Dignity - a novel - 4. Chapter 4: Wave of the Future

Chapter 4: Wave of the Future

I stand on the pavement at the Amarillo bus station. Behind me and Lyle, the bus blinks its red and yellow hazard light in the wet and grayed-out morning. It rained overnight, and everything is cool and sweet-smelling.

Lyle has his guitar case slung over his shoulder.

I wanna kiss him, but I don’t.

"Ya know, man..." He shoves hands in his jean pockets – which makes him look like he's shrugging – then his boot tip kicks the gravel. Up top, his sly, silver-steel eyes smile into mine. "...You could delay your trip to L.A. Stay in Amarillo for a few days. It's a cool town, we could catch a baseball game – it'd be my treat. I'll look after ya."

"Aw, thanks man – but – that's not gonna be possible. I gotta get there. Sorry, ok?"

His lip quavers a little; all his fidgety motion stops. Now he just stares at me.

Fuk it. What am I scared about?

I step up to him, real close. "Thank you, though." Then I put my hand on the side of his neck and hoist myself up into a kiss. A kiss that does not linger too much, out here in the fresh air, but it's deep and long enough to maybe last in his memory – I know it's one I won't forget.

Lyle grabs at my wrist, and before I know what he is doing, he's pressed a fold of money into it. He tells me all low and emotional: "L.A. might eat you up, kid. So, don’t forget about me in Nashville. You can come to me whenever you want. I mean that too. Ok?"

I nod.

He pulls me into a hug. And I soon feel his lips against my neck; he says: "Take care of yourself, Sean."

I push back a little, and hold his eyes. "My name's Jack, ok?"

He nods, and kisses me briefly.

I turn and get on the bus.

The bus is pretty empty at 8 AM Amarillo, Texas time, so I sit on the side where I can get a glimpse of Lyle. He's still standing where I left him – hands back in pockets, guitar case strap slung across his chest.

The bus door closes.

I give him a low wave. He tips his head up at me and smiles a little, maybe to cheer me up. And then the bus pulls away.

After a few turns, I move to my real seat on the other side of the aisle.

I pull out my phone, and hunker down with my back low in the seat, and my knees raised and pressed into the seatback in front of me.

I read Dawn's texts to me:

Morning Mary Sunshine! Sean, **// Yu dweeb, LMK if YuROK. Dont hold out! 143 – TYL

[Morning Mary Sunshine! Sean, wink-wink nudge-nudge, you dweeb, let me know if you are ok. Don’t hold out! I love you – text you later]

That makes me laugh. Yeah, she'll wanna hear about my first – first kiss; blush, first time!

Then I read the second one:

B-A-S-T-A-R-D-! 18Yu!!!

[Bastard! I hate you!!!]

Yeah. I know what that means. My mom has been at her. It's not simple; not for any of us, but I trust she knows I am disappearing to make it ultimately easier on my mom – and on Dawn too.

What to reply?

What will say 'sorry,' 'hang tough,' and 'don’t worry about me' all at the same time?

I type out:

<3 Luv U <3

And hit 'send.'

I'll write her more in a little bit, but right now, I can't help but think of Lyle.

He talked about masks, talked about that Steinbeck 'bus' book, and I think like 100%, I know his talk of settling down with a girl is some sort of mask for him. We all have to take people at their face value, and if a guy says he's 'Bi,' then he's Bi. Even so, I think Lyle let his mask slip down anyway, and who am I to take advantage of that, and tell him he'd be happier with a guy? I am nobody's judge of happiness – hell, I can't make anyone happy, not even me – and besides, being with a girl is a hell of a lot easier in this country, so I guess a lot of guys go that route, despite how they really feel.

It wouldn't have worked with Lyle. As I say, I'm not in a position to do anything for anyone.

I fumble around with my phone. It turns over clumsily in my hands, and I have a weird thought.

Early this morning, we exchanged numbers. I gave him a fake one – one not to my real phone, or to this one either – and he sat there, in the aisle seat now vacant next to me, and typed in his number for me. There is a kind of sadness as I see it on my screen. He's given me his real number, and I will keep it on my fake phone. That feels like my life. It's like a movie that is playing itself out in some form that I can only watch, and maybe all I have to cling to is the denial that this will be a temporary situation; the movie house lights will come up while 'the end' flashes across the screen, and then I can rise; and then maybe I can go home again.

