The Greyhound Bus

A funny thing happened on the way to Phoenix, Arizona

After our rest stop in Blythe, California, the Greyhound bus was back on the road. But the bus didn’t take the right turn for the on-ramp of the 10 freeway east. The bus driver decided to drive straight ahead instead. As we drove on the overpass and I could see the 10 freeway below us, I realized why he had done that. The cars and trucks on the single lane highway were at a standstill. Not a single car budged and all the taillights were red. There is nothing more claustrophobic in the world than being stuck in traffic on a single-lane highway, and I imagined that the bus driver, having been in that uncomfortable position many times before, knew of a way to cut past all of the traffic. I believed that he knew this route very well, and I explained to myself that this was a back pocket resource that he used at his disposal, and that he had used it many times before. The bus headed straight, driving over the 10 freeway below us, stopped at a four-way stop, and then another.

I didn’t pay attention after that. I scrolled X. Then I was scrolling into some older content, so I refreshed the timeline, but it wouldn’t refresh. Impatient, I refreshed again, but nothing. I opened the Substack app, which also wouldn’t load. I realized that I only had one bar of reception, so I looked up and glanced out the window, out at the expanse of the Sonoran desert, as dust kicked up from under the wheels of the bus and clouded my view.

The bus made a right turn and thudded harshly, and soon everyone on the bus was being jostled by the crumbling dirt road. This was when the bus creatures came alive. People that I didn’t notice before in this four-hour journey so far were now coming into full view: a mid-twenties black man, a strange tourist from a land that I could not place who took pictures of this whole excursion, a white trash looking guy drinking a Monster energy drink, a fat Native American woman, and a fat black woman. This small community near the back of the bus suddenly became aware of one another as we all shot glances at each other, trying to avoid it but rendered helpless to the impulse, because all of our glances were silently asking, “what the fuck is going on?”

The bus began to slow down, and then came to a halt. There was a blockade in front of us. Past the blockade, you could see that the asphalt in the road was completely destroyed, as if a mine had set off in the road long before we came along, and created a ditch of broken rock and asphalt. The sign on the blockade said: “DEAD END. DO NOT TRESPASS.”

Instead, the bus driver turned right, into the open desert, and then continued around the ditch. The white trash guy with the Monster started clapping. “Woo! Let’s go, bus driver!”

And we pressed on, being tossed around on this dusty and harsh terrain. Soon we made it onto the other side of the broken path. The bus driver revved up and forced the bus back onto the path that he seemed insistent upon taking, and proceeded on his journey. This path took us up a few hills and around some harsh turns. We’ll get out of here soon, I kept telling myself as I attempted to soothe my mind of the racing anxiety that wanted to erupt out of my body. Only two more hours to Phoenix.

But soon the bus came to a halt once more, and there was another barricade across the road with a sign on it that said: “DEAD END.” From where we were, at the top of the hill, we could see that the road past the barricade disappeared. Any sudden turn would send us tumbling down the hill. As I looked out the window, I could see the 10 freeway far down below us, free of traffic, with cars and trucks making their merry way through Arizona.

“Oh Lord, we gonna die,” the fat black woman said.

Her announcement activated everyone on the bus, as people began whispering and shuffling about. The strange tourist stood up and walked to the front of the bus, took pictures, then walked to the back of the bus, and took more pictures.

“This is how kidnappings happen,” the fat Native American woman said. “My cousin told me. It always goes down like this. They take you to the desert and wait until dark.”

I unlocked my phone. I looked at the reception. No bars. I looked out the window, down the hill, past the 10 freeway, out at the mountains, out at the desert. I saw saguaro cacti standing tall and proud all over the hillside. How pretty. I had never seen saguaros before. I saw the sun in the sky. I saw it moving down the horizon.

The bus driver finally gave up his side quest, and, left with no choice, began to slowly drive back down the winding road in reverse.

