The Bus Ride

The Bus Ride

    

I was taking a bus ride home; a long story that goes way back, culminating with an uneventful trip.  Anyway, I'd taken along, a small duffel bag, with just enough room to store just a few essentials; those interior garments, socks, underwear, another shirt and tie, and no toiletries; I'd make effort to borrow those along the way, as there is no use wasting a tube of tooth paste, or half bottle of mouth wash -- too much trouble, luggage and weight. 

     Beside me I'd set aside a stack of notes bound in black leather; gold lettered, binders.   There must have been something there I didn’t want to see.  I must confess that I barely made it through, High School.  I don't know how I ever lived through, Grade School; or, in retrospect, the fact, I'd even lived long enough to get there.  But, the gist of it is, if not for comic books and westerns, I'd have no reading materials.  And, next to me was something I might only trudge through, perhaps in search of a, Shaw-shank type redemption.

     Explaining that is what I must get to; later.  First I need to rehash the immediate transpired event which put me into the bus, to start with.  If you want an experience other than plane or train ride, then, bus is the only way. 

     My first recollected bus ride was with a man I felt close to and called, Da-Da.  Things were different back then; as bus terminals tidied daily, serving free coffee.  But, the prevailing smoky smells which conquered  spaces during my pre-adolescence, if you might refer to it as such, had disappeared; being traded for untidiness, and dank dimly lighted rooms where the smell of alcohol often prevailed along stops, near broken beer and wine bottles.  Some people travel in style, to the most pleasant places.

     I'd expected something better; perhaps a long nap.  But, the guy behind kept jabbering, and I can't recollect sleeping the entire distance.    He'd worked in the aerospace program until a drastic, memorable cut-back; whence, he'd moved to, Kentucky to promptly knock up his new sweet heart who hated him, and kept kicking his ankles till he visibly bled.  They were escaping, New York and the birthing bill; heading back to no man's land, and he was telling the whole story, loud enough for everybody to hear.

     Some people are like that.  They have nothing, and want everyone to know they have everything.  Big people with high ambitions, they are.  Trouble is, everything happened for worse. 

     They say it's easier to walk into, Hell, than to climb out of it.  I know.  I climbed, The Inferno -- a long, true story.  But, the guy I was talking about, never had a chance in, Hades, to get out of it; as he was living the nightmare and didn't even know it.

     Everybody gets their own headaches.  Heaven knows I've had mine.  But the poor guy in the bus?  He didn't know where he was or was going, having popped enough pills to wake the neighborhood for a thousand miles; or, until his wife willingly slipped something strong into his coffee during a lengthy stop-over, which he barely stumbled back from; falling into almost eternal rest, and to my thankfulness. 

     How a woman of such stature can hook up with nothing, is a question I toyed with over my lifetime.  There must be some cruelty of nature, similar to volcanic in human terms, where force is so strong, nothing can resist; just like gravity.  That poor child’ed woman fell into that category of her heritage.  She'd first be a mother with two children (the husband, one of them), or, the parent without support. 

     Isolated cases you may call them.  Children are mostly born into arms of happy waiting moms and dads who always sleep in separate beds; praying nightly for these miracle bundles, I used to think.  That's a far cry from an alley quickie which results in country shotgun marriages.  I remember talking with a, Cherokee, years ago while I ladled live fish into his minnow bucket, for an ice fishing venture.  He was telling me about how he met his wife, while I attended him.   "You make your bed and you lie in it," he'd said.  I thought everybody loved each other.

     My job started in early morning back then.  I didn't sleep much anyway.  Most nights, I'd fight sleep, or try using a dim light which couldn't be seen through the cracked door.  Mom would be very angry, and she might pull the light out if she caught me, and lock the basement door on me, where I'd be trapped until morning.  Real men would face their fears, she'd tell me. 

     Too many fears to face, there were.  For expressing it, I'd be a coward.  I was a coward.  Maybe, I still am cowardly; sometimes I think.  Cowards have nightmares; they wet beds and pee pants.  It was my biggest sin, and for all the beatings I took for that, I wish I'd could have stopped.  But, the basement was the best place for me, with its dirt walls and floors.  If I couldn't use the toilet upstairs, I could always relieve myself   on the floor down there; and with all the shadows, nobody would notice.  The less time spent with family, the better it was for my hide. 

     The couple on the bus, what would happen to them?  I had to wonder about the kid.  Would they beat him every night when he peed his pants; or, until he peed his pants?  Why do people have children, I've often wondered?

     Bed wetting and nightmares ceased many decades ago for me; thank, God.  But, the memories last forever, always to remind me just who I am, and what I face daily.   The scars I bear, well-hidden like the web in my hand, shielded by clothing or otherwise closely guarded, each tell their own stories; and I will. 

     A week prior to my uneventful bus ride, I got a call from my older brother.  "Mom died last night," he'd said.  "Do you need a lift home?" he asked. 

