Last Bus to Wisdom (9 page)

•   •   •

B
RISKLY MY TEMPORARY
companion prodded me out of the spell, tugging at his suit cuffs as he asked, “Where's home that you're gonna parade around in those fancy moccasins?”

“Chicago.” The rest came to me from somewhere, natural as drawing breath. “My father's a policeman there.”

“You don't say,” he said again, with a couple of blinks as if he had something in his eye. “A harness bull, is he?”

“Huh?”

“You know, a cop on the beat?”

“Huh-uh. Detective. He solves murders.”

He studied me as if really sizing me up now. “That what you're going to be? A flatfoot?” He winked to signal we both knew the lingo, didn't we.

“Nope. A rodeo announcer. ‘Now coming out of chute four, Rags Rasmussen, saddle bronc champeen of the world, on a steed called Bombs Away,'” I gave him a rapid-fire sample. My parents never missed a Gros Ventre rodeo, and given all the hours I had sat through bareback and saddle bronc riding, the announcer's microphone spiel was virtually second nature to me.

“Whew.” My seatmate gave that little shake of his head again as if I were really something. “Whatever it is, you seem to know the ropes.”

If I knew any, it was that it was time to quit fooling around. He wasn't as good at making up things as I was, whatever that was about. Maybe he was embarrassed about being a headbolt heater salesman and not able to afford to dress better than he did. In any case, I didn't have time for bulloney from him, I needed to get going with the autograph book. In several seats not far behind us was a group of women all wearing hats with various floral designs, and from what I was able to overhear of their chatter they were a garden club who called themselves the Gardenias, and were out for fun, which seemed to consist of staying at a lakeside lodge with a flower garden. I didn't want to miss out on the bunch of them, so I produced the album to deal with my seatmate first and then scoot down the aisle to those hats bursting with blossoms.

He registered surprise at seeing the book open to an inviting page, and the Kwik-Klik seemed to throw him, too. “Tell you what, maybe later.” He wiggled his hand as if it needed warming up.

“Okay, then. Let me past, please.”

“Hey, don't rush off,” he protested, showing no sign of moving. “How often do I get to visit with a jackpot roper?” he said with a palsy-walsy smile.

“Yeah, but—” I explained what a golden chance the bus was for building up my collection and the only way to do it was, well, to get out there in the aisle and do it. I made ready to squeeze by him, but he still hadn't budged and he was as much of a blockade to try to climb over as the plump Indian.

I don't know what would have happened if the bus hadn't started slowing way down, for a reason that caught me by surprise. And one that made him change his mind in an instant about keeping me for company.

“What do you know, here's my stop.” He craned to look ahead through the windshield. “Lost track of the time.”

I dropped back in my seat, stretching my neck to see, too. We were pulling in to what looked like an old mercantile store with a gas pump out front and a faded sign under the Mobil flying red horse,
LAKE ITASCA GARAGE
—
FUEL, FOOD, AND FISH BAIT
. Half the building appeared to be the post office and a little grocery shop. The rest of the crossroads settlement was three white-painted churches, a bar calling itself a tavern, a small cafe, and a scattering of houses. It looked to me like a neatened-up Palookaville. And the driver was announcing this was only a drop stop, as soon as the passengers getting off had their luggage we'd be on our way.

Although we were nearest the door, my companion in conversation was super polite in waiting for the garden club to file off first, before winking me a good-bye along with “Say hi to Chi,” which it took me a moment to translate as Chicago, and then launching himself to the bus door as if he had to get busy.

In his wake, I gazed out the window at the sparse buildings, idly thinking Minnesotans must be a whole lot more foresighted than Montanans, who waited to rush out and buy headbolt heaters when the first real snow came, around Thanksgiving. I felt sorry for the man in the suit, disappointing company though he'd turned into there toward the end, for having to slog around all summer dealing with places like this rundown garage, which looked all but dead. And besides the size of suitcase that would take, he must have to lug round a—what was it called?—sample case, although I hadn't noticed any when my own suitcase was put back in the belly of the bus at Bemidji.

All at once the awful fact hit me. I grabbed my shirt pocket to make sure. When I changed out of the pearl-button shirt, I hadn't thought to unpin the folded ten-dollar bills in back of its pocket and secure them in the fresh shirt I was wearing. Except for loose change in my pants to use for meals, all my money now resided in my suitcase. Gram would have skinned me alive if she knew I'd let myself get separated from my stash.

Feeling like a complete moron, I charged out the door of the bus.

The Gardenias were in a clump while the driver sorted out their bags as they pointed in the compartment. I had to skirt around them to where I knew mine was, and was startled to see the broad back of a familiar suit. The man had ducked behind the driver and was grabbing for the only wicker piece of luggage.

