Leave the Driving to Us

Mart

University of Michigan
Ann Arbor, Michigan
Friday the 13th, 6:30 a.m.

 

“Mart, I can’t go.”

Mart was so psyched up for the road trip, and especially for the visit home to see his family and the Bob-Whites, that it took him a minute to comprehend what she was saying. After all, it wasn’t like she was backing out … right? Not minutes before they were planning to leave. In her car.

Right?

He smiled curiously at his girlfriend of six months, waiting for the punch line. When none was forthcoming, he ventured a question. “What do you mean you can’t go? Is the car broken? Or are you having, um … bathroom issues?”

Well, at least her expression changed. Although he had been hoping for laughter—Ha! Ha! Good one, Mart!—not the scowl that darkened her face.

“I’m sorry, Muffin,” he apologized quickly. “I just don’t know what you mean.”

“I can’t go with you to Sleepytown.”

“Sleepyside … why?”

She pressed her lips together and didn’t answer.

“But, Cupcake, we’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks!”

“You’ve been looking forward to it. I’ll have to take time off work and miss my cousin’s wedding!”

“Cousin? She’s like your third cousin twice removed!”

“We were very close growing up,” she insisted.

“She moved to Seattle when you were six!”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stuck her chin out belligerently and reiterated, “I can’t go.”

Mart closed the gap between them and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re just nervous, Dumpling. But you shouldn’t be. This trip is going to be awesome! You’ll get along swimmingly with my family and friends and they’re going to love you.”

She shrugged him off and moved away, closer to the front door of his small apartment where his suitcase, laptop case, and a cooler full of snacks and soft drinks sat, ready to be packed into her car. He glanced at his watch. The trip was about a 10-hour drive straight through, according to Google maps. He had planned for 11-12 hours, which would get them to Crabapple Farm just in time for dinner. His stomach growled involuntarily in anticipation.

“Mart?”

“Yes, Cookie?”

“I’m sorry. I know your quail friends are important to you—”

“Bob-Whites,” Mart interrupted gently.

She sighed before continuing, “—and I know you haven’t been able to all get together for a long time, and I know it’s easier for you all to get together in Sleepyville—”

“Sleepyside.”

Now she just looked annoyed. “—than here in Ann Arbor. But I just can’t leave work right now.”

Mart frowned in confusion. His girlfriend was currently waitressing at The Tower Inn, a restaurant in nearby Ypsilanti that catered mostly to students at the University of Michigan and Eastern Michigan University. Business was slow in the summer, so much so that the owner usually closed the restaurant completely for two weeks while he and his wife went to visit her family in Argentina. That had been last month, when Mart had allowed himself to be dragged to the Upper Peninsula to visit his girlfriend’s family and friends. He hadn’t been unwilling. After all, they had enjoyed a chicken dinner in Frankenmuth with her friends Dana and Pat on the way. And they had stopped for Mackinac Island fudge, too. So, why was she so reluctant to return the gesture now?

“It’s not just work,” she continued. “It’s … well … I’m sorry, Mart, but this just isn’t going to work.”

“What’s not going to work, my little strudel?” he asked, still distracted by memories of the scrumptious German fare in Frankenmuth. “I know it’s a long drive but we both agreed it would be more economical than flying, and then we’d have the car while we were in New York, maybe make a couple of stops on the way home to sightsee. Remember? Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Cedar Point?”

“It’s not the drive that isn’t working. It’s us!”

Mart took a step backward as if he had been struck. Not working? They’d been dating for over six months. He met her parents and little sister at Easter. He was thinking of asking her to move in with him, provided this weekend went well. What did she mean “not working”?

“I’m sorry, Mart, but I think we should … see other people.”

See other people? Like who? His eyes narrowed. That swarthy Greek nephew of her boss’s? Kip? What self-respecting Greek man was named Kip, for crying out loud? Or maybe it was her next door neighbor, the schmuck who dared to denigrate Krazy Jim’s Blimpy Burgers. How could you possibly live in Ann Arbor and not have deep respect for Krazy Jim’s? That would be like … well, like being a Buckeye fan in Ann Arbor!