     I ordinarily have some reservations about flying with septuagenarian pilots; except my brother, who's flown his own airplanes, from age fourteen.    Nowadays, he prefers dozing while his co-pilots fly the plane.  Even dimwitted, unwilling recruits can be hard to find.  We'd been through this maneuver a few times before.  First, I preflight, check controls, fuel mixture and tires, then, he pulls the chocks and hops beside me already in pilot seat, choking and cranking the engine that goes, ren ren,ren,ren, pop, pop, pop, pop; then sputters, shakes, vibrates and starts loudly; so loud you cannot hear yourself or anybody else, and we put on our head gear to hear even less. 

     Cessna Centurion has been around since the sixties; maybe the fastest flying mini-van type transportation.  It cruises somewhere over or around 150 KPA.  Airspeed measured in knots, gets measured off the engine propeller shaft, or actual speed.  Actual airspeed varies with wind and temperatures; while the latter gets measured, calculating propeller speed and horsepower.  In other words, you could be flying faster or slower than indicated.  A good jet stream can get four or five-hundred miles in an hour, if it's moving the same direction you're going; or, might slow you down to eighty or ninety knots and it might not seem much quicker than driving; but, it is.  At sixty knots, you don't need to worry; you'll be on the ground or runway, because the plane stalls and glides at that speed.

     Centurion is basically an up graded 187 model of the fifties era; with that solid, un-retractable landing gear, converted to retract its wheels.   Earlier versions of Centurion were under powered for the added hydraulic gearing and weight which they took on for aerodynamic sleek speed advantage.  Eighteen to twenty-three, thousand feet they may fly; hopefully with oxygen supply.  But, my brother's cheap and rarely uses that.  You can live on low oxygen at ten of fifteen-thousand feet -- he generally snoozes while I fly -- and hopefully remain aware and awake --which can be a struggle.

     We took off from a location just west of the lake, Michigan, climbing almost vertical after a short, quick launch from the runway; about a thousand feet, as my brother won't waste rubber, or energy; but, it was I who pulled the yolk.

     My brother is a great guy and companion.  We seldom see each other; but, when together, it's always an adventure.  There's too much to talk about from the time we spend apart; but, we don't do that.  We're too different.  My brother is a lot older than me.  He had an early start in life and barely knew Mom; much less than even I.  The large, Irish style family ensued in his career, and he left a number of children along with his divorce.   But, I have to credit him, as he did take half his children along with him, to raise into good virtue. 

     The plane had had an engine upgrade, from its original, to Rolls Royce, making it a little faster, and carrying it further into the jet stream, about six miles high.  We leveled at about sixteen-thousand feet.  Benny needed to test his limits of endurance.  He passed out, while I struggled slightly with my own air fatigue.  I'd brought some bananas along for the ride.  They were in a paper bag where I'd left them on the bench seat at the cockpit rear end.  Flight's a funny thing.  Altitude takes a toll on fruits and vegetables.  You can wear a light leather jacket up there above clouds, barely feeling cold while sun shines directly on you.  Everything else freezes.  I went to retrieve one.  They'd froze solid.

     About an hour into flight, I glimpsed at the lake, Erie and my eyes drooped slightly along with my head; but, I held the rudder straight.  My Erie approach was a little high -- Canadian side, factually.  It was high enough to be invisible to most area radar. 

     Benny poked me.  While dozing, we'd dropped altitude and were now a very visible seven-thousand feet, and in Canada.  He grabbed his controls, but too late.  We'd crossed the line.  Now flying back into, US and safety.  We decided to land in Pennsylvania, to take on fuel.  Benny got coffee while I refueled, then unloaded my own. 

     Coffee was strong and bitter delicious.  No cream, no sugar, just black; an eye opener.  We took a tiny stroll around, still punch-drunk inebriated by lack of oxygen; then decided to move on.  

     Our second leg in our journey was much rougher than the first.  Wind had picked up.  Clouds rolled in.  We got lightning, rain and hail.  Again, Benny handed off the control to me.  "Keep climbing," he instructed.  I had all I could do keep steady.  Flying felt like riding a sledge hammer.  Air took on physical meaning, feeling more like a concrete stairway in my hands as I poured on horsepower and the best climbing I could do.  Vibration got so bad, it hurt my arms; another reason Benny appreciated my company.  We had little choice but proceed by instruments into dark clouds; "blam, blam, blam", it felt like on my forearms.

     About one-hundred miles from New York, there was squawking on the inbox.  That's what communication up there sounds like to me; garbled beyond reason.  We could make out just enough to know we were in trouble.  The gist of it -- we were climbing into their jet flight zone, and they poised to land, creating possible diagonal tragedy.  We had one plane within ten miles; too close for comfort at their speed.  But, for me, collision would be like a goose hitting the intake; sucked in and without feeling.  

     Benny wiggled the squawk box enough to make squelch worse; sounding similar to rubbing fingernails along mesh cement board.   "Unable to read you," he confided to them. 

     Numerous attempts later, they gave up on us, calling for, Hail Mary.  "Carry on as you must, you're on your own," they said, giving Benny his wanted result.  And, I kept climbing one step at a time., to fifteen thousand feet.  The propeller blade struggled against wind and toward altitude, while wings visibly shook in fear.  Blam, blam, blam, was my forearm feeling, step by step.  For all its exterior beauty, and the care made in making it safe; that airplane felt feeble, and I was the only thread that was holding it steady.