“He's after my suitcase!” I shrieked. A cry that carried with it moccasins, arrowhead, money, clothing, my entire trip, everything I foolishly was about to lose.

At my hollering like that, the flowery hats scattered far and wide, but the driver bravely spun right around and clamped the sneak's wrist before he could bolt. Wresting my suitcase from the thief, he roughly backed him against the side of the bus.

“Yardbird on the wing, are you,” the driver sized him up with distaste while pinning him there below the racing silver greyhound. “Suit from the warden and all. How'd you like the accommodations in the pen?”

The penitentiary! Really? I goggled at the ex-convict, or maybe not-so-ex. Trying to display some shred of dignity, he maintained in a hurt voice, “Paid my debt to society. I'm a free man.”

“Swell,” the driver retorted, “so you go right back to swiping things like a kid's suitcase.”

“Just a misunderstanding, is all,” the captured culprit whined. “I thought the youngster was getting off here, and I was going to help him with his luggage.”

“Sure you were.” The driver turned his head toward me as the Gardenia group clucked in the background. “What do you say, champ, you want to press charges? Attempted robbery?”

How I wished for that half-pint sheriff in the big hat right then. This Lake Itasca place, not much more than a wide spot in the road, didn't look like it had any such. I could tell that the driver was antsy about the delay it would take to deal with the criminal, and come right down to it, I did not want my trip, complicated enough as it was, to be hung up that way, either.

“Naw, let him go,” I said, sick of it all. When the driver turned the thieving so-and-so loose—my swearing vocabulary wasn't up to the description he deserved—he swaggered off in the direction of the cafe, adjusting his suit, careful not to look back. The garden club ladies fussed over me, but I only looked at the bus driver with a long sigh. “Can I get something out of my suitcase again?”

“P
AINT IT RED
” was my father's backhand way of saying “Forget it,” and I did my best to follow that advice after the close call with the jailbird. But it was the sort of thing you can't blot out in your mind by saying so. Even after I hurriedly fixed the money matter by retrieving the stash from the shirt in the suitcase and pinning it under the pocket of the one I was wearing, there was no covering over the fact that I had nearly lost just about everything I owned—the precious autograph book excepted, thank goodness—by my bragging.
That'll teach you, Red Chief,
I mentally kicked myself, and for the rest of that morning on the ride down to Minneapolis I kept to my seat and watched the other passengers out of the corner of my eye lest I be invaded by some other wrongdoer.

Luckily that did not happen, the bus inhabitants minding their manners and leaving me alone—maybe I was painted red to them—and around noon my attention was taken up by the way the Greyhound little by little was navigating streets where the buildings grew taller and taller. We were now in the big half of the Twin Cities, according to the driver's good-natured announcement, and whatever the other place was like, everything about Minneapolis was more than sizable as I perched on the edge of my seat peering out at it all. The first metropolis—it puffed itself up to that by stealing half the word, didn't it—of my life.

Wide as my eyes were at the sights and scenes, it was hard to take it all in. Even the department store windows showing off the latest fashions seemed to dwarf those in, say, Great Falls. Likewise, the sidewalks were filled with throngs that would not have fit on the streets back in Montana. People, people everywhere, as traffic increasingly swarmed around us, the tops of cars turtling along below the bus windows barely faster than the walking multitudes.

As the Greyhound crept from stoplight to stoplight, I couldn't help gawking at so many passersby in suits and snappy hats and good dresses on an ordinary day, each face another world of mystery to me. Where were they going, what drew them out dressed to the gills like promenaders in an Easter parade? Where did they live, in the concrete buildings that seemed to go halfway to the sky or in pleasant homes hidden away somewhere? I wished this was Wisconsin so I could start to have answers to such things, all the while knowing I was many miles yet from any kind of enlightenment.

When we at last pulled in to the block-long driveway of the terminal, with numerous buses parked neatly side by side as if the silver dogs were lined up to start a race, the driver called out that routine I knew by heart now, lunch stop, conveniences, and so on. Minneapolis, however, was his changeover spot, so he got off ahead of the rest of us, but the relief driver was not there yet, and when I reached the bottom of the steps, the departing driver gave me a little salute and said with a serious smile, “Take care of yourself, son.”

Son.
My chest was out, I'm sure, as I charged through the double doors of the bus station. I knew the driver had only said it because we were inadvertent buddies after dealing with the larcenous man in the suit, but no one had called me that for the past two years.

