Floyd-the-Greyhound-Bus-Man

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T'S LATE. Later than I had planned to leave.

I pulled into the McDonald's in St. George in the warm late-Friday-afternoon light - puffy cumulous clouds to the south turning gold, and the low sun etching deep crimson shadows into the hills around my town.

I'm on my way to San Diego, with a stop-over in Barstow. This trip is dual-purpose - combination work and attending to electrical issues on HaulBit (my nomen for my Ford F350 & Coachman cabover combo) - I will eat a more proper dinner, later, but Barstow is four hours away and I need something to stave off the hungries. That translates to a Filet-O-Fish meal for the road. I collect my order, walk out the door and, as I head back to the truck, I notice an old, old gentleman standing somewhat afar, looking over the rig. As I approach the truck, he steers an intercept course.

"Just admiring your rig," he sings out, as he draws close.

"Boy, these things are just great!", he continues. Points at the truck-camper. "Just the ticket!" He turned back to me: "Where'ya headed to?"

He's about six-feet tall, lean, a little stooped and has a cane. Steps are a bit unsure. The cane trembles constantly - ever seeking, but not quite finding sure stability. His face is long, eyes are rheumy, skin is pallid and folded. In a few places, it looks like barnacles have attached.

In short, age is grinding him down.

But, his eyes are bright as he surveys the truck and camper. I explain I'm going down to San Diego.

"Where ya' from??" he bellows. I note the hearing aid. "San Diego??"

"No, I'm from here - St. George. Going to San Diego."

"Oh, your from here! Don't say! I used to come down quite frequently to visit my grandfather!"

Ummm.

"Yep," he went on, not missing a beat. "He was one of the oh-riginal pioneers down here!"

This I believe. Shoot, he looks like he could have been one of the oh-riginal pioneers, down here. He turned back to the truck.

"Yessir! Used to have a truck and a camper - not as big as this, mind you - and a fifth wheel, too! I loved that truck!"

"I used to be a Greyhound Bus driver!", he continued, "I got 10 days on and 4 days off, and those four days, I'd go out into the hills with a rig just like this! Only not quite so big, mind you! I loved that truck!"

...

"You used to be a Greyhound Bus driver?!!?", I asked.

"Yeeaaah!"

Memory Flood: In my callow youth during the late 50's and early 60's, I had formed a rather pleasant association with Greyhound. Their big, silver SceniCruisers with the "Big Dog" logo on the side always took me back to mecca - back to St. George. The Promised Land, where I finally was able to return to make my home. They were my transport away from the clot of the hated big city, to the peace and joy of a small town in the heart of some of the most wondrous country in the world. A place where a young boy could stretch his legs on the red rocks - those same red rocks that were now glowing around me in the waning day.

I always tried to get the front seat on the upper deck, right behind the big split window. From there, I could get an eyeful of the vast, clean desert scenery unfolding before me on I-15, content in the knowledge that the miles distancing me from LA were increasing with every revolution of the SceniCruiser's big wheels. I would peer hard through the tinted glass, looking for traces of red sand that told me I was getting close.

Who knew? This old gentleman standing before me might have been my driver on one of those pilgrimages...

I looked him up and down - tried to visualize what he looked like back then.

"So, where did you go?" I asked. "I might have ridden your bus!"

"Oh, all over the country!" He looked back at the truck and said (more to himself, because probably no one else would have believed him), "Yessirree, I'm thinking real hard about getting one of these!"

I checked my watch. I needed to get down the road. But...

"So. Do you want to take a look?..." I volunteered.

"Yeeeeaaaah!!" The old vitrine eyes lit up. "Could I?"

Oh, hell, yes. Barstow could wait. I opened the door and pulled the steps down, a bit concerned about that first high step and the cane and all. Visions of lawsuits danced through my head.

But, he planted the cane on the lower step and, with only a slight grunt, pushed himself right up with it. Two steps later and the cane disappeared behind him, into the interior. I pulled myself up on the top step to keep an eye on him from the doorway.

"Oh, Yeeeeaaaah!" he bellowed from inside. "This is real nice!"

I nodded. He scanned the accomodations, ran his hand lightly over the cabinets. "I had one of these, you know! Only not quite as big, mind you..." Standing in the center, he was soaking it all in - taking an inventory.

"Mm-hhmmm, you got one of those." "Oh, that's good!" "Yes, yes." "Oh, I like that!"

He lingered a bit longer - then, the inspection over, he turned around to come back down. I got nervous, again. "Watch your way back down," I cautioned. "It's harder than getting in..."

"Oh, right! Just hold my cane, will you, and I'll back down!"

I did and he did. It worked out fine - no exercising either the medical or legal system, today. As he stepped back, he glanced back over the truck - walked up to the cab and tried the doors, but they were locked. "Boy, that looks real comfy, in there!" He wanted to get in.

But, by now, I noticed his wife had retrieved their car - a smallish Pontiac Sunbird - and had pulled it up alongside the rear of the camper, waiting patiently. He was still trying the doors of the cab and I was still explaining things about it. Then, suddenly, his mind pulled back to the reality of the moment and he realized he needed to wrap things up.

"Well!" he bellowed, "Thanks so much for letting me take a look around!"

"No problem!" I hollered back. It had been a loud conversation.

I wanted to pump him for more of his Greyhound days, curious about what that life was like. But, time pressed. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. "Rick," I hollered. He jammed a crusty old hand back in return, "Floyd!", with a grin, and then turned to join his wife in the car.

"Thanks, again!" he hollered as he folded down into the seat, dragging his cane into the car behind him.

"No problem," I returned, and watched them drive away.

As I plopped the Filet-O-Fish meal in the seat beside me and turned over the engine, I thought about Floyd-the-Greyhound-Bus-man. Floyd who had lived a long and happy life and wanted to live more of it, but the bearings were giving out. Who had spent 10 days on and 4 days off driving all over the country.

I tried to imagine him in the OD shirt, pants and bill cap that were the signpost of his trade, standing alongside his charge, taking tickets, ushering people into the door, politely helping little old ladies up the steps. Tried to imagine him pushing fifteen tons of SceniCruiser down the highway with businessmen, mothers and babies - and me - in the seats behind him. Passengers who put their cares behind them, and watched the passing desert scenery through the panes of tinted glass.

"Why not take the bus? And leave the driving to us?" went the slogan.

Then I thought about the Floyd who used his 4 days off to drag his camper all over the Utah mountains. Who wanted more than anything to get another F350 and camper and head for the mountains, again.

Maybe. But the reality was he was being chauffer'ed around by his wife in a little silver Pontiac Sunbird - just down from Salt Lake City for the day - and probably would be until he leaves this earth, in the not-too-distant future.

I thought about lives. Lives that have gone by. Lives that can touch us, now and again, if we but stop and let it happen. The old fairies whose ephemeral light has shone brightly, but is now flickering ever more dimly. You have to be still to catch a glimmer of that life - you can see it reflected in their faces and eyes, if you look. Hear it in the timber of their voices, if you listen.

Now, the afternoon was a bit later, the sun was a bit lower in the sky. But Barstow was still there and so would be San Diego the day after.

If you're lucky, though, you might get to talk to a Floyd-the-Greyhound-Bus-man, once in a great while.

Yeeeeaaaaah!

Scribo, ergo sum.

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Floyd-the-Greyhound-Bus-Man

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