     Benny.  He's always got his own agenda.  He'd wanted to say, goodbye to Mom; but, spend quality time with the kids -- his kids -- as well.  They're used to that, I guess -- hadn't seen him  in years.  We got to Gloucester, again landing at a puddle jump airstrip, where I needed to pick up a, Piper Cherokee that had full fuel, specifically spotted for the mission.  While he visited his children I never see, I was to fly solo to the final destination, using mostly memory and visual sightings.

     As long as it is cloudless, everything is almost effortless.  I took off using some instruction and advice from my brother.  I watched the sea coast immediately rise before me, dipped the wing to say, goodbye, and headed due north. 

     it was a bright day, compared to yesterday's lesson/adventure.    Visibility was good.  I felt seasoned and confident about doing this job, for my brother and commander, as he'd trained me.  I was prepared by the best.  It'd taken Benny just two hours to learn to fly, he'd confided once.  First, they'd hotwired the plane, a decrepit cargo carrier, converted to luggage and teen passengers with alcohol, was both delightful and somewhat profitable.   You can get drunk on a bottle of beer, in the air.  Alcohol was cheap at any rate.  They didn't even realize the added height and lack of oxygen, till it was too late.  Most returned napping, fleeced and none the wiser.  He didn't give much more training than he said he'd had.  All I needed to do was point the plane into the wind and relax.

     Below me I could see some small, fluffy clouds floating beneath, while I repeated my lesson from the day before.  I watched farms fall from sight beneath me, while wooded areas appeared and mountains rose in front of me, while I kept poking the nose higher.  I needed to gain altitude before reaching the highest; Washington, where winds and weather are mostly unpredictable.  Funny, the resident weather men up there are forecasting for the valley, and they can only record what happens to them,                 on their own mountain.  Early climbing experience with Washington, gave me some knowledge of the area.  Beautiful, I thought rising through clouds, looking ahead and daydreaming, while the mountains rose before me, and I could feel the draft lifting me toward and over them.  Washington, the highest   NH peak, came up on me, giving me barely enough clearance.  I could see a train, smoke from its stacks, and strangers; figures without features, waving and going about business of touring, and sightseeing.  Some followed me with a giant monocular, mounted at mountaintop peak, as I could watch it moving in my direction, and sun reflecting in its giant glass.  Not many pilots fly there.  Two air strips within twenty miles of each other, each different, awaited me in the valley, along the riverfront.  But, I knew what I wanted, heading for first sighting.

     As I flew down over Adams and Madison, clouds suddenly socked me in , and other than prayer and the functioning control panel, I could be lost.  But, I kept a steady hand.  Spotting a cloud opening, just big enough to dive through and beneath the clouds, I could clearly see the river, and the town hall that appeared from nowhere, with the runway just behind that.

     I flew along the riverfront and circled toward the cupola capping the hall's top, raising enough speed to clear and ascend over treetops, where I knew a runway existed.  I set the flaps to feather downward, stalling and feeling for ground or grass.  The runway, mostly abandoned these days, has a small hanger that was unused, and I park beside it after white knuckle landing and taxiing down the dirt run toward a group of coyotes which readily moved while I approached their turf.  I felt relief. 

     Benny had said he have transportation waiting, and I'd expected a car of some sort to show up.  But, nothing came.  I walked about a mile on the dirt road leading off the runway and to the main street; a paved two lane-er  with traffic regulated at twenty, five miles per hour.

     I walked another half mile or so, to get to my cousin's home on the main street.  My cousin is a mild mannered family man who'd give the shirt off his back, providing there was an extra one for him to wear.  His wife, a thin lady with fallow cheeks is friendly enough, but generally quiet and keeps mostly to herself.  She's the perfect woman for the perfect husband, they say; always smiling, amiable and accepting, the way all women should be, he claims. 

     I checked my bag into the spare bedroom, showered, brushed teeth, and fell asleep shortly after dark.  The wake and funeral followed in a daily succession.  I honestly recognized, few people; most, having to approach me and remind me which classmate they were.  None of them looked as, I'd remembered them, years before;  before I left home.   Clarence, cousin had gained a little weight, was balding and missing a tooth or two, and otherwise looking fine.  He'd had a busy life until the mill shut down.  Nowadays, he read the bible a lot; nothing much to do.

      Conversation was mostly moot, or muted at the wake.  Among sisters and brothers, many I barely knew; looked somber, stared and said little.  Mom being the main attraction there, greeted us in state, from her silver coffin and with a frown that kept growing daily, as if she'd regretted being there.  She looked lonely.  I wondered what she was thinking.  I felt sorry for the long sorrowful existence she'd lead -- my mind's eye projecting memories and thoughts.

     The funeral went smoothly.  The funeral home where she was interred, was closing as was the church there, after the following, Sunday.  Another poverty stricken population was being abandoned by the state claimed as America’s wealthiest.