Do the Dog

location: Vancouver, BC
time: feb 24, 2007 9:51am
~~ lba ~~ -prev

The greyhound. That vehicle of madness. Why do we torture ourselves. The bus can be compared to a cattle truck. It stinks. People sit shoulder to shoulder. Watching the world fly past. Not entirely sure of where they are going. Are we going to stop in that small town? I wish I was eating that grassy feild. When are they going to let me out to walk around?

Its that “stale taste of recycled air.” Should you find the coach to hot or to cold just let me know and i will adjust the temperature accordingly. The tempertature is always the same. Just right. Unless you lean on the window.

Scenery billows past in a blurr of a freeway film. Rural scapes. Wild woods. Concrete jungly. Like a slob on the couch watching television, the mind melts. Attention is paid very little. The wage of riding is temporary atrophy. All senses become numb from lack of stimulation. Sleep is next to impossible unless one is well versed in the arts of contortion. A state of limbo. An empty province for the mind. A sick shade of Zen.

I am not sure what Sadist designed the greyhound bus. The seats are almost comfortable. On the verge. The arm rest sees alot of use as it is one of the only things available to adjust. up or down? The 3 degrees of recline are almost adquate. But everyone wishes for just one more inch. The foot rest bites into the shins when up and is high when down. Everything seems to be fashioned towards slight discomfort. In any posistion other than sitting properly, one is poked by some chunk of plastic or metal. “Hey stay in line.”

Will someone please shut that baby up! Its driving me insane! Tear out its vocal chords! Infanticide is contemplated until the child miraculously becomes happy. he's giggling now. Running up and down the aisle. With his toy truck. He stops next to me with a loud grin. Hands me his truck and runs back to mom for more toys. We laugh and act out outrageous accidents. How could anyone hold a malicious thought? Till he wails once more. The brooding begins again.

The old man with the kleenex wadded in his ears is in a panic. We are in the bus terminal. Stopped for a 15. The door to the washroom is locked. A key must be proccured at the front counter. He beckons for me to go in search of it. He exclaims his order with an urgent “HURRY!” An act of god occurs. There is a faint buzz and a click. I open the door for him and he rushes past to relieve the tension.

There is a faint quiet to the bus at times. Hum and whiny diesel. The back fully extended and supported. Eyes closed. No one talking. Flying. sailing. hurtling. Towards something. Most Definately not walking. A dull excitement. constant instance.

A kid is talking on his cell phone. Most likely to his girlfriend. They talk for an hour, and spend another hour trying to end the conversation. I listen to half of the conversation and try to figure out what the other half is saying. The usual. Gossip. I love yous. I miss yous. What are you wearing? Can't wait to see you.

Hurtling down the highway. Headed for the end of the road that doesn't exist. At some point the cattle truck spits you out. You get off the bus and take in a deep breath of diesel. The terminal. An inadequate name really. It implys the end, but really isn't. It is never the end. I will return to the terminal in a few weeks to get on bus and cruise out east to the land of spruce and pine. Computer in tow. For a little Masochist Vacation.

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