I turned and looked out the back window. I found myself obsessing over how close we were to the edge of the road. My heart thundered in my chest, my breathing was rapid. My gaze was glued to the sides of the road, and I gripped my seat, bracing for impact well ahead of time in case anything happened. I turned my head and caught eye contact with the white trash guy. I could not tell if his gaze was saying “we’re going to be alright,” or “get yourself together.” He turned back around and sat forward, then opened the takeout box that he had in his lap, and started eating chicken wings.

The strange tourist walked to the back of the bus and started taking a video. As he walked past, my phone buzzed in my hand, which made me jump and drop my phone into the seat cushions. I could see my hands trembling as I pulled out the phone and held it, opening the text that got through at the slightest hint of reception. It was my friend Stephania.

“Did you get to Phoenix yet?” The text said.

I just closed my phone, worried that I would die in the middle of typing out my reply to the text, and that’s not how I wanted to go out. I immediately pictured the scenario and made myself sick. “No,” I would type, “I’m stuck on a bus heading in reverse on this unpaved road on a hill in the middle of the desert —“ and then suddenly slam against the other side of the bus, tumbling against shards of glass and random objects. I couldn’t stomach thinking about texting her back. If I died I wanted to be aware of it.

From the front of the bus came a Mexican man who walked towards the back. He rested his hands on my seat and on the one across from me, where the young black man was sitting. He leaned over the shoulder of the strange tourist, who was still recording this whole ordeal.

“¡Falta un poquito!” Yelled the Mexican man to the bus driver. “¡Gira a la derecha!” Only a little bit left, just turn to the right.

“Man, I need you to sit down,” said the young black man in a stern, bellowing voice.

“I helping him,” said the Mexican man.

“I need you to sit down, you’re making me nervous,” he said again.

“He cannot see, I want to help him,” pleaded the Mexican man.

“He a bus driver, he knows what he’s doing. Just go back to your seat and let him do his thing.”

“No it’s ok. I helping.”

“Man, you making me nervous,” he said, standing up. “Get back now, I’m not playing.”

”Ah, come on, man, he need help! Let me help him!” said the Mexican man, stepping towards him.

“I told you I ain’t fuckin’ playing!” yelled the black man, stepping towards the Mexican man and squaring off with him directly. “Sit the fuck back down!”

“Take it easy, man!” yelled the Mexican man.

“Sit yo ass down!”

“Hey, relax!”

A cacophony erupted from the creatures of the back of the bus.

“Oh Lord have mercy, we gonna die!”

“This is how my cousin said it goes down. It goes down like this.”

“You wanna go, man? Let’s go!”

“Hey, take it easy!”

The strange tourist muttered an incomprehensible language as he recorded video of the bus driver reversing down the long and winding road.

“Woohoo! Let’s go, bus driver, come on!”

I imagined how my friend Brendan, who was awaiting me at the Greyhound bus station in Phoenix, would find out about the news. I had no clue how it would get to him. I thought about all the potential new friends that I wouldn’t get the chance to meet. Oh, what happened to your friend Martina? Wasn’t she supposed to visit this weekend?

And Brendan would have to tell them: Well, unfortunately, Martina was killed in a tragic bus accident when the Greyhound bus driver drove into the middle of the Sonoran desert. They got stuck on a hill and he made a wrong turn, and the bus fell down the hill and everyone died.

Suddenly, the left wheel sunk and hit the ground with a loud thud. The fat black woman screamed, as did many others on the bus. My eyes fluttered. I gripped onto the armrest with all of my strength. I muttered to myself: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

Then the bus turned back on to the dirt road where we encountered the first barricade. We tumbled around on this unpaved road until we approached our first stop sign. And then another, and then turned left. We were back on the overpass, and then we turned left onto the 10 freeway on-ramp east, into bumper to bumper traffic.

I attempted to slow my breathing. I picked up my phone, but put it back down. I knew I had to give Brendan an update, but I had no idea where to begin. I looked over at the white trash man, who was throwing his hands up in the air.

“And they don’t let us bring beers on the goddam bus!”