“That’ll be a 110 dollars please”, the young woman behind the counter said.

“Here you go,” I said, as I handed her 200 dollars. She gave me a ticket along with my change.

“Your bus is the blue one that’s standing outside right now. It leaves in about 15 minutes. Have a nice trip, sir. It’ll be a long one.”

            My bus would be leaving soon. There was still time to go to the bar and have a nice cold pilsner. Between mouthfuls of beer, I watched my fellow passengers. Too many people. A sense of unease filled me when I thought about the prospect of spending the next few days in that bus.

                        I finished my beer, picked up my bags and headed for the bus. It was nice, although I’ll probably have to take a piss pretty soon. God damn weak bladder.

My bad mood cleared up a bit when I found a seat at the empty back row. Stretch out in my own refuge, away from everyone else. The worst thing was having to sit next to people who always pull out awful-smelling food, filling our little moving coffin with the worst type of putrid stench imaginable. Like the guy who sat next to me on the bus en route to California a month ago. The bus had barely started to roll before he pulled out a plastic container with a stale egg salad sandwich. I almost threw up in his lap.

            I sat down and took out my luke-warm Rolling Rocks and put them on the seat next to mine. As the bus left the town, the landscape began to change. Beautiful trees, tall and majestic were on both sides of the highway, swallowing this moving monstrosity. Finally getting further away from the cars, the tall glass buildings and the cell phones. I wanted to breathe the country air, inhale the life and feel the breeze cool down my sweaty torso.

            I looked at the hills of northern Arizona. They were the color of sunset and shaped like sand dunes in some far away African desert. A few summits had the thinnest layer of snow, even in the middle of July. They looked glazed in the distance.

I took out my notebook. I always brought it on journeys.  

But nothing came out that didn’t sound bitter, or even worse, embarrassingly inept.

And there is nothing worse than someone who thinks of himself as a writer, but with nothing to say. Lack of versatility and imagination are the enemy.

I decided not to try today. Instead I drank my beer and stared out of the window. The bus driver turned on the radio and it was one of those easy listening stations playing bland, lifeless music for people who don’t actually like music.

The volume was low, but still high enough to be annoying.

Murmured chatter floated about. With eyes closed it was like listening to ghosts.

            I picked up my copy of Bukowski’s Factotum. The nasty old man would always make life easier for me. Too bad I couldn’t write like he did.

My eyes started stinging after a while. Fatigue. I leaned my head against the window and fell asleep.

I believe we stopped at some point but I’m not sure when or where. I was drifting between sleep and consciousness. A gravelly voice echoed in my head.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I couldn’t quite identify where the voice was coming from. “Young man, do you mind if I sit here?”

I fell back into a deep state of sleep. Strangely enough, because I never used to be able to sleep during long trips. Must’ve been the beer.

            When I woke up it was already dark and I had no idea where we were. To my right an old man sat two seats away. So much for the solitude.

He looked like he had been through a lot. His nose was huge and flaming red, probably due to too much alcohol. A scarred face, only marginally covered by the small tuffs of facial hair that grew around his chin and his sad, sunken blue eyes. What has this guy been through?

He turned to me.

“Sorry, I asked if it was all right to sit here, but you seemed to be asleep,” he said with that same 2-lighters-a day voice that I heard earlier. So I wasn’t dreaming.

“And you just decided to help yourself,” I said.

“Well, I prefer sitting in the back. I sleep better back here.”

“That’s all right,” I said. After all, I didn’t buy tickets for the entire back row. I would have if I had the money to pay but not today. Maybe next time.”

“Was that a hint of sarcasm that I sensed?” he asked.

“Never,” I said. The old man chuckled.

“Look, I’m sorry if my being here bothers you, but like I said, I sleep better back here and prefer sitting away from everybody else, to be honest with you. It’s more secluded.”

“That’s the same reason why I’m sitting here,” I said. “But I guess it’s fine now.”

“Fair enough,” he replied.

A few minutes went by without either one of us saying anything. I smiled quietly when I thought that he actually apologized for sitting down. It’s not like I own the entire bus.

He eyed my beers. I had six left.

“Boy, it’s hot out there,” he said. I could sure use something nice to soothe this old throat of mine. I’ve been traveling for a long time and a drink would be like medicine right now.”

I passed a bottle to him.

“Here you go, have one of mine. If you want a drink just ask, ok?

“Sounds good. Thank you son, I do appreciate it. I’ll buy you one on our next stop.”

“That’s fine, you don’t have to do that,” I said.

“Well, thank you anyway.”

He screwed the cap off quickly and took a deep, long swig from the bottle, emptying half of it. I guess he really was thirsty. Old drinkers like my newfound companion drank with such an ease, but still downing the content quickly. They absorbed it like sponges.

 He exhaled and took the bottle down from his dry old lips. His eyes were closed, like he was enjoying the taste more than anything.

