| Jesus Took the Bus to Chicago (Excerpt) |
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Albert Haley
I had my reasons. Maybe it was the spirit of adventure creeping into middle age. It could have been mostly that other thing: I had reached a point where I needed to hear real music. Loud, passionate tunes, something to shake away the cobwebs that covered me after living with daily doses of the ordinary. In short, I had to find me some blues. Up at the university, colleagues and students waved a caution flag when they heard my plan. “You’re taking the bus? Oh, man. You’d better be careful. There are psychos on that thing. How much cash are you carrying? What does Joyce say?” Truthfully, I didn’t understand the fuss. If I could tolerate the toe to crotch airport pat-down search, I expected to be able to bear up during a night and day’s journey with people who looked a bit different than me. Besides, I had decided to hedge bets with my traveling garb—torn at the knee jeans, a muscle-man sleeveless t-shirt, ball cap, and my gear carried in a plastic shopping bag. Gone was the college prof; I hadn’t looked so down market since I was an undergrad. Who would mess with me? So dropped off and kissed by Joyce and little Coleman, I waited at the Greyhound station, contemplating my 400-mile journey to the Trinidaddio Blues Festival in southern Colorado. It was just a click or two after midnight. In the darkness sounds intensified. Ssss marked the air brakes of the long silver hulk pulling up. The driver opened the door and thunked down the metal steps. On the pavement we lined up, some with suitcases, others with only themselves. A man coughed beside me and the jagged sound nearly shattered my ears. The driver shook his head and went off to do something. No one told us if this was the right bus or when we might pull out, which is how this mode of travel works. Arrival and departure times listed on your schedule prove to be suggestions. Inside, the atmosphere was hushed as people tried to sleep. I moved to the back. I’ve always tended to seek distance when placed in a new or uncomfortable situation. At church this habit has made me a back row Christian. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to be there; it means I’m counting on a buffer to help me through the experience with a minimum of jostling. The bus quivered and geared up. We began moving past the well spaced street lights, the only illumination in darkened Abilene. The motor was a rumble coming from the back, the driver a dark silhouette crouched over the wheel. I felt far above the hard pavement and all human concerns. The Greyhound could run over potholes and debris and I wouldn’t feel a thing except the lulling forward momentum. That was another advantage of riding the Dog over the passenger jet, wasn’t it? No turbulence. It was a comforting thought. Albert Haley is writer in residence and Associate Professor of English at Abilene Christian University in Abilene, Texas. His short fiction has appeared in The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and Rolling Stone. During a recent sabbatical he studied the history of blues music and found a "scholarly rationale" to add to his burgeoning blues CD collection. This included a new favorite, Tommy McClennan, the last of the hollerin’ Mississippi Delta singers and the writer of “Whiskey Head Woman.” |
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