“Maybe we should take a step back and think this over, Jellybean,” Mart soothed. “Working out our problems is a much better solution than just breaking up. And, hey, we’ve got all day to work things out, plenty of time to talk while we drive to Sleepyside.”

“Mart, I can drive you to the airport, but that’s it.”

“Airport? Do you have any idea what last minute airfare will cost?”

“Well, do you expect me to loan you my car for the whole weekend? It’s over a thousand miles round trip! It’s not my fault you don’t own a car!”

“Okay, okay,” Mart held up his hands, palms out, to pacify her. Her car was her baby. He had always suspected she loved the car more than she loved him. Now he knew it. “If you were so worried about taking your car on such a long trip, why didn’t you say you wanted to rent a car? I’m sure the rental places don’t open until at least eight o’ clock and that means we’ll probably miss dinner at the farm tonight, but—”

“We won’t be missing dinner. I’m not going. It’s over, Mart.”

“Well, I can’t drive all that way by myself!”

“That’s why I’m willing to take you to the airport.”

Mart gave it one last effort, “Gumdrop, please—”

“And if you want to know why I’m breaking up with you, there’s reason number one. Stop calling me all those silly food nicknames!”

“But, Sugar…”

With a growl, she turned away and flung open the door. “Get your bags in the car in thirty seconds or I’ll change my mind and let you find your own way to the airport!”

“How much?” Mart squawked.

The ticket agent just stared back at him. “If you had booked several weeks ago, you would have gotten a much better price.”

Mart sighed and handed over his credit card. The ticket agent didn’t take it, continuing to study her computer monitor.

“However, there are no available seats on that flight.”

“Then why did you bother telling me how much it was going to cost? Never mind. What else do you have?”

“Nothing today, I’m afraid.”

“What? Detroit to New York? This is the only flight you have?”

“Of course not, sir. But everything is booked solid. If you had purchased your tickets—”

“Yeah, yeah, several weeks ago,” Mart muttered. “Several weeks ago, I didn’t need an airplane ticket. I had a girlfriend! With a car! What do I do now?”

“I could put you on the standby list.”

“Fine.” His girlfriend—his ex-girlfriend—hadn’t even bothered to park her car. She had dropped him off at the terminal and left without even a kiss goodbye. He was stuck here. He might as well try for standby.

He maxed out his already strained credit card paying the last minute fare—for a ticket he might not even get to use—checked in his bag, hefted his laptop case to his shoulder, and made his way through security. His stomach was growling; he’d had to leave the cooler of snacks behind. Who knows how long he might be waiting? He could at least get some breakfast.

He found his concourse and as he headed toward the gate he spotted a Burger King. Not exactly his idea of haute cuisine, or even a Blimpy Burger, but he was starving. He knew he needed to be at his gate early to have the best opportunity to get on the plane but it was fast food, right?

The line to order did indeed move quickly and Mart didn’t even flinch when he handed over his money for the overpriced fare.

“Number 15!” the pock-faced boy behind the counter called out.

Mart glanced at his receipt and winced—22. His stomach growled so loudly that a man in a business suit and tie standing next to him took notice. He raised an eyebrow at Mart.

“What? I’m hungry,” Mart whined.

The man snorted. “Good luck with that. You’re not running to catch a plane, are you?”

“Standby.”

The man shook his head and held out his receipt so that Mart could see the number 10 on it.

“But they just called 15,” Mart said.

“They’ve gotten my order wrong twice so far. This is the worst place to eat in the whole airport.”

“But there’s a long line.”

“It’s also the cheapest place in the whole airport. And trust me, you get what you pay for. I get a stomach ache every time I eat here.”

“Number 11!” the cashier shouted.

Mart groaned. Getting to Sleepyside, where he could get real food, was more important than a microwaved breakfast burrito. He thrust the receipt at the man next to him. “If they call mine before yours, have breakfast on me.”

Stomach rumbling in protest, Mart made his way to his gate without further delay. When he got there, he went straight to the counter. Flashing his most charming smile, he asked the pretty desk clerk, “So, how does the standby list look?”

“Not good,” she said with no return flirtation. “We’re expecting a full flight and you’re number nine on the standby list.” She glanced down and asked, “Where’s your bag?”

“I checked it.”