“That sure was good,” he said. “A bit warm, but it certainly did the trick. You not having any?”

“Not right now. I had a couple of them before, and that’s enough.”

“Suit yourself. Say, can I have another one of those? Just one more. I’ll sit over here, drink it quietly and leave you alone.”

I handed him a bottle again. He took it and made himself even more comfortable in the back now, leaning back and stretching out his legs as far as he could.

“I appreciate it, young man. I’m gonna get some rest now. Awfully tired, to be honest with you.

            I went on with reading my book. The old man didn’t say anything, he barely even moved. He just sat there in silence. The only time I was reminded of his presence was when he raised the bottle to his mouth and took another sip from it. He drank the other bottle slowly and thoughtfully, making it last longer.

            When I got a little tired of reading I lifted my head up and just went on with staring at the landscapes. I focused hard on remembering exactly how it looked.

Sometimes I closed my eyes and tried to recollect what I had seen in the past few hours.

It was like long reels of film were replaying in my head, repeatedly, until I was certain that all of the images were firmly implanted in my mind. The trees, the gas stations, long winding roads that were like rivers floating between the hills. The houses and the people. Everything seemed important.

I fell asleep again, but it didn’t last long this time. It was dark when I woke up, even inside of the bus and everybody was asleep. Except for me and the old man.

He was looking in my direction with eyes that shone in the dark, like a cat’s.

“I was just looking out of the window,” he said.  

There was nothing but the occasional flicker of light in the distance.

“I know what you’re thinking. You can’t really see anything, but that’s kind of a part of the beauty, isn’t it? I always find pleasure in that. Besides, you have to find something to entertain yourself with when you have trouble sleeping.”

“I thought you said you slept better in the back.”

“Better, yes. That doesn’t necessarily mean that I can sleep like a baby.”

 “I guess you’re right about the darkness. It is kind of nice. Calming even.”

“Sometimes it’s the little things that do it. These people sleeping have got it all wrong. It’s not just about getting from one place to another. It’s about experiencing your land.”

I nodded my head slowly. I guess he was right. All of this to look at and nobody seems to care about it. It’s as if everybody has taken a mental vacation.

“Say, I noticed earlier that you’re reading Bukowski.”

“That’s right.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s great. He’s probably one of my favorite authors.”

“Bukowski was great,” the old man said. “I knew him, you know. It was a long time ago though.”

“Did you now?”

“I did, honestly. It was about twenty years ago. We worked together in New Orleans for a while, until he got fired. After that we just went on drinking together. But he didn’t stay very long.”

“How was he, I mean as a person?” I asked.

“Grumpy as hell. Didn’t like people very much. But he was a good writer, that’s for sure.”

“Indeed he was. Did you ever see him again after that?”

“Yes, I met him in Los Angeles a few years later, at one of my readings. I used to be a writer too,” he said.

“Really,” I said. “Written anything I might now about?”

“I doubt it. I wasn’t that famous. I did manage to get some copies sold and earn a bit of cash, but I was hardly appreciated in the literary world.”

“Still pretty interesting though,” I said.

            The old man managed to grab my attention. I wasn’t expecting that. When somebody sits next to you on a trip, they turn out to be one of those people who can’t shut up, but have absolutely nothing of interest to say. They just talk to kill boredom, as if yapping about nonsense makes the trip more bearable. Not for me.

But he was interesting because what he talked about was something that I hold dear.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t famous as a writer. At least he looked like he had lived and experienced things.

“Do you write?” he asked.

“Well, I want to. I try, but I’m just not good at it. I guess I lack experience so I have absolutely nothing to say,” I said.

“The only thing you need to do is listen to people. Listen to their stories, that’s the only advice I can give you. My wife said that I drove her crazy with that, because I said it a lot.”

“And where is the wife now? Is she meeting you wherever you’re going?”

“No. She died a long time ago.”

His voice was low and his eyes were suddenly even sadder.

He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He just stared straight ahead and the only thing that overcame the silence was the gentle huff of the engine.

“I’m really sorry,” I said.  He didn’t react.

“Let me tell you about my family,” he said, still not looking at me. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, like he was concentrating on an important race, calming his nerves before that ever so important last effort to come across the finish line.

Another deep breath. Then he looked at me.

“My wife was a bit younger than me, 10 years to be exact. She was beautiful. Long, straight, jet black hair and olive colored skin. Almost like a Native American.

Looked younger than her age, too,” he said.

“She sounds very special,” I said. “If I close my eyes, it’s almost like you’re describing a girl I knew a while ago, back in Portland.”

“She…..” When I saw the look on his face, indignant and sad at the same time, I felt bad.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry man. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I apologize.”

“It’s ok kid,” he said with that rough voice, like a handsaw cutting a log.

“I met her at one of my reading tours. One of the very few I got to do, around 1974.