With Lyle's number, the question is, will I ever be in a position where I can call him? Right now, I'm thinking, that time will not come. I may never call him, and maybe that will be best for him, but I am not so dumb as to think that will be anything but a less-than-the-best outcome for me.

Yet still, I can use my imagination. Maybe right about now, he's sitting in some diner with a long counter, and one where the Texas dust gathers in the corners like tumbleweeds. He's sipping that first shot of watered-down coffee, and making a grimace because it is too hot to drink just yet. And that delay causes it. The undrinkable coffee makes him remember to do something. So, he pulls out his phone, and hesitates a moment with it. It comes to life under his touch, and he quickly finds what he needed to – my number.

And there, in the morning light just creaking over the windowsill, and spilling across the tiled floor, his clear eyes that are the color of morning light itself, grow a bit salty. He watches as his own fingers delete the thing he knows is no longer true, and letter-by-letter, S-E-A-N fades from existence.

It almost makes me miserable too, now that I think of it, but in the place of that fake name, he will write my real one, and do it in the soft glowing warmth of some kind of hope. But sadly, he will not know he places the real of me by the sham number I forced upon him.

Now tell me, if that does not seem exactly like this fuked up life we are all forced to live?

˚˚˚˚˚

My back hurts, and so do my shoulders. I stretch from my seat, grab my phone and puzzle that I must have just taken a four-hour nap. There is noise and buzz all around me, cuz now we are stopped again.

Albuquerque: I see the signs on the platforms out the window.

I watch quite a few passengers get on at this place. I suppose L.A. is close enough to pull like a magnet, LOL. I try to casually scan the newbies crowding the aisle, hoping against hope that a Lyle No. 2 is in the offing.

Latin-looking moms come with kids, and a few teen girls with eyes shaded by too much mascara, or maybe by some opioid–use, IDK.

As I spot an unattached guy – who's maybe under 30 – hoist up the shoulder strap of his bag, an old businessman drops his briefcase in the seat next to me. His potbelly comes into view: he's raising his arms to shutter away his suit-bag overhead. Worse yet, now his jacket rides up, and so do his shirttails. Ugh – hair on his navel – barf! And there is some scraggly black fuzz that shades his love handles, and dives right below his waistband.

I shudder.

I also dig out my phone and try to look too busy for an old-guy chat. He grunts as he sinks – or rather, falls like a sack of potatoes – into the bus seat.

He's all elbows and 'sorrys' as he fishes around in his briefcase. I can't help but spy, and then laugh, as he pulls out a copy of Men's Fitness magazine to read.

"How far are you heading to?" His voice is much louder than it needs to be.

I'm too tired to think fast. "San Francisco," I mutter.

IDK, but there was something in that answer that makes him pause. He leans in his seat by pushing on his left hand, and turns to inspect me. It's like he needs just a couple extra inches to get me into his focus.

"Oh really?" he asks. "Got, friends there?"

"Um, yes."

He nods, and his body settles in once he loosens his flabby muscles.

"How far are you going?" I ask much too seriously.

"San Bernardino." He glances over his shoulders. "You traveling alone?"

"Yep," I say too late. Maybe I should have lied on that one too.

The man has a saggy kinda face, like a lot sun, and a little gravity, have taken a heavy toll. I'd guess he is about 50 to 55, and his hair is natural for his age, kinda salt-and-pepper black, and a bit thin on top. It is short, however, and so is the 'stache' and beard around his narrow lips.

"Are you a businessman?" I surprise myself, but I guess I have to know.

"Yes, son. I sell solar panels. Wave of the future."

I chuckle. "Phew! – We learned in history class how President Carter installed solar panels on the White House roof, then Reagan came and tore them all off. Instead, he opened up millions of acres of taxpayer forest to private oil-drilling. Wave of the future..?"

"Well, we all must do out part."

"If they're so big right now, then why don’t you fly?" This guy is starting to annoy me. I don’t know, there's just something suspicious about him.

He grins an oily leer. "Aw, I suppose I could ask you the same question, sport – but, some of us just like it better by bus, don’t we. On a cross-country trip, you just never know who you'll bump into."