The jock standing next to him snickered. “Dude, never check your bags if you’re flying standby.” He winked at the desk clerk whose cheeks pinked as she smiled.

Mart sighed and cast his eyes heavenward. “Why not?” he asked the mass of muscles.

“They’re getting on this plane whether you do or not. Sayonara, luggage!”

Mart groaned as he went to find a seat in the crowded waiting area. He decided he would wait and see if he got on this flight or not before he called home to alert everybody to his change in travel plans. He didn’t want to ask Moms or Dad to drive to JFK just to get his suitcase, but with a little luck he wouldn’t be far behind it.

“I’m sorry you weren’t able to get a flight,” the ticket agent said. Her tone was conciliatory and Mart relaxed just a little.

“Me, too,” he replied with a tired grin.

He had been at the airport for almost five hours waiting for a flight. He had harbored little hope of getting on the first flight but had raced to another gate so he could be first on the standby list for the next flight. All to no avail. A handful of Sanders individually wrapped chocolates that he had bought for eighty-five cents each was all that was staving off his hunger. And the dark chocolate sea salt caramels were so divine that he had foolishly spent some of his meager cash allowance to buy an entire box … to share with the Bob-Whites, he assured himself now as he waited for the ticket agent to finish with his paperwork.

“You’ll get a full refund, of course. You should see the return on your credit card in seven to ten days.”

Mart shook himself from his chocolate trance. “I’m sorry … what?”

“The credit for the airfare,” the ticket agent explained patiently. “It should show up on your card in about a week.”

“Why can’t you just swipe my card and put the money back on it now?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but our system doesn’t work that way. If you’d rather have a voucher for a future flight, I can process that for you right now.”

“Future flight! I don’t need to fly in the future. I need to fly right now!”

“I’m sorry, sir. Summer Fridays are always the busiest days to travel. You should have bought your ticket—”

“Several weeks in advance. I know!”

Mart glanced at the meter nervously. It was about twenty miles from the airport to the nearest Greyhound bus terminal. He had estimated about fifty dollars, including tip, and that was almost all the ready cash he had left. He was pretty sure he had enough left on his credit card to purchase a bus ticket, but he was only guessing. He had never traveled by bus before and wasn’t sure what a last minute ticket would cost. Unless he wanted to fast until he reached Sleepyside, an unthinkable plan, he was going to have to be frugal.

The meter went up another tick, another $1.70.

“Are we almost there?” he asked the cab driver.

“What is this? A family road trip?” the driver growled back. “I suppose next you’ll be telling me you have to go the bathroom.”

“Sorry,” Mart mumbled. He hesitated before asking again, “Are we almost there?”

“About five or ten minutes. You in some kind of hurry?”

He wasn’t really. He had checked online and the bus route that took him to White Plains wasn’t scheduled to leave until almost four o’clock. It was just after two now. He sat back in the seat and sighed heavily, earning a look of scorn from the driver.

Turning to his phone, he tried to think who he could call. All the Bob-Whites were certainly on their way to Sleepyside by now and it wasn’t like anyone really lived near enough that he could hitch a ride. Diana was the closest, down in Kentucky, but she was currently on tour and taking a circuitous route to Sleepyside. Jim was the only one who might conceivably get close enough on a drive back to Sleepyside, coming through Chicago and Toledo, but he was taking the train. Jim was smart.

He supposed he should at least call home, alert everybody to his change in travel plans—that he was going to miss dinner … sigh—and ask somebody to pick up his luggage. Assuming it actually arrived at JFK, of course. But then he’d have to explain to his parents why his travel plans had changed and he just wasn’t ready for the fallout. He hadn’t even processed the break-up himself yet. She had broken up with him … on Friday the 13th!

Sighing again, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and took another glance at the meter. It had just ticked over forty dollars.

“Hey, um, actually … I changed my mind. You can just drop me off at the next corner.”

The driver gave him a strange look that he couldn’t quite interpret. “The next corner?”

“Yeah.”

“Buddy, are you sure?”

Mart took stock of his surroundings for the first time. It wasn’t exactly the nicest area of Detroit. Were there any nice areas in Detroit?

He swallowed hard, took one last look at the meter, and decided he had nothing to lose.

