Chapter 8: Stop over at Harrisburg
The bus stank of heated plastic seat covers and the
accumulation of passengers that had come up from Washington, DC and points
farther south.
The seat was uncomfortable and stuck in that halfway
position between sitting up and lying down.
I had a great view of the bald head of the man in the seat
in front of me.
I lit a cigarette and sucked the menthol smoke deep into my
lungs.
I was exhausted but could not sleep and sat with my head
against the cool glass watching the side of the highway as we passed. I ached
for a pillow like the ones Greyhound used to issue when my mother and I took
the bus to Ohio when I was very small. A heat vent blew hot air onto my face
regardless of which way I turned.
Outside, mountains rose and fell as the miles passed,
ripples in the landscape like worn down teeth. We passed through long dark
tunnels that plunged through mountains the road could not avoid.
Signs appeared for Harrisburg along with more local
destinations such as Lancaster or Middletown.
The wheels hummed under us as I began the slow countdown of
mileage markers, ten, nine, eight miles before we reached the state’s capitol.
The other passengers seemed relatively content. An old man
two seats up from mine on the other side coughed deeply, then lit a cigarette,
his grim face glowing under the match light in the glass.
Five miles to Harrisburg, another sign said, I leaned back
with a sigh,
We pulled into Harrisburg about 3 p.m.
The hostess announced our arrival via microphone from the
front of the bus, informing of some of the details as we passed them, such as
Capitol Park on the left, and the world-famous state building with its huge
dome hovering over the city like a UFO.
“It’s modeled after St. Peter’s in Rome,” she said.
But for the most part, Harrisburg was a dark city, but not
large, and old, full of those 18th Century buildings that would later become
subject to historic preservation yet would linger on the brink of ruin for
years. As the state capitol its domes
and spires that gave it an aging grandeur, and perhaps mocking Philadelphia --
which had once served in that distinction.
When the bus pulled into the station, the passengers
disembarked. The station served both buses and trains.
“We’ll be here for about 30 minutes,” the hostess said,
cautioning us not to wander too far.
I grabbed for my briefcase – in which I had deposited the
bundles of money.
“You don’t have to take your luggage,” the hostess said as I
made my way to the front and down the steps.
“I’m going to do some work while I’m eating,” I said, then
walked across to the long garage like building and settled on a bench from
which I could watch the bus.
The bus station that served its travelers was just a couple
of garage doors and a window display listing distances and prices, and the red
Continental Trailways sign hanging from the awning in the front. It might have
been horse stables once converted for a more modern use.
Inside the station, a radio played country and western
music.
Nearby, a string of
were straight out of what I might have expected further west, with a wooden
planked walkway in front, as if horses still left their stinking deposit in the
street and the rain still made mud of every gutter. A coffee shop, a hair salon,
and a gift store made up the small complex and apparently thrived off those of
us who paused here on buses headed west, with numerous Knick knacks, and post
cards depicting the state capital building, or scrawled with some other
historical image of local importance.
For the first time, I
got a good look at my fellow passengers, beyond the superficial glimpses I got
when they boarded in Philadelphia. I had briefly spoken with a couple whose
last name was Warton during the ride out from Philadelphia. The rest remained
strangers to me.
Nearby, apparently waiting to reboard the bus, a couple of
lovers sat cooing like pigeons at each other. Mrs. Warton thought they were
cute and informed me that they had just been married, and like the Warton's,
were going all the way to California.
"They want to
see Disneyland," Mrs. Warton had said.
Most of the remaining passengers made their way towards the
coffee shop to get out of the cold. The lovers followed, trailing behind as if
reluctant to enter the crowded space when they seemed to have the rest of the
universe all to themselves.
Then, I found myself
pleasantly alone in a strange place, noticing the remarkable quiet here, a few
birds, an occasion horn.
A moment later, the
coffee shop door opened and out came the bus driver, clutching a paper coffee
cup in his hands, an unlighted cigarette dangling from his lips.
I lit the cigarette
for him, and he sucked in the smoke with the cool air.
“Cold night,” he said. “Winter’s on its way finally. For a
while it stayed so warm, I thought we might miss it.”
I laughed. “I was kind of hoping…”
“Not me. I like winter. You see I’m a skier. Kind of hard to
ski without snow. Where are you headed?”
“Denver,” I said cautiously.
“Lots of snow there. And I bet you don’t ski.”
“I’m always afraid I’ll break a leg,” I said.
“Everybody says that” the driver laughed, taking another sip
of his coffee. “But you’ll never know the thrill you get rushing down a
mountain side at 50 or 60 miles an hour, sometimes faster, the wind and snow
biting your face, the skis swishing under your feet.”
“I parachuted once,” I said, neglecting to tell him it was
in the army, and I had been scared shitless.
“That’s something I never tried,” he said. “It must have
felt great. With things like that you got to keep doing them, keep the thrill
up.”
“But you drive buses for a living,” I said.
“Hardly a thrill,” he said. “I do the same route over and
over, from Philly to Pittsburgh and back. I know every hill by heart. What
about you? Why Denver?”
“I got a girl there,” I said.
“Lucky for you. Just don’t get married,” he said and drained
his cup of coffee. He gave me a wink at
my puzzled look, then made his way back to the bus.”
A greyness washed over me. I suddenly felt a chill. I saw the others making their way out of the
coffee shop again, easing across the gravel lot in ones and twos. The lovers came. The Wartons. The old man
with a lip. I followed slowly up each step and then down the aisle to our
seats. Mrs. Warton smiled at me as she slipped into her seat next to her grumpy
husband, Bill.
I stared out the
window and felt the grey world growing greyer even as I looked at it.
Then the driver restarted the bus, and the bus moved again,
sending its now all-too-familiar rumble through me. We crossed the multiple
bridges over the mightily Susquehanna River. Smokestacks from the town's
industry appeared darkly against the brown backdrop of buildings as the bus
rolled up the ramp onto Route 30, with signs for Gettysburg which we would
never reach, turning off long before we reached that historic place.
The next stop was
Pittsburgh.
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