He told me a story about a homeless man he’d met outside a McDonald’s in Bar Harbor. The sky was filled with stardust that night, so he pulled off his coat and wrapped the gaunt man in its rich wool. The next thing to go after his clothes was his wallet, but only after he’d bought a cross-country ticket. It wasn’t until we passed the white-fenced Kentucky horse stables that I moved onto the moquette seat beside him and started asking questions. He met a mother in New York with dark circles hanging below her eyes. Her children tugged at his pants for change, so he twisted off a finger for them to play with.
He met a crying runaway and a lone veteran and gave them an eye and a leg each. The other leg got stolen by an athlete he’d met at St. Louis Station, but he needed it more than him. The star-pocketed night sky seemed to speak to him, and he mentioned hoping to know where he was going by Salt Lake City.
“I don’t quite get what you mean,” I whispered. The western sun and his words made me fidget on the burning seats. He folded up an ear with his two-fingered hand and gave it to me.
When we reached the middle of Kansas, he asked me to carry him towards the Monument Rocks. He was lighter than I imagined, like he’d been hollowed out. When I asked his name, he said he’d already given it away. I let him rest beside the salt rocks and faced him towards the sun. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh.
“Now tell me about you.” He whispered. The answer was lost somewhere between my heart and my throat. Then he gave me his voice. It was curled up on his chest, so I took it and let it fill my ribs and lungs with all the stories he’d told.
I am taking a lot more trips on Greyhounds now. From Maine all the way to California. I talk to every passenger I see.
Feature Image Credit: Mickey Shannon
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