“You see,” he confessed. “I’m really short on cash. If you take me much farther, I’ll have to stiff you on the tip and I really don’t want to do that.” He turned on the full extent of the Belden charm and considered handing over the box of sea salt caramels as a sort of bribe, er … tip, er … thank you.

On retrospect, he was glad he hadn’t bothered. The cabbie didn’t hesitate. On hearing Mart’s financial situation, he promptly pulled to the curb. “Forty-one dollars and forty cents,” he snapped, “not including the tip.”

Mart sighed, pulled out his wallet and gave the driver fifty dollars. He considered asking for change but quickly decided against it as he caught the glare in the cabbie’s eyes. Grabbing his laptop, he exited the cab and watched it drive away, wishing he had at least asked for directions to the Greyhound station. Were they on the right street at least? He walked to the corner; neither sign said Howard Street.

“Great,” he mumbled. He took a look around and saw a couple of young guys, maybe late teens, hanging out on the opposite corner. He crossed the street and flashed what he hoped was a confident, non-threatening smile. “Excuse me, can you tell me where Howard Street is?”

“Who aksin’?”

Mart refrained from correcting their grammar and instead contemplated the question. Who’s asking? Did they want his name? ID? Social security number?

“I just need to find the Greyhound station,” he tried.

“Wassa nice white boy like you needin’ a bus fo’?”

Again, Mart refrained from telling the boy not to end his sentence with a preposition.

“Ain’tchoo got no cheddah?” the boy asked.

Cheese? Mart’s stomach rumbled quietly as he looked in confusion at the street kid.

“Dough, moolah, bucks?” he prompted.

“Oh. No, I just used my last … cheddar on the cab.”

“Dat badass kick you out widdout takin’ you to da station?”

“Yeah,” Mart replied, trying to look pissed off. Maybe they’d sympathize with his predicament.

Instead they just laughed.

“Dude, ta get to da doghouse ya go up fo’ blocks, hang a right, go ‘nother free or fo’, dare it is.”

“Thanks…” He lowered his voice as he walked off and muttered, “…I think.”

Mart held his breath as the ticket agent swiped his credit card through. A few seconds later he heard the comforting noise of the printer spitting out his ticket and the agent was handing his card back.

“Don’t tear out your tickets,” she said in a bored voice. “Hand the entire booklet over to the driver at each leg and he’ll tear out your ticket for that leg and return the rest to you. You’re responsible for loading and unloading your own baggage at each transfer. First bag is free, fifteen dollars each additional bag. One carry-on per passenger.”

“I’m not checking any bags,” Mart replied. The ticket agent didn’t even raise an eyebrow at that. She simply dismissed Mart by calling, “Next!”

Mart checked the time. He had almost an hour before the bus would leave. Options for passing the time seemed limited. There was a small arcade in the corner and a little café just opposite. Neither looked well patronized. He spotted an empty bench nearby and sat down with a weary sigh of thankfulness. In an hour he’d be on the road at last. It wasn’t the ideal way to travel and he’d get into Sleepyside much later than he had originally planned but with the whole weekend still ahead of him. And he’d figure out how to get back to Ann Arbor later. Maybe Diana could give him a ride. Or, if he wasn’t too embarrassed to ask for a loan from his parents for a ticket, maybe he’d ride the train back with Jim.

His stomach rumbled but he ignored it. He wanted to save what little cash he had left for actual mealtimes. He noticed a poster on the wall that advertised free wi-fi at the station and with almost an hour until departure time, he thought he might pull out his laptop and pass the time surfing the internet, maybe the Cosmo McNaught message board, which was currently celebrating an anniversary with several entertaining activities.

As he unzipped his bag and pulled out his laptop, he noticed a line starting to form across the way at Gate 5, which was his gate. He frowned, checked the time, and continued to observe, the computer remaining unopened on his lap. Cranky looking people vied for position in the line, subtly or not so subtly pushing bags forward along the grimy linoleum to hold their place and get closer to the door.

Feeling unsettled, Mart put away his laptop and got up. He walked over to the gate and asked a middle-aged woman if she was waiting for the bus to Toledo.

“Yeah, why?” she asked, looking warily at Mart.

“It doesn’t leave until four, right?”

“Yeah,” she responded, clearly tacking an unspoken “Idiot!” on the end of her comment.