In high spirits, I gazed around the teeming depot to scout matters out. The slick-looking blue building, when we'd pulled up to it, took up most of the block, with a rounded entrance on the corner where three fleet greyhounds the same as on the bus seemed to be in an everlasting chase after one another around the top of the building. But more impressive to me was an actual restaurant, just like you'd find on a street, tucked inside the majestic terminal, with a full menu posted. It hooked me at first sight; all due apology to Gram and her decree of a sandwich for lunch, my stomach was only interested in a real meal. Hadn't I been through a lot since Bemidji, coping with the danger of being robbed blind? That kind of narrow escape was bound to cause an appetite, right? Besides, I still was carrying loose change wanting to be spent.

Anyway, feeling highly swayve and debonure out on my own in grown-up territory, I found a table where I could see the big clock over the ticket counter—most of an hour yet until the bus was to leave, but I wasn't taking any chances—and was served Swiss steak by a pleasant waitress, although I didn't know what she was called because it wasn't written on her breast. To me in my grand mood, only one name in pink stitching deserved such prominence anyway.

•   •   •

L
ETICIA.
Moonily I daydreamed again, imagining that when I was done with that summer of living out of a wicker suitcase, Gram would meet me at the Greyhound station in Great Falls, healed up and feisty as ever, telling me, guess what, she had the old job as fry cook at the top spot in Gros Ventre. And guess what again, Letty was waitress on the same shift. Havre didn't work out, I was not surprised to hear. And sure enough, there Letty was from then on, red-lipsticked and sassy as she dealt out the meals Gram made appear in the kitchen's ready window, sneaking a cigarette whenever the counter wasn't busy, and boldly taking up where she left off with Harv the trucker. With his jailbreaking past and mean sheriff brother behind him, and regular as the days of the week in courting Letty—who wouldn't be, linked up with the world's best kisser?—he was my great companion as well. To top off this dreamlike turn of life, I took all my meals there at the cafe, with Gram dishing up chicken-fried steak whenever I wished and Letty giving me a wink and asking, “Getting enough to eat, sonny boy?”

•   •   •

“I
SAID,
are you getting enough to eat, sonny boy?”

I came to with a start, the Minneapolis waitress puncturing that vision as she started to clear away my empty plate. “Fine, yeah, I'm full as can be,” I mumbled my manners as real life set in again, the public-address system announcing departures and arrivals the same as ever.

Rousing myself with still plenty of time until I needed to be back at the bus, I left a dime tip as I had seen the person at the next table do, and roamed out into the busy waiting area, where I was naturally drawn to the news and candy stand.

The stand was piled on all sides with newspapers and magazines, a dozen times more than the Gros Ventre drugstore had to offer, and after buying a Mounds that I justified as dessert I circled around, investigating who was famous just then. On cover after cover was someone smiling big, although not President Truman, who seemed to be having trouble with a Wisconsin senator named McCarthy, according to
Time
and
Newsweek
. Of the others pictured, though, biggest of all in every way was the well-known face of the impressively hefty singer Kate Smith on the oversize cover of
Life
, which identified her as
AMERICA'S FAVORITE SONGSTRESS—BLESSED WITH A VOICE LIKE NO OTHER
. If a voice like no other meant singing “God Bless America” over and over until it stuck in the head of everyone in the country, she sure had that, all right. Giving her the admiring look of someone who, as Gram would have said, couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, I passed on to a whole section of the newsstand populated by movie stars—Elizabeth Taylor again, and Ava Gardner and Gary Cooper and Robert Taylor and a good many I had never heard of, but they were clearly famous. How I envied every gleaming one of them.

•   •   •

P
ERHAPS IT GOES
without saying that my fame fever was a product of imagination, but there was greatly more to it than that. Call me a dreamer red in the head back then, but becoming famous looked to me like a way out of a life haunted by county poorfarm and orphanage the other side of the mountains. A change of luck sort of like winning a real jackpot, in other words. Wouldn't we all take some of that, at eleven going on twelve or any other age? The missing detail, that I had no fixed notion of what I might best be famous at—the talent matter—other than a world-record autograph collection, maybe even constituted an advantage, giving me more chances, as I saw it.

I became more engrossed in the faces of fame than I knew. When I remembered to check the clock, I looked twice, the second time in shock. The hour was up, the bus would be leaving in less than a minute.

I ran as hard as a frantic human being can with a depot full of travelers in the way as I raced for the departure gate.

But too late. By the time I scrambled through the maze of passengers lined up out in the loading bays for other buses, I could see mine rumbling onto the street and pulling away.

I stopped dead, which right then I might as well have been. There I was, in a strange city, with only the clothes on my back, while my every other possession—including the slip of paper with Aunt Kitty and Uncle Dutch's address and phone number tucked into the autograph book in my coat pocket left on my seat—sped away in a cloud of exhaust. Helpless is pretty close to hopeless, and right then I felt both. For the second time that rugged day, eleven years old seemed much too young to be facing the world all by myself.

