The Journey to the Missing 'N'

There is a rumor running rampant that the largest bus company in the nation (which shall remain nameless except for this one hint: their logo is a very fast animal that barks) has received an award for efficiency. Really? Have the people who give these awards ever actually taken the bus to their proposed destination? Well, I have taken the bus, and I can tell you that awards were the last things I was thinking of when I finally disembarked.

My journey began in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I had just released a new album and I was touring through the Carolinas when the call came out of the blue that I had a chance to do a radio interview in Nashville, Tennessee. My choices were to take a plane (too expensive), take a rental car (too much trouble, mainly because I would have had to return it to Winston-Salem), or take the bus. The flight would have taken 1 hour. The drive would have taken about 4-5 hours. The bus ride was going to take 13 hours, but it was appropriately priced for my meager pocketbook. So, at 4:00 AM on Thursday I stepped over the threshold (and a couple of folks who had passed out on the doorstep) and joined the royal fraternity of bus riders.

I had never ridden a bus before, so I didn't know that seats in the rear of the bus had "issues", including the fact that you had to sit near the bathroom, and you were nearer the engine than the passengers in front. The roar of the engine is kind of interesting for the first portion of the voyage, but 13 hours of it turned out to be a bit much. For weeks after this little episode I still heard the roar of the engine EVERYWHERE. I'm surprised Hitchcock never did a film about bus rides ("More chilling than The Birds---The Buses"). He could have just stood outside the bus station and filmed actual people with their faces pressed against the removable windows of bus 137 to Nashville, mouths open in horror, living in fear of NEVER getting off the bus. It would have been cheap to make and everyone who ever had to take this particular mode of transportation for any distance would be able to relate. He probably didn't make this film because he flew everywhere, the snob.

Engine noise wasn't the only issue. The odor emanating from the water closet started out bad and got worse. It reeked, and opening the windows wasn't an option. They say they keep the windows closed because the bus is "air conditioned". Yeah, right. The truth is, they won't let you open the windows because people might jump out while the bus is rolling down the highway.

Along about an hour into the journey, all of this bliss, and perhaps some toxic gases (and severe fatigue from getting up at 3AM) caused me to fall into a deep sleep. I dreamed of airplanes…

When I awoke I thought I distinctly heard that we were about to be in Nashville and that we would be stopping for a bit to have breakfast. This is good, I thought. I'm here already. This bus ride thing was a good idea. I was pleased.

But no! We weren't in Nashville; we were in Asheville, North Carolina. The 'N' was missing! Four hours into the journey and we weren't even out of Carolina yet! I stood in the middle of downtown Asheville in utter disbelief. When I finally collected myself I made my way to McDonald's to break the fast with the other prisoners. My breakfast at McDonald's tasted like the water closet, and I was unhappy with that development, to say the least. We reluctantly re-boarded (reluctant is not a strong enough word. It looked like a death march. We all trudged along, moving more and more deliberately as we approached our appointed seats, followed closely by an elfin bus driver with a gleeful and sinister laugh. He was obviously enjoying the moment, his moment of absolute power, safe in the knowledge that none of us would settle for the 'N'-less Asheville, knowing that we had to go on. I am certain that I smelled the distinct aroma of whips and hot irons. Fortunately he didn't need them, at least on this leg of the journey).

Nashville seemed like a distant planet.

Another hour crept by and suddenly we pulled to the side of the road and parked. Bus driver Bill came jogging by me and when I asked him why we were stopping he said only these words: "Gotta go". I hoped he meant that he had to go in the colloquial sense of the phrase and that he wasn't saying that he was abandoning us forever. He did return to the controls after a brief visit to the now slowly melting water closet. Like we weren't going slow enough already…why isn't there a co-pilot for these moments?

The stops became more frequent. Bill continued to wrestle with what apparently was a weak bladder, and every town needed bus service, so we serviced them. The bus stops became stranger and stranger. We pulled in behind little filling stations, and near large oak trees, vacant lots; all apparently in hopes of finding other poor lost souls to add to our troupe. More times than not these stops were fruitless and yielded no new passengers while simultaneously adding to our tardiness. Somewhere around Knoxville we paused to pick up "Freight". We pulled over in the middle of nowhere and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally another bus pulled up and Busdriver Bill got out, received the "freight" (a matchbox size package that one might bury the family turtle in upon his passing) and loaded it on the now extremely tardy bus.

Thirteen hours on a bus makes you think about things that don't really matter, but seem important at the time. If you're not terribly bright, you find yourself thinking about everything you can, and then revisiting those same thoughts again and again, all accompanied by the sweet music emanating from the diesel engine and the rapidly deteriorating gear box. Like why do they make it so hard to see the sky directly above the bus? Perhaps it's because they're afraid you'll see an airplane passing overhead, loaded with happy passengers who will get there (wherever "there" is) way before you, and this scene will make you sob uncontrollably. Busdriver Bill is not equipped for such emotional outbursts, and even if he were, he doesn't have time for that. He obviously has other pressing matters on his agenda, and your emotional well being is way down on his list.

Fourteen hours after we left Winston-Salem we arrive in Nashville. I am slightly deranged and disoriented. I can't remember why I had made the trip in the first place. I exit with the other happy customers and I am allowed to smell the sweet smell of freedom. A four-hour trip completed in just under fourteen hours and they even got the "freight" delivered.

Now, that's award-winning efficiency.

by Dennis Welch