With a sigh, Mart moved to the end of the line, resigning himself to standing for the next forty minutes without really understanding why.

Every minute or two, the line would shuffle forward a few inches, despite the fact that there wasn’t anywhere to actually go. Passengers glared suspiciously at one another, ever alert for linejumpers, despite the fact that nobody was actually trying to cut in line.

Finally, the door to the outside opened and a uniformed driver came in, calling out the route number and destinations. The crush for the front of the line started to get more intense and Mart had brief flashbacks of rock concerts he had attended in his early college years.

“Why is everybody pushing?” he asked nobody in particular.

An older gentleman next to him in line said, “Nobody wants to miss getting a seat.”

“What do you mean? We might not all get on the bus? They overbook?”

Another silent “Idiot!” expression was all he received. Now Mart was nervous. He was already leaving much later than he had intended. What would happen if he missed this bus? How long would he have to wait for another one? Obviously, he wasn’t the only one who was worried because the people in line continued to press forward anxiously toward the door that led out to the bus bay.

“People!” the driver barked. “Relax! If you don’t get on this bus, there’s another one less than five minutes behind me. Everybody’s getting on the bus.”

Oddly, that didn’t seem to stop the frenzy the passengers felt to get on this bus. Mart grimly held his place in line and inched forward. Although he would have preferred to have gotten on that bus, he was somewhat mollified to find only one person in front of him when the bus driver finally stopped allowing passengers to board. He’d be sure to get a good seat on the next bus.

What a joke.

The next bus was nearly full, too, and Mart grabbed the first seat he could find. Unfortunately, it happened to be next to a heavyset woman wearing way too much perfume.

Mart suffered for the hour hop to Toledo, where he had to transfer from his south-bound bus to one coming from Chicago and heading east to New York via Cleveland. He was relieved to breathe fresh air for a few minutes before going inside, even if it was hot and humid. Unfortunately, inside was worse than outside. Not because it was hot. Oh no, the air conditioning worked just fine. Greyhound station or industrial meat locker? Who could tell? Mart was freezing. Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. Or so he thought.

Why weren’t people already lined up for the bus at this station? It was due to leave in less than twenty minutes. Not seeing any arrival or departure signs of any kind, Mart went to the sales counter to make sure he was at the right gate and waiting for the right bus.

“The bus from Chicago is late,” the surly Greyhound employee informed him.

“How late?”

The man shrugged, reached under the counter and pulled out a plastic sign. “Out to dinner. Back in one hour.” He dropped it on the counter and walked away, leaving Mart standing there befuddled.

Two hours.

Two hours Mart had to wait in the freezing cold station, longing for his clothing-filled suitcase, until his bus finally showed up. Without any announcements or updates as to when it might arrive, he had been afraid to leave the station to get warmed up or even to get something to eat. That left him consuming a dodgy looking hot dog from the concession stand for his dinner.

The bus arrived without forewarning and the crowd waiting rushed toward the door in a less than orderly line, growling like a pack of wolves over a carcass. Mart hoped he wouldn’t end up being the carcass.

He handed over his ticket and was about to board the bus when he noticed an older woman struggling to heft her suitcase onto the pile of luggage already stuffed inside the compartment underneath the bus. The driver, too busy taking tickets, ignored her plight.

Mart stepped out of the line of people getting onto the bus to assist her. He was a Bob-White. This is what Bob-Whites did.

With a smile, he reached out to take the bag for her. And earned a glare and a whack on the arm with her purse for his trouble.

“Get your hands off my bag, you scoundrel!”

Scoundrel? Mart didn’t know anybody actually used that word anymore. It made him smile.

“It’s okay, ma’am. I’m just—”

“Driver! Driver! This man is trying to steal my bag!”

“I’m not trying to—”

The driver hurried over with a scowl on his face.

“I’m not trying to steal her bag,” Mart protested. “I was trying to help her get it onto the bus.”

“That’s my job,” the driver snarled. He took the lady’s bag, threw it unceremoniously onto the heap and returned to the line of passengers to take tickets.

The older woman shoved past Mart, her eyes still narrowed suspiciously at him, and climbed onto the bus. Mart sighed and followed.

