Two of the Eighteen Million By: Christie Citranglo I got off the bus from Ithaca, now arriving at the Scranton station. I had an hourand-a-half layover before getting on the last bus to visit my friend Laura in Harrisburg. Only about seven of us were boarding the next bus, and we were waiting together outside for our transfer. I was traveling alone, and so was the woman I found myself standing next to. We introduced ourselves; her name was Katie. I felt like she forgot my name as soon as I said it, but that didn t stop her from asking me to get lunch with her. Eighteen million people a year take the Greyhound, most of them lone passengers. Three thousand eight hundred stops over 5.4 billion miles: no other international bus transportation service comes close to the American Greyhound. It was my first time on the bus, and the adrenaline from living on my own as a freshman in college carried over to my first solo road trip. I was going on an adventure with a bus full of people on different treks. Eighteen million people on the bus every year, and I met Katie. She had hazel eyes, the kind that couldn t decide between blue or green. I could see over the top of her head, her brown and gray roots peeking out of her red-dyed hair. Her eyelids reminded me of crumpled paper, of story drafts and black-ink sketches I d throw across the room. Her eyeliner was smeared after resting on her face for hours, maybe days. I was surprised when she asked me to go to the liquor store with her at the next stop, especially considering my baby face. Oh, I m only 18, I told her. She looked at me with uncertainty, like she didn t believe me, and then she nodded her head like she didn t want me to think she was dumb.
2 Shit, she said, as she turned toward the window. You feel older. Very smart, too. The year I was traveling, 2014, marked the 100th anniversary for the Greyhound. Founder Carl Eric Wickman began the business as a way to transport miners from Hibbing to Alice, Minnesota, 15 cents a ride, 2 miles down the road. Fifteen people, all with the common goal of getting from one destination to the next. Greyhound passengers rarely travel to sightsee the American landscape or to escape monotony and it s been that way for over a hundred years. Earlier in the morning, just after I boarded my first bus in Ithaca, the excitement of traveling on my own died quicker than it came. I could only listen to the same song so many times as the cell and data service continued to decline with each mile. I stared at my phone, waiting for a text from Laura or a new friend from school. I began to wonder why so many people were on this packed bus, and why they chose Greyhound of all modes of transportation. I thought about why I never took the bus before, and I quickly learned. The girl who sat across from me struggled to hold the book she was reading, her eyelids closing for slightly longer than a blink. Time felt slower as I looked at everyone on the bus. Out the window, flurries spat from the sky, blending with the gray clouds and standing out against the black bark on the trees we sped by. In the early 20th century, the typical mode of travel between cities in America was the train. Cars were too expensive, and the mass production of the Model-T Ford didn t boom yet. With the birth of the Greyhound about 15 years into the century, cheaper fares boasted competition for railroad transportation. Spending more than $75 on
3 a bus ticket for myself felt like a luxury I couldn t afford, but it was Laura s birthday and I was willing to splurge for her. It was also half the price of Amtrak. The Federal Highway Act of 1921 set the Greyhounds on the run. Amtrak began to fall away as highways lined the cities and coasts. Trains became archaic, and the great- American road trip filled the dreams of foreign tourists and Americans alike. I questioned how anyone could romanticize the American road trip. Babies were screaming, old men were snoring and it felt more like a prison than an escape. Passengers falling asleep as we flew down the highway brought me into what felt like the Greyhound s own dimension and perception of time, and with no promise of an exit. At 45 feet long, the bus had the capacity for 50 passengers and the space for a tired and cranky subculture of people to form. When I got off the bus before my layover, I didn t expect to make my acquaintance with someone who felt the same way I did: eager to reach the final stop with the anticipation of seeing an old friend s face. Katie sat back down on the bus next to me, reeking of cigarette smoke. I needed that shit, she said, sighing and getting comfortable. She adjusted her gray hoodie, pulling it down and unzipping it. It had some food stains on it; I imagine she d been wearing it since she got on the bus in Buffalo. It was at least nine or ten hours since then, and we d arrive at her stop in Hazleton within an hour. She began fixing her hair into ponytail, combing back greasy strands with her fingers. Almost there, though, I told her as she finished tying up her hair. The bus began to leave the station, turning onto the highway. I can t wait to see him. It s been too fucking long, she said, as she began to muster a smile, and then a laugh. He used to drive me all over the place, like this one
4 time, we were doing shrooms it was only our second time, so you know how it goes and we almost fucking died. She kept laughing with a sort of fondness. The car totally flipped over! Seriously, we nearly landed in a lake. I was so high, and it was so funny, so fucking scary. After the car stopped he hugged me, and we started laughing and crying a lot. A fuck ton, actually. Katie went on about adventures she d had with him and how she nearly died several times next to her best friend. She glossed over her daughter leaving her, her heroine addiction and her alcoholism. She kept talking, and I kept listening. There were only about eight other people on the bus with us, including the driver. Her voice carried over the seats for the next hour, adding color to the gray skies and bland highway views we passed. The Greyhound didn t feel like it was in its own dimension anymore; it seemed to keep up with blurry trees. Hazleton, the driver called out. Katie stared blankly out the window as we pulled in, and then stopped. I wish you could meet my daughter. You remind me of her, she said. I don t get to spend much time with her either. Before I could think of something to say, she got up and hugged me. It was nice meeting you, I said, and she hugged me tighter. Get to Harrisburg, okay? Enjoy your time with your friend. Tell her I say happy birthday. I will, I said as she gets off the bus. One more hour to Harrisburg. I began to notice how big this bus actually was.
5 Works Cited and Consulted "About Greyhound." Greyhound. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 Feb. 2016. <https://www.greyhound.com/en/about>. Belsky, Gary. "100 Years on a Dirty Dog: The History of Greyhound." Mentalfloss.cin. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 Feb. 2016. <http://mentalfloss.com/article/54273/100-yearsdirty-dog-history-greyhound>. Holloway, Beth. "Understanding the Teen BrainÂ." Understanding the Teen Brain. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 Feb. 2016. <https://www.urmc.rochester.edu/encyclopedia/content.aspx?contenttypeid=1& Content ID=3051>. "MCI D4005 Luxury Coaches." MCI D4005 / D4505 Motor Coach Industries. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 Feb. 2016. <http://www.mcicoach.com/luxurycoaches/passengerdseries.htm>.