Mosquitoland(23)

And . . . blimey, 17C is good-looking. How did I not notice him before? I pass him on my left, careful not to stare. He looks like that guy in Across the Universe. (Gah, what is his name?) Suddenly, my beloved Goodwill shoes and favorite red hoodie seem an odd choice. Certainly, they aren’t my most flattering articles of clothing. My jeans are fine I suppose, albeit a little bloody at the knee. But yeah, the hoodie—hmm. I should’ve put on Mom’s old Zeppelin tee this morning, tight in all the right places. At the very least, I could’ve— What the hell?

Having reached my seat, I remain standing, frozen to the spot. A paper bag—brown, thin, square—is propped next to my backpack. I sit down, pick up the bag, and immediately know what’s inside. I’ve purchased enough vinyl to know a record when I’m holding one.

Talking Heads’ Remain in Light.

Near mint condition.

Every ounce of blood rushes to my face as this sets in. I raise my head just enough to peer over the top of the seat in front of me.

And there he is.

The perverted-troll-of-a-loafer-strutting-poncho-wearing-motherf*cker himself, six rows up, smiling like a hyena.

In the movie of my life, I crack the record in two, open the window, and toss the pieces to the side of the highway. But as the Greyhound windows don’t open, I have to settle for the first part. It’s a shame, because Mom loves all things David Byrne, but I won’t have any piece of Poncho Man sully our time together. I pull the vinyl from the sleeve and crack it in two.

The hyena isn’t smiling now.

Collapsing in my seat, I breathe, think, adjust. It’s possible he’s not following me. We probably just have similar routes. So what, then, I avoid going to the bathroom? Spend the rest of the ride looking over my shoulder? It’s not too late to turn him in, though I would still be sacrificing my Objective.

Think, Malone.

I toss the remains of the record in the seat next to me. Outside, the afternoon sky passes in a blur. I stare at it with my good eye and wonder . . . I have money. I have brains. I have a fount of intuition.

So intuit, already.

I pull out the itinerary that came with my ticket. Next official stop: Cincinnati.

Options.

I could get a cab. Or . . . hitchhike.

Boom.

Yes. What better way to get to Mom, she of the European hitchhiker’s guild?

Ditch the bus.

I pull the bag of chips from my backpack. They’re warm and crisp, and by the time I open the bag, I’ve made up my mind.

I want out. Of all of it: the random stops, the strange smells, the uncomfortable nearness of Poncho Man. I’ll ditch the bus in Cincinnati. At least I’ll be in the right state. Really, there’s no downside, except . . .

Munching, I twist in my seat and peer around the edge.

Crunch.

17C is three rows behind me, across the aisle, pressing a digital camera against his window.

Crunch.

He’s older than me, probably early twenties, so it’s not completely out of the question—us getting married and traveling the world over, I mean. Right now, a five-year difference might seem like a lot, but once he’s fifty-four and I’m forty-nine, well shoot, that’s nothing.

Crunch.

There’s a quality about him, something like a movie star, but not quite. Like he could be Hollywood if it weren’t for his humanitarian efforts, or his volunteer work, or his clean conscience, no doubt filled to the brim with truth, integrity, and a heart for the homeless.

Crunch.

He has longish brown hair and beautiful dark green eyes. His stubbly beard isn’t preteen-ish, it’s I-don’t-know-what . . . rugged, yes, but not only. It’s the stuff of hunters and builders. And carpenters. It suggests outdoorsy intelligence. It’s desert-f*cking-island stubble, is what it is.

Crunch.

A navy zip-up Patagonia fits perfectly, wrapped around his upper torso like a . . . well, like something. His shoulders aren’t broad nor are they narrow; his jeans aren’t skinny nor are they loose; his boots aren’t clean nor are they dirty.

17C is just the right amount of himself.

He is my perfect anomaly.

Crunch.

Apparently done taking pictures, he dismantles his camera, stows it under his seat, and pulls out a book. Between the hair, boots, jacket, and camera, he’s really working the Pacific Northwest, pre-hipster, post-grunge thing, which I have to say, I just love. Squinting, I try to see what book he’s reading, though I don’t suppose it would really— Shit.

I jerk back in my seat. Did he see me? I think he saw me.

Crunch.

I need to keep my head in the game anyway . . .

Crunch. (Those eyes.) . . . if I’m going to see this new plan through.

Crunch. (That hair.) We’ll be in Cincinnati before you know it.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I tip the bag of crumbs, aiming for my mouth but hitting my hair and face instead. Thank God for the high seat backs.





INDEPENDENCE, KENTUCKY


   (278 Miles to Go)





14


Grammatical Shenanigans

“HOW MANY SCOOPS do you want?”

I stare through the glass at the dozen or so tubs of ice cream. “How many can I have?”

“Umm. As many as you want.”

“Ha, right, okay. Well, here’s the thing”—I look at her name tag—“Glenda. How many scoops I want might kill me. Like, actually, kill me dead. Plus, I don’t really feel like breaking records in this category. So . . . what’s the current scoop record again?”