The Marvelous Misadventures of ...

I took a deep breath as I searched my surroundings for even the smallest sense potential comfort to get through the next eight hours. From the blue, chequered carpet material covering floor to ceiling, I could tell that every luxury had been spared. Just the simple basics - it was a Greyhound bus after all.

I was seated towards the back. Not the very back, but middle-ish back. This way there was enough room to take in everyone and everything. I was travelling with my folks from Charleston, South Carolina up to Richmond, Virginia in style. 

Mom fidgeted beside me, oblivious as always. "Hawaaa, I don't have a headphone jack!"
"Yes, you do, mom," I sighed, as I demonstratively pulled away her coat, purse, snack bag and miscellaneous items to reveal the jack on her side of our shared armrest. She settled in to watch the choice B-movie on the small, rounded screens above us. Dad was across the aisle, pointing out “fun facts” about the landscape we were rolling through.

I spent the next few hours listening to the sweet sounds of my iPod when we came to an unexpected stop outside of an old wooden gas station that had been white-washed at least 20 years ago. As the bus painfully crawled to a halt mom jumped at the chance to use the bathroom and dad took the opportunity to stretch his legs outside. Being accustomed to laziness and immobility on trans-continental flights, I remained seated.

There seemed to be a lot of commotion around the side of the bus. I quickly pressed my face up against the hand-print-stained window and saw a line-up of men and women dressed in white t-shirts and faded green khakis with too many pockets. They were laughing and smiling with bright eyes as they shoved bags underneath the bus. As far as I was concerned more people equaled a lack of fresh air and the potential for some interesting and unpleasant smells. 

I stared intently as they boarded. Where would they sit? Would they disperse in small clusters or take over an entire section? They inched closer and closer in unison, like a worm that’s legs must follow its head. They edged past and situated themselves in the remaining rows behind me.

The sound of the congested bus engine starting up caused everyone to scramble back into their seats.
"Where did all these people come from?" mom gestured. Dad, our go-to-guy, had gotten the scoop from his fellow leg-stretchers. The addition to our troop was a gang of "miscreants on their way home,” he casually explained.

For those of you who aren't neuroscientists, like dad, I will give you the thesaurus.com definition of miscreant: Delinquent, evildoer, con, fugitive ... criminal.

Ummm what? Sitting right behind me?

I imagined each of them hiding the shackles around their feet with those faded green khakis they had probably stolen from the Gap. And now they were using loud banter to hide the clanging of the rusty metal.

You have to understand - this was Greyhound, pre-beheadings. There weren’t any safety protocols in place that I knew of. Hundreds of questions kept running through my mind:
Who were these criminals?
Where had they come from?
What were they capable of?
Have they been rehabilitated?

As a kid, I had always thought my dad was the strongest person in the world and would always protect me from robbers and strange noises. Unfortunately, the biological phenomenon of puberty, particularly height, managed to erase those illusions some years ago. He may have been "faster than a speeding bullet”, but it just wasn't the same when you were a head taller than Superman.

I kept trying to devise superhero ways that I would protect myself in the likely event that irrational and uncontrollable rage should happen to overcome them. I would punch out the window and attack them with the pointiest shard of glass. Yeah, that would work.

I imagined them working on a 60s chain gang with axes and miners' picks. You could develop serious arm strength doing that every day for five to 10 years! God knows how long they had been preparing for this very day - to regain their freedom and resume their reign of axe-picking terror.

I was jerked back from my day-mare by mom’s startled exclamation. She had carefully gotten a stain on her favourite shirt and was searching frantically for a napkin. Unfortunately for her, dad and I weren’t carrying any. Just when I started thinking that mom’s irritation would be enough to completely ruin the drive I heard a low, “Excuse me,” from behind.

I gently turned around to face a member of the chain gang. He began to rise and I could feel his shadow cover more of my face, the taller he stood. He was reaching for something that was out of my plain of vision.

This was it. And there were so many things I would never get to do. Goodbye cruel world.

As his lips slowly parted, I anxiously awaited the searing venom of the last words I would ever hear.
“Napkin, mam?” he offered
“Why, thank you” she replied.