The Man at the Shortline Bus Terminal

The silence and emptiness were unbearable. It was my first semester at school, and I was scheduled for one of the last final exams of the year, just 3 days before Christmas. My roommates, and most of the students in my dorm, had left over a week ago.

I was out of money except for half a roll of laundry quarters, so I spent 8 miserable days living on 50-cent vending machine brownies because they were the cheapest things I could buy. I was so incredibly lonely and homesick, with nothing to do but study Calculus and eat brownies in eerily quiet solitary confinement.

After I had finally taken my test, I dashed across campus to my room and franticly crammed everything into my duffle - Champion sweatshirts and jeans and boots – with the urgency of a fleeing criminal. I phoned the cab that would transport me from hell to the bus station. I couldn’t wait to be home.

But luck was not on my side… the cab was late, I missed the bus, and I had to wait for 3 ½ hours in the terminal for the next one.

The place was deserted - the entire town was deserted. And I was on the verge of tears, stranded in a vast sea of empty chairs.

I noticed him from across the rows of fallow seats and I was sure that he was headed straight for me - this old man, plodding slowly but deliberately in my direction. Why were people always so drawn to me? Why did old men and little girls and everyone in between always seek out my company and compassionate ear? It has happened all my life. I think sometimes my openness is a yellow banner, waving merrily for all to see.

But there’s no welcome mat laid out before me now, I thought, with my narrowed eyes and my miserable grimace.

And here he was, on his way to disturb my angry little cocoon. Oh, I was in a wretched mood. He had the nerve to ask me if anyone was sitting here, motioning to where my heavy duffle was perched beside me. The place was barren. There were hundreds of seats to choose from. But I got up and dragged my bag to the floor and slumped back down, not saying a word.

The old man, with his scraggly beard and dirty clothes, smelling like coffee and cigarettes, was undeterred. He sat down and started to talk to me.

With a toothless smile he told me about his 88th birthday, 10 months prior, when he decided that he hadn't seen enough of the country and yearned to do so before he died. So he sold his things, boarded a Shortline bus in his hometown of Phoenix, and started out on what would probably be the last great adventure of his life.

He was on his way to New York City, a place he had heard so much about but had never seen. He had run out of money a few states back, so he worked odd jobs to make the money to get to the next place on his list. Boyish excitement dancing in his old gray eyes, he told me stories of the places he had seen. I just had to know what kind of odd jobs an 88 year old would be hired for. I listened for hours.

We talked the whole three hours in the terminal, and we sat together on the bus and talked for two and a half more until I reached my stop. I wished I had some money to give him, but I did have a few spare 50-cent brownies from the vending machine. And he was so grateful to have them.