The Ride of a Lifetime

Linda Carter

I came close to being “felt up” on a Greyhound bus as I traveled home for Christmas break in 1978. Before you think I would treat this topic lightly, please understand the circumstances.

I was a sophomore in college. You could tell how sophisticated I was because I made a big show of reading Look Homeward Angel by Thomas Wolfe and smoking Old Gold Lights.

The bus trip was an arduous trek across the great state of South Dakota, featuring miles upon miles of emptiness, broken only by huge billboards touting free water at the infamous Wall Drug.

As darkness fell, the only signs of life came from yard lights marking the occasional farmhouse in a black, black night.

We stopped often at tiny town cafes to pick up more people. And more people. It soon became apparent to those of us lucky enough to have a seat that the bus was oversold, way oversold.

Weary passengers stood in the aisle, clutching aluminum poles and nodding off every now and then. Once in awhile one of them would jerk awake and glance around sheepishly to see if anyone noticed.

The smell, oh my God the smell.  People sweated profusely in heavy winter coats they had nowhere to hang. Crying babies pooped their diapers and threw up on their harried parents.

This had to be illegal, right? But no one wanted to be the one left behind, unable to catch a ride to that magical Christmas destination.

Just in front of me, an elderly woman massaged Vicks Vap O Rub onto her neck and chest, filling the air with a minty aroma. Next to her a man in a threadbare coat gave off a stench of Christian Brothers Brandy and Brylcreem.

I was fighting the urge to puke when I felt a tug at my sleeve. I looked up into the doe eyes of a teenage boy, about 14, with sandy brown hair. Man his feet hurt, he told me, could he just rest on the edge of my seat for awhile?

I graciously agreed, proud of the magnanimous gesture I was making. He swaggered a bit as he sat down, balancing himself on the armrest of my seat.

We talked briefly and he told me he was on his way to visit his Grandmother for the holidays. As the lights from our last stop vanished into the distance, the blackness of the night prairie descended once again on the crowded bus.

At first I thought I was dreaming, but then I realized a hand truly was moving slowly up my thigh, searching for gold at the end of the rainbow.

When I realized what and who it was I quickly removed his hand, hissing NO as quietly and forcefully as I could. He shrugged, then began a daring attempt to climb Mt. Fiddle and Faddle. I barely pulled my coat closed in time to save the girls.

With another angry hiss, I removed his hand and thus, the battle began. As soon as I would get one hand cornered, another appeared.

I swear to God he was like an octopus on steroids. I fought him off for half an hour, tempted to lodge a complaint, but afraid of the embarrassment this action would cause. If this happened today, I would simply squeeze a nut sack until screaming commenced or threaten the driver with a heavy duty lawsuit.

This night was just another cog in my wheel of life, but it taught me something incredibly profound.

I learned true maturity does not come in showing people what you read or smoke. It comes in how you handle yourself, face the unexpected and lay down limits. This boy wanted nothing more than to regale his pals with tales of lust on a Greyhound Bus.

He never got to finish his journey that night, but I did.

Story by Linda Carter 2014