She loved to read books. Didn’t really like me at first. She thought I was a drunk and well…I guess I still am,” he said while raising another bottle in front of him, demonstrating a point.

“But she said that I was a great writer.”

“What was your book called?” I asked. “Maybe I’ve read some of your work.”

“I doubt it kid. It was called “Gospels for the diseased”. Read that? I sincerely doubt it,” he said. He seemed to be losing his temper now. I guess he was getting tired of my interruptions.

“Anyway, it took a while before we got together. About seven months. I had to chase her around a lot, because she was really dismissive of me in the beginning. But in the end we ended up together and it felt great. I was really happy. I earned some money from my books of poetry and we got to travel a lot. We went to Europe, traveled around and when we came back, I proposed. I wasn’t really expecting her to say yes, but I wasn’t even thinking at that point. I just thought that asking was the important part. But when she said yes, I was really happy. We moved to a small house in Jersey, outside of Albany and basically spent all our time together. Banging, drinking, smoking, talking.

I almost felt too happy with her, too much ease. I had no troubles. All that led to me quitting my writing. Like you said earlier kid, I just had nothing to say. You know what they say about writers, right?”

“Yeah. No suffering means no creativity and no writing. I think there was an African author that once said that suffering should give birth to something good.”

“Exactly,” he said. There was nothing there anymore. There was a tiny spark kept alive for a while but after she gave birth to my son, it was smothered. I haven’t written anything since.”

“That’s a shame.”

“It is. Maybe I was never that much into it. Bukowski would’ve killed me if he had ever heard me say that. Anyway, my son Tristan was born and he was just gorgeous. Looked just like her, too, with those hazel eyes. And things were perfect for a while. I doubt that you know the feeling, being so young and all but a man just feels like he has it all when he has a family.”

            I didn’t really know what to say anymore. The old man was spilling his guts out to a complete stranger. But I guess I didn’t really need to say anything at this point.

He was going to keep talking, no matter what.

“I should’ve known that something bad was gonna happen. Life was just too good, and that never lasts. Word of advice kid; always expect something bad out of life, especially if you’re in a period of happiness. 

“We just started arguing over anything. She was getting on my nerves, and I was getting on hers. You see, my money from the books ran out after a while, and I haven’t been to college. Didn’t even finish high school, so I had no qualifications whatsoever. You can only support your family so much on shitty, smalltime jobs. So the wife couldn’t really accept that. We fought all the time. She called me useless, a drunk and all that shit.

“Pissed me of something fierce. But I never hit her. Until……”

He was looking down on the floor now. His eyes were shut, but I was sure that I saw tears, swelling up like tiny balloons. I felt so awkward at this point. I didn’t want to make him say anything anymore, if it was too emotional, but to be honest I was really intrigued. Moments later he looked at me again.

“I came home ripped to the tits one night, and she started giving me all this attitude again, calling me names. So I smacked her. Didn’t even think that I hit her that hard. I mean, I was drunk and could barely stand up, but she fell down and her head made such a horrible thud. It sounded like a bowling ball hitting the floor. I knew something was wrong then, and she wasn’t moving.”

He took a deep breath again. “I killed my own wife.”

“Jesus. How long ago was this?”

“18 years ago.”

“Did you do any time?”

“No. I’ve never told anybody about this. Until now.”

“Why me, why tell somebody you’ve known for a day about something like this?”

“Because you seem like the kind of guy that I can trust not to tell anybody about it.”

“So what did you do? And what happened to your son?”

“My son…..I didn’t want to get caught for this and I couldn’t take care of a child on the run. He woke up in the middle of the night, screaming incessantly.

“I couldn’t take care of him because he would always remind me of what I’d done. So I went in to his room, took a pillow and…..”Well, I’m sure you can figure the rest of it out.”

I was stunned. This was not what I had expected from the story. My head was spinning and I thought that I was gonna throw up. My mind kept trying to picture him suffocating his own little boy and I wondered what went through his head when he did it. But I wasn’t going to ask him. He had already shocked me enough, and I wasn’t sure that I could take any more. 

            “What the hell did you do to their bodies?” I asked.

“I found a secluded field and buried them. I left the day after. Left everything behind. I’ve been on the road since.”

 I just couldn’t grasp all of this, and I didn’t really feel like talking to him anymore. For the next 14 hours we sat in complete silence.

When we arrived in Mesa, I decided to get off. I grabbed my bags and said goodbye to the old man, but without looking him in the eyes. I just couldn’t. Halfway out, in the middle of the aisle, he called at me.

“Hey kid.” I turned around.

“Keep listening to people tell stories, if you want to write. It’s the only way.”

The grin on his face seemed ambiguous at first, but after staring at him for a few seconds I realized that it was becoming more and more sinister. I walked out and hit the nearest bar. After a few drinks it hit me. Stories, he said. Keep listening to stories.

I would never find out if this one was true.