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WITH THE SUN glinting in the panel window my jacket pillow was crammed against, I woke up confused about where I was. Blinking and squinting, I wrestled myself upright until it all began to become familiar, the ranks of seats around me, some with heads showing and some not, the road hum of the bus tires, the countryside—greener than it had been the day before—flying past at a steady clip.
“Uh, sir?” I called to the latest driver, still foggy. “Where are we?”
“Minnie Soda,” he responded in a mock accent. “Meal stop coming up in Bemidji.”
What language was that? Actually, my stomach didn’t care. It was ready for one of Gram’s prescriptions that I could obey to the letter—stuff myself with a big breakfast.
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HE MUST HAVE singled me out there by myself at a side table as I wolfed down bacon and eggs and hotcakes. The man in the ill-fitting suit, who has haunted me to this day.
As misfortune would have it, my classy western shirt caught a dribble of maple syrup from a forkful of hotcake, and stayed sticky no matter how I wiped at it. Not wanting to draw flies for the rest of the trip, I checked around the depot for the bus driver and spotted him in conversation with the ticket agent. Finishing off my breakfast as fast as I could, I scurried over to ask if I could please have my suitcase long enough to change shirts. That drew me a look, evidently my reputation among bus drivers as a stray not helping any, but he took pity on me and out we went to the luggage compartment. “Better hurry, freckles, I have to keep to the schedule,” he warned as I hustled to the restroom with the suitcase.
In there, a lathered guy was shaving over a sink and a couple of others were washing up, and there was what I thought was only the usual traffic to the toilet stalls, so I didn’t feel too much out of place opening the wicker suitcase on the washbasin counter and stripping off my snap-button shirt and whipping on a plain one. Tucking the syruped shirt away in the suitcase, I did the same with the batch of Green Stamps, a nuisance to carry around. Then I had to dash for the bus, but the driver was waiting patiently by the luggage compartment, and I wasn’t even the last passenger. Behind me was the man, who must have been in a toilet stall while I was busy at my suitcase.
I desposited myself in my same seat, feeling restored and ready for whatever the day brought. I thought.
“Hello there, cowboy. Mind some company?” The man, whom I had not really been aware of until right then, paused beside the aisle seat next to me, looking around as if I were the prize among the assortment of passengers.
“I guess not.” For a moment I was surprised, but then realized he must have noticed my bronc rider shirt, as Gram called it, before I changed. He appeared to be good enough company himself, smiling as if we shared a joke about something, even though he did remind me a little of Wendell Williamson in the way he more than filled his clothes. Wearing a violet tie and pigeon-gray suit—I figured he must have put on weight since buying it and I sympathized, always outgrowing clothes myself—he evidently was fresh from the barbershop, with a haircut that all but shined. Easing into the seat next to mine, he settled back casually as the bus pulled out and did not say anything until we left Bemidji behind and were freewheeling toward Minneapolis, some hours away. But then it started.
Crossing his arms on his chest with a tired exhalation, he tipped his head my direction. “Man alive, I’ll be glad to get home. How about you?”
“Me, too,” I answered generally, for I would be glad beyond measure to have Wisconsin over and done with, and the return part of my round-trip ticket delivering me back to Gram and whatever home turned out to be, if that could only happen.
“Life on the road. Not for sissies.” He shook his head, with that smile as if we both got the joke. “You’re starting pretty young, to be a traveler.”
“Twelve going on thirteen,” I stretched things a little, and for once my voice didn’t break.
He maybe showed a tic of doubt at that, but didn’t question it. Himself, he was going gray, matching the tight-fitting suit. He had a broad, good-natured face, like those cartoons of the man in the moon, although, as Gram would have said, he must have kept it in the pantry; his complexion was sort of doughy, as if he needed to be outdoors more. “I’m all admiration,” he said with that confiding shake of his head. “Me, I’m on the go all the time for a living, and anybody who can do it for pleasure gets my vote.”
I must have given him a funny look, although I tried not to. The only thing about my trip that had anything to do with pleasure was phony Pleasantville, so I steered the conversation back to him. “What do you do to keep the sheriff away?”
“Eh?” He glanced at me as if I’d jabbed him in the ribs.