He doesn’t have an accent, exactly, but there is some freeness in the way he says certain words that tells me he's not from my part of the world.

"I guess not," I say, and suddenly remember I should be interested in my phone.

He leans over and peeks at my screen, and then asks, "You play video games, son?"

"Yeah, but I don’t have any on here. Why?"

"Oh, I know, you young men like your Grand Theft Auto, and such."

Ok, now he is creeping me the fuk out. 'You young men..?' What!? He expects me to call him 'sir' now, right? Ugh, troll be gone!

"What's your name?"

"Sean," I tell him with a hostile vibe.

"You got a girl waiting for you in San Fran, Sean?"

"A…no, I…no, sir."

Shit. I swear, the 'sir' just slipped out! This guy is intimidating.

"Ah-hun. Some one else, then?"

I think maybe he'll leave me alone if he thinks I'm Queer.

"Not yet, but I hope to, soon."

That was supposed to turn him off, or at least turn him down a notch, LOL, but it didn't.

The bus door closes. In a minute, we are rolling, and as the coach makes several turns to exit out of downtown Albuquerque, this guy keeps eying me.

"Are you married, sir?"

"Call me Roger, and yes, I've got a missus, and in fact, also a son about your age. How old are you, again?"

"Eighteen, sir…Roger."

"Oh. My boy's younger that you. He's sixteen. Do you play sports – football, basketball, anything?"

"No sports, I'm too…" I almost say the truth, but don’t. "I'm too small."

"My boy's an All-American. He's already tough as nails, and the girls, oooh, they throw themselves at him."

"Do they?" I half-ask, turning away and thinking it's gonna be a long 8 hours. Maybe after Flagstaff, I can nab a different seat. I resist the use to look over my shoulder right now – I know the bus is nearly packed.

I begin a text to Dawn:

Uber-creep on bus now. Pray 4 me, LOL

I send it.

To my surprise, she types right back:

How was last night?

Wonderful :-)

How come?

Met 'Lyle!' A hot older guy – 22. A dreamboat

Damn, kid!

We kissed. Can you believe it? Your little virgin boy is not so virgin anymore!

Im mad at you

Why?

You left me all alone to 'deal'

Sorry ;-(

There was a long pause; I almost put my phone down, but then I read:

I miss you. <3 TYuL

Me too <3 TUL

I hit 'send.' My phone slides back into my pocket as I consider maybe I have been unfair to Dawn.

"Do you do well in school, Sean?"

Oh, shit, I almost forgot about him.

"I, well, I can't say that I do. No."

"Well, I'm sure your folks tell you to buckle down, and not runaway from your problems."

I swallow down an audible lump. What is he saying?

He leans in close to my ear. "Maybe your problem, son, is you need a daddy type in your life."

"What?"

"Listen, Sean. I'm an upfront kinda guy. No bullshit, ok? Deal!" He smiles like a blotted slick of grease paper again, and holds out his hand for me to shake.

I take it, and feel heat rising up from my collar; I guess I am blushing or some such shit.

"Ok." He doesn't release my hand, instead he grips it harder and uses it to pull me into him.

He drones on in a slick sort of low tone: "Sport, I've got success, and I know that that makes me appealing to women, and to young males on the hustle."

My mouth falls open.

"How 'bout," he continues with a frown. "I slip a fat fifty in your rear pocket, and you and I mosey on back to the crapper, where you give me a nice, long, blowjob?"

"Fuk!" I stand up as much as I can, yanking my hand out his clutches. My head is bent at the neck and pressing on the underside of the fuzzy upholstered luggage rack, but I yell: "Go to hell!"

I reach for Catcher, and force my way out.

I know he's standing in the aisle, so I head forward without looking back. Luckily, a seat right behind the driver is open. I settle into it, and realize, this is a blessing. I can scrunch down a bit and look in the driver's mirror to see the creep sit back down.

'Fuk,' I think. 'Now I just have to be sure my bag doesn't walk off the bus before I do.'

I'm so pissed.

Eight hours to San Bernardino, and then after that, only eight hours more to Los Angeles.

I can't wait.

Fuking Creep!