-motherf*cker I thought about the rest of the way to Nashville. And while nothing would give me more pleasure than handing his ass over to the cops, getting to Cleveland is an absolute nonnegotiable. Period. I say something about the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom, and that’s that. I’d be dragged back to Mosquitoland, a traitor among the bloodsucking scavengers. On top of my not being in Cleveland for Mom during her hour of need, Poncho Man knows about my Hills Bros. can. Kathy would press charges, I’d be arrested for theft, and instead of spending Labor Day with Mom, I’d spend it in juvie.

Bottom line: I can’t be certain Poncho Man will strike again. But turn him in, and I can be certain my Objective is done for.

So yes. It sucks. But honestly, I can’t figure a way around it.

Poncho Man is at the front of the line; I watch him nod to Carl, then step down off the bus. Now—I just need to get my ticket, get lost in a crowd, and pray that’s the end of it. He goes one way, I go another, and ne’er the two shall meet.

Carl is sitting in the driver’s seat, saying good-bye to everyone as they pass. Whatever questions I had at the beginning of my trip pertaining to this guy’s true Carl nature have been answered and then some. He’s about as Carl as they come. I smile at him, and even get ready to shake his hand (which requires serious preparation on my part), when he grabs me by the shoulder. He leans in, his eyes full of familiar mischief, and whispers, “Good luck, missy.” Then, releasing his grip, he smiles and winks, and suddenly I know exactly who he reminds me of.

And it’s not Samuel L. Jackson.

Once off the bus, I locate the nearest bench and pull out my journal.



September 2—afternoon


Dear Isabel,

Let’s pull back another layer of the Giant Onion of my Reasoning, shall we? Reggie is Reason #6.

He always stood on the same corner back in Ashland: knee-high combat boots, frazzled hair, dirty face, winning smile. Mom said the reason Reggie stood on the same corner (Samaritan and Highway 511, if you want specifics) was that it was the closest traffic light to the downtown shelter.

I had soccer at the YMCA on Wednesdays after school (more unwanted extracurriculars). From Taft Elementary to the Y it was a straight shot down Claremont to East Main, a drive which should have taken no more than five minutes. But we never went that way. Instead, Mom, her eyes gleaming with the Young Fun Now, took Smith Road to Samaritan Avenue, then 511 up to East Main. It added an extra ten minutes, but she didn’t care. Every Wednesday, without fail, Mom rolled down her window at the corner of Samaritan and 511, and exchanged three bucks for a smile and a God-bless from Reggie.