Too overcome even to cuss, I was only dimly aware of the thickset man, who'd been dropping bundles of newspapers off at the stand while I still was deep in the magazines, now wheeling an empty hand truck out to his van, whistling carelessly as he came. “'Scuse, please, comin' through,” he made to get past me on the walkway, but halted when he had a look at my face. “Whasamatter? You sick? Gonna throw up, better get over to the gutter.”

“I missed my bus,” I babbled, “it left without me and my suitcase is on it and my jacket and autograph book and moccasins and—”

“Them puppy bus dickheads,” he said with disgust. “At's about like them. Which way you goin'?”

“W-W-Wisconsin.”

He waved me toward the green van with
TWIN CITIES NEWS AGENCY
on its side as he trundled the hand truck over and heaved it in with a clatter. “Hop in, kiddo.”

“Are you gonna take me there? To Wisconsin?”

“Naw, can't quite do that.” He gestured so urgently I jumped in the open-sided van. “C'mon, we'll catch 'em in Saint Paul.”

“Is it very far?”

He gave me a look as if I was mentally lacking. “They don't call these the Twin Cities for nothin'.” Crouched over the steering wheel and shifting gears fast and furious, he goosed the van out into the street traffic, blaring the horn at anything in our way. I hung on to one of the newspaper bin dividers behind him as we went clipping past the big buildings and fancy stores at daredevil speed.

“Don't that beat all,” my Samaritan kept up a one-sided conversation as he willy-nilly changed lanes and ran stoplights on the blink between green and red. “Pullin' out without even lookin' around for you any. What kind of bus drivin' is that?” He shook his head at the state of Greyhound affairs. “Dickheads,” he repeated.

I held my breath as we swerved around a yellow taxicab and zoomed through an intersection with a few warning honks of the horn. When I could speak, I felt compelled to stick up for the earlier bus driver who had saved my skin at Lake Itasca. “They aren't all like that, honest.”

“Hah. You don't know the half of it.”

Before I could ask about the half I was missing, I was distracted by the high bridge we were atop without warning, over a river that seemed to go on and on. Which is basically what the Mississippi does. As the van rumbled across the seemingly endless bridge and the chasm below, I kept my death grip on the divider and leaned down to speak into my escort's ear. “So how come you think they're all”—I tried out the new word—“dickheads?”

“They ain't union.” He pointed to an encased certificate up by the visor. By squinting, I at least could read the large type,
INTERNATIONAL BROTHERHOOD OF TEAMSTERS
.

At last, something I knew about! “Horses!” I burst out as a hayfield teamster, if only anyone would let me. “You drive those, too?”

He cast me a grin over his shoulder. “In the old days, every Teamster did, you bet your pucker string they did.”

“Me, too! I mean, I know how to harness up and drive a team and everything. See, I wouldn't be here at all if Sparrowhead back at the ranch in Montana had let me drive the stacker team like I know I can and—”

“Life's tough, ain't it?” He held up a hand as if letting the air rush through his fingers. “Feel better? We're in Saint Paul.”

“Really?” It looked the same as Minneapolis to me, the Identical Twin Cities evidently. The van kept up its rapid clip, the rush of wind through the open side making my eyes water. I had to hope my fellow teamster could see all right, as we were cutting in and out of lanes of traffic by the barest of space between us and other vehicles. “Smooth move!” I let out like one race driver complimenting another when he skimmed us around a double-parked delivery truck by inches and blazed on through a changing traffic light. “Nothin' to it,” he claimed, flooring the gas pedal in a race to beat the next light. “You just gotta keep on the go.

“Lemme think now,” I heard him calculate as we wove our way through downtown traffic, the street checkered with shadows thrown by the high buildings. “When we reach the station, you be ready to jump off and tell that doggy driver you belong on the bus, 'kay?”

“S-s-sure,” I said uncertainly. I didn't have time to worry about how I would do at that, because ahead in blinking neon was a towering sign that read from top to bottom,
GREYHOUND
.

“Goddamn-it-to-hell-anyway,” the teamster addressed the unwavering red light that held us up at the cross street. On the other side, so near and yet so far, the St. Paul terminal, which was fancied up with plaster-like decorations of fruit and flowers, appeared to be older and smaller than the Minneapolis one and must not have dealt in as many passengers, because fewer buses with the racing dog on the side were backed into the loading area in the open-arched driveway. I had eyes only for one, with
MILWAUKEE
in the roller sign above the windshield, and I spotted it immediately, its door cruelly folding closed as if shutting me out.