Originally published at www.policegazette.us
Of all the modes of travel, I prefer bus. I recognize how crazy that sounds. I've crossed this nation numerous times by every method within reason. I passed on biking, and I'm sure as hell not doing the Forrest Gump Marathon. But I've got the rest covered. Plane, train, bus, and car; I've crossed all our time zones but Alaska and Hawaii. So heed my word.
Air travel provides comfort, and if you're staying in this country, you're not likely to spend more than a day in transit. Most of that will be spent in layover. Cost is also prohibitive, with companies demanding more nickles and dimes each year. Air travel takes the travel out of traveling. What's more, you're taking the travel out of the traveling.
Go by car and you're in the thick of it. Buildings thrust about you as you pass through new city after new city. At least one person will be required to ruin their car, or someone has to pay for a rental. For short travel, cars are best. But the longer you go, the worse the car will smell. Fewer drivers increases the burden of driving, and more drivers increases the stink. I once spent nine days with two other guys in a Ford Escort named 'Derf' driving through the desert and back for July 4th. The car needed to be boiled before it could be driven again.
Trains are highly romanticized. Private cars with beds and porters bringing meals sounds wonderful, but I've been able to afford that service only once, and I had to go to Egypt to do it. General passenger seats are made of cardboard and sheet metal wrapped in burlap. If you're lucky, you can get off the train to breathe fresh air twice a day for a few minutes at a time. I pity the smokers. Trains are not much faster than cars, and I was once 12 hours late to the Milwaukee Metal Fest because my train went 30mph through Arkansas. I missed Mastodon and Electric Hellfire Club and fell asleep next to the stage where Amon Amarth was playing. Subway trains are great; cross-country trains are not.
Bus travel presents challenges of its own. Nearly every time, bus travel will be most affordable. So buses are filled with people that can only afford to travel by bus. In New York, there is a disproportionate number of people from NYC visiting relatives in prisons Upstate. That is equal parts terrifying and depressing, but often not the scariest part of the ride. You meet many interesting people on the bus, and that's rarely good. Through a long and painful process of trial and error, I've developed a nearly fool-proof method to keep you sitting by yourself.
Of course, it's not a perfect solution. Buses in busy cities are often standing-room-only; but you're usually only in this situation a couple hours before you can stretch out on the open road. Of course, when the only two empty seats together are beside you and across the aisle as you settle in to sleep somewhere in northern California and a ten-year-old boy gets on the bus, you know you're sitting beside his father who smells like 300 lbs of pepperoni shoved into holey sweat pants. Nine times out of ten, this method has kept me sitting solo.
You'll need a few days for preparation. First off, stop showering. A couple days is all you need. Don't forget, you'll have to live with yourself, and things are going to get gross. Guys should stop shaving. Girls should stop shaving. Now dress the part. Most of my clothes were Misfits T's painted with skulls and murder, faded and torn up. I wore a biker jacket with rib-cage painted across the back and various boots that came to my knees.
Seasoned riders can see through the bullshit. Eye contact is an agreement to share seats, and new passengers will do anything on a crowded bus to trick you into looking at them. Sit on the inside, keep your bag on the aisle seat. This may seem counter-productive, as a bag can be moved more easy than a person. Trust a pro, sitting in the aisle seat makes you look desperate, no one sits aisle by choice. A new passenger is sure to request your window seat.
Put on headphones. Turn music up loud. Slayer should be sufficient for the casual listener, but I preferred death metal. It needs to be turned up loud. Let it be the first thing new passengers hear when they set foot on the bus. Somewhere in this crowd lurks evil. Don't go so far as to outright annoy people excessively though. I knew a rider that was nearly ejected because an old woman complained every time he turned on his tape deck, even when the volume was turned completely off.
Unpack. Everything. Take everything out of your bag and put it back in. Now take it out again. One at a time. Slow down. Sort items as you replace them in your bag. Be pissed about it. Repeat. In Discman days I'd lay out a few CD covers as well. On top went a Brujeria cover displaying a rotten, severed head from a cartel murder. I didn't need to listen to Brujeria often. If you look like someone no one wants to sit next to, you almost always win. Sometimes you still need to work for it.
It was 2am in Chicago and my transfer was more than an hour late. This was three and a half days into a three day, 23 hour ride from Seattle to Syracuse. I had one more connection in Buffalo I could still make at 6am for the last leg of the trip. I'd been far back in line, but we were boarding an empty bus, so I knew I could still sit alone, stretch out and shut down a couple hours.
I took a seat near the middle. A little man sat in front of me, nondescript jacket and cap. Serial killer fashion. I got out my Discman and settled in the area for secure sleep. The little man struck up a conversation. He told me about his book. He showed it to me. That was his picture on the book jacket. He was a missionary. From Africa. His accent was thick, so I occasionally needed him to repeat over the engines. The bus was leaving the station, and Slayer never helped the tinnitus I first developed head-banging to Metallica at a middle school dance.
He was an African missionary in the United States seeking to convert unbelievers to Jesus. When we were off the bus, he would like to come visit me in my house. He would like to talk to me about Jesus.
"Sorry dude, I'm homeless," I told him. It was only partly a lie.
He asked if he could sit with me in my seat and talk about Jesus. I explained as politely as I could that I was putting on my headphones and going to sleep. The nice little man asked what I was listening to. "Faith No More," I told him, leaned my head on the window, and closed my eyes. He was gone when I woke up.
Not once have I been robbed.
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