His misguided attempt to be a Bob-White left him near the back of the line and though he did actually get on the bus—a few angry people did not—the only seat left was the one right in front of the restroom. Two hours of sitting in front of a Greyhound restroom was like two hours sitting in a Porta Potty. Mart basically held his breath for two hours.

They arrived in Cleveland and the bus driver announced a one-hour rest stop, reminding the passengers to be sure to take their tickets with them or they wouldn’t be allowed back on the bus.

“One-hour rest stop?” Mart asked as he reached the front of the bus where the driver stood. “Aren’t we two hours late already? How can we have a rest stop?”

“I have to rest,” the driver said shortly. “Anyway, these concessions are built into the schedule.”

“Built into the—?” Mart shook his head and got off the bus. Now he understood why it took twice as long going Greyhound as it would have if he had driven to Sleepyside.

Having sat just outside of the bus restroom for two hours, he could only imagine what it was like inside so he had held it until now and, although he didn’t understand the reasoning for the rest stop, he was glad he had the time and opportunity to use an actual restroom facility.

Unfortunately, it was closed for cleaning.

Mart sighed and took a seat in view of the bathroom so he could use it as soon as the janitor was done cleaning. He was glad the air conditioning in the Cleveland station wasn’t as powerful as in Toledo. In fact, it was quite a bit warmer in this depot. Mart noticed several people fanning themselves with tickets or magazines. Great. He had gone from too much air conditioning to no air conditioning.

When he saw the janitor leave the restroom and take the yellow sign with him, Mart leapt from his seat and hurried painfully that way.

Mart vowed never to mock Friday the 13th again.

If he ever wrote a book about this journey, he would have to insert “Deleted Due to Offensive Content” in the chapter about the bus station’s restroom. If he hadn’t seen the janitor coming out of the restroom, he never would have believed it had just been cleaned. He was thankful he hadn’t needed to sit anywhere.

Shivering—in remembrance, not because there were any signs of the air conditioning working yet—Mart walked briskly to his gate to begin the tedious process of waiting in line to board the next bus only to find, once again, a lack of a line.

“Oh, no.” He glanced at the waiting passengers, all of whom looked tired, irritable or downright furious, and tried to approach one who looked reasonably friendly. “What’s going on?”

“Bus is broken,” the weary college kid answered.

“So what are they going to do?”

“Get it running again, I hope. Next bus to New York doesn’t leave until tomorrow afternoon.”

Mart closed his eyes and uttered a prayer—for the bus to be fixed, for patience, for a Bob-White, any Bob-White, to be driving through Cleveland at this very moment, for any kind of miracle that would get him to Sleepyside before the weekend was over.

And, wonder of wonders, it worked.

“Boarding for Newark, New York, and White Plains!” the driver called out.

Mart didn’t even mind the stampede for the doors this time he was so relieved the bus was back in business again.

It was three thirty in the morning. Mart was trying to sleep but he was starving and it was cold on the bus. He’d be lucky not to pick up pneumonia with the constant change in temperatures he was dealing with on this trip. It was dark outside so there was nothing to look at. He was completely unable to reach his laptop under the seat in front of him and when he had attempted to read by turning on the overhead light, his seatmate—a large, rather hairy man—gave him a dirty look, reached up and turned it off. Mart didn’t have the courage to turn it back on—he was in the window seat with no escape from Goliath’s wrath.

They had left what amounted to little more than a roadside truck stop about half an hour ago, after a fifteen-minute rest stop. It was another three and a half hours before they would get into Newark. It was conceivable he might get into Sleepyside in time for breakfast. Bacon, eggs, fresh homemade biscuits, maybe pancakes or waffles with fresh strawberries on top. He may not have been able to sleep but he could still dream.

Mart sighed and turned to look at his seatmate. Goliath had no trouble sleeping on the bus. No trouble snoring, either. Mart worried if he didn’t get any sleep he wouldn’t be alert enough to enjoy the weekend, the weekend they had all worked so hard to make happen.

He frowned and looked out the window. Were they slowing down? He returned his eyes to the window, certain now that they were slowing down and moving toward the shoulder of the road.

He craned his neck, trying to see the front of the bus and the driver, but it was too dark to see anything clearly. The way his Friday the 13th was going it wouldn’t surprise him to learn that the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel or had a heart attack or something.

