Saturday, May 23, 2009

$8.47 For The Hot Dog & Coke






These are the rest of the ill-fated Indianapolis trip. The price for that pale son of a bitch hot dog should have been a warning. I do enjoy Greyhound, though. I like being on the bus at night, the only one awake. Seeing a red dot that might be a Coke machine a half-mile away at a gas station. Horatio Salt told me before I left that there are always bus stories. Richard Matheson wrote a few, his ownself.

I'm still getting notes about my head. Its OK right now, earlier I had a screaming headache, and I don't even want to talk about yesterday. As long as I don't get double-vision, I'm cool. After the contusions in my head after the accident in 1989, I described the headaches as like having a twisty nail hammered into my head, yanked out, then punched in just...a...little...bit deeper. This wouynd here, its cake. Not good cake, mind you.

5 comments:

Charles Gramlich said...

I've only ridden a bus once late at night, on a long trip. But I know what you mean.

Steve Malley said...

Something about bus trips in America puts me in touch with the truth of the country: the space, the distances, our vast economic underclass. Yeah, Greyhound rocks...

James Robert Smith said...

Take care of yourself, Wayne. You're in charge of some precious American cargo, dude.

Danny said...

Damn...Wish I could have been there, Wayne.

G. W. Ferguson said...

Off-topic:

Another kind of "Psycho"