It took enough years on the Greyhound for this to finally happen. I’ve met 92 year old radical Jesuit priests. I’ve met coke dealers who flashed duffel bags filled with tens of thousands, kibbitzed with sprightly black playwright entranced by Ibsen, listened long to a battered woman who needed two tearful hours to share her dark story, listened to tales from the penitentiary by a brave of the Black Foot Tribe and then the wild and true braggings of a meth cooker who used to supply Warhol’s Factory (as they all say).
I took acid with psychonaut cowboys while we spent the night marveling at the dark beauty speeding past. I watched wasted junkies who nodded off in the bathroom and I saw mothers so vicious that they would make the Brothers Grimm turn away in horror. Then there were the nuns who shared their last scrap of bread with the squalling child that the rest of us wanted to drown instead of feed. I saw Beautiful Souls and Awful Sinners.
But it took all this time – all these years riding my beloved Dog – before I finally got to make out in the back seat.