Moving with excruciating sluggishness, the bus took almost five minutes to grind to a complete halt. All was quiet. No motor running. No air conditioner running. No forward movement toward Sleepyside. Passengers began to stir, and as they awoke and realized the bus wasn’t moving, questions started to float through the air.

“Why are we stopped?”

“Driver? What’s going on?”

“This isn’t a bus station!”

“What’s the matter with the bus?”

There was no answer. The passengers fell back into silence. The driver got off the bus and there was some banging and clanking as if he were trying to fix it. But if that’s what he was doing then he was not successful. He got back on the bus but was unable to get it started again and they continued to sit in silence until Mart lost track of the time.

Finally Goliath, roused from his beauty sleep, stood and lumbered up the aisle. Mart couldn’t make out what was said between him and the driver, just the low rumble of voices back and forth and a tone that was less than congenial.

Goliath came back and dropped heavily to his seat. Mart waited for him to say something. Other eyes peered from across the aisle and the seat in front of them. Finally Mart took the initiative.

“What did he say?”

“Said the bus is out of commission.”

“Well, that’s very illuminating,” Mart mumbled. “What happens now?”

“He didn’t say.” Goliath leaned his head back against the seat and shut his eyes, thoroughly unconcerned about their predicament.

Mart couldn’t believe how quiet the bus was. He was half expecting a riot but when none commenced and nobody said anything, he decided to speak up.

Clearing his throat, he called out, “Excuse me, driver, can we please get an update?”

The driver maneuvered his bulk out of his seat and stood, turning to glare through the semi-darkness at his passengers. Mart hunkered down a little in his seat.

“The bus … has broken down,” he said, emphasizing the fact with pointed sarcasm.

Still trying to remain hidden, Mart nevertheless had the courage to persist, “And what’s being done to rectify the situation, sir?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” the driver barked. “Do you think I haven’t tried to fix the bus?”

“No, sir, that’s not what I was implying,” Mart said, trying to remain calm and polite. “I was just hoping you could enlighten us as to what you have done or are doing to correct the problematic vehicle. Is a mechanic coming to repair the bus? Will a replacement bus be forthcoming?”

 

“Do you think I’m just sitting here doing nothing?” the driver snapped back.

“No, sir,” Mart said again, his tolerance level starting to wane. “Look, you’ve got a busload of people here who have been very patient and quiet and—”

“Well, you can get all loud and cranky, if you want. I don’t care!”

Mart bit back a snide reply and kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with this guy. How he had gotten, much less kept, a job working with the public, Mart would never know. He could hear rumblings of other passengers around him, commenting on his tact and the driver’s rudeness. It made him feel a little bit better. But it certainly did nothing to change their current situation.

He wished Dan or Brian were here. They were both mechanically inclined. Heck, Moms or Miss Trask could probably do more to fix the bus than that boorish, inept driver could. Even if they couldn’t, they could get him the hell out of this situation.

“As God is my witness, I am never riding Greyhound again,” he mumbled.

“Amen,” Goliath said and flashed Mart a gold-toothed grin.

Mart smiled back. They had bonded. If all else failed, maybe he and Goliath could pool their resources and get a cab. Of course, his resources weren’t going to get them far but maybe Goliath could be persuaded to barter for the box of sea salt caramels.

Mart was convinced they would have to stage an uprising to get off the bus. The driver wouldn’t even let anybody off to take a smoke break because of the darkness and because they were right on the side of the highway. Finally, with nothing else happening, Mart began to doze off. He was startled awake by the motion of the bus. Somehow or other, the driver had gotten it running again. Mart pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time but discovered that his battery had gone dead. “Great,” he muttered. Now he wouldn’t even be able to call anybody to give them an update on his estimated time of arrival. He didn’t even know how long they had been sitting by the side of the road.

He saw a thin band of pinkish orange on the horizon. Day was dawning, which meant five thirty or so, he guessed. Freakin’ Friday the 13th was over at last, thank goodness.

The bus picked up some speed and Mart watched for a road sign that might tell him where they were. The first exit they passed was Danville and Mart snorted in amusement. Shortly thereafter a mileage sign indicated that Newark was 150 miles away. Mart frowned and turned to his seatmate. “My phone is dead. Can you tell me what time it is?”

Goliath checked his watch. “About five forty.”

“We’re more than two hours outside of Newark.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t think I’m going to make my transfer.”

Goliath grunted. “Where’re you headed?”

“New York … Sleepyside … White Plains … anywhere in the vicinity of my parents’ house.”

“Guess you’ll have to wait for the next bus.”

“But—but—but…” Mart blubbered. “It’s not Friday the 13th anymore! It’s not Friday the 13th! It’s NOT!”

For the first time, Goliath began to look uneasy.

They pulled into Newark at seven forty-five. The bus to New York had departed at seven ten. As they got off the bus, a Greyhound employee told those seeking transfers to go to the ticket counter for rebooking. Mart was well back in the slowest moving line he had ever had the misfortune to be in. When he finally got to the counter, the agent took his ticket, printed a new one and handed it to him without a word.

Mart glanced at it. “Noon! This says noon! Twelve o’ clock! The next bus to New York doesn’t leave until then? That’s four hours from now! I could walk to New York by then!”

The agent raised one eyebrow as if to say, “Start walking then.”

With a growl, Mart crushed the ticket in his hand and stalked away from the counter. Now he would not only be exhausted during his visit with his friends but enraged, as well. What a trip!

Spotting a recharge station, he raced over and plugged his phone in, wondering how long it would have to charge before he could use it. He gave it five minutes, turned it on and dialed a familiar number.

“It’s Mart. I’m stuck at the Newark Greyhound station. I am begging you to come get me. I will give you everything I have, including my first born child and this box of sea salt caramels I got in Detroit.” He listened to the person on the other end, made a face, then said, “Yes, the box is still full. Well … mostly anyway. Hey, it’s been a really, really long trip. I left Ann Arbor twenty-four hours ago and all I’ve had to eat is a handful of caramels and a day-old hot dog!”

“Hey, Dictionary Man.”

Mart frowned and turned around. It was Goliath.

“Me?”

Goliath nodded, flashing his gold-toothed grin. Mart felt a little like Macaulay Culkin facing down a malicious Joe Pesci in Home Alone … a much larger Joe Pesci.

“My friends who came to pick me up are heading to Westchester County. You wanna lift?”

Mart gulped. “A lift?”

His phone beeped a warning that his charge was going to be all too brief. He heard a questioning voice on the other end.

Goliath took a step closer to Mart. “You are going to Westchester, right?”

Backing into the wall behind him, Mart answered hastily. “Uh-huh, yeah, yes.”

“Okay, we’ll see you when you get in,” was all he heard on the other end of his phone before it died again.

“No,” Mart whimpered. “No, no, no, no.” Now nobody would be coming to get him because they thought he had a ride.

Goliath spread his meaty paws wide, a look of confusion and frustration on his face. “Are you going to Westchester or not?”

“Yes,” Mart replied in a small voice.

“So? Do you want a ride or not? My friends don’t mind, really. We’re sort of like a club and we like to help people out.”

“Wh-what?”

“You know, get involved, lend a helping hand. We believe it’s what life is all about.”

Mart felt slightly at sea; Goliath’s words sounded oddly familiar. He supposed Bob-Whites came in all sizes and shapes and from all walks of life. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“Yeah you want a ride or yeah you believe that’s what life is all about?”

“Um … both.”

Goliath flashed his gold-toothed grin again. “All right then. Do you have any luggage?”

“Just my laptop.”

“Good thing. It’s hard to carry extra luggage on a Harley.”

“On a … what?”

Mart flung the door open and stumbled inside. His freckled face was haggard from lack of sleep, his clothes were rumpled and smelled bad, his blond crew cut felt permanently plastered to his skull from the motorcycle helmet too small for him, and his stomach, his poor famished stomach was growling louder than the Harley on which he had just spent a bloodcurdling hour. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and kissed the floor. Home sweet home. Standing, his gaze took in the group gathered there, staring questioningly back at him.

He flung the slightly mangled box of caramels onto the table. “Two things: One, I am never traveling on Friday the 13th again. And two, I am never traveling by Greyhound again on any date. You are not going to believe what I went through to get here.”