“PAINT IT RED” was my father’s backhand way of saying “Forget it,” and I did my best to follow that advice after the close call with the jailbird. But it was the sort of thing you can’t blot out in your mind by saying so. Even after I hurriedly fixed the money matter by retrieving the stash from the shirt in the suitcase and pinning it under the pocket of the one I was wearing, there was no covering over the fact that I had nearly lost just about everything I owned—the precious autograph book excepted, thank goodness—by my bragging. That’ll teach you, Red Chief, I mentally kicked myself, and for the rest of that morning on the ride down to Minneapolis I kept to my seat and watched the other passengers out of the corner of my eye lest I be invaded by some other wrongdoer.
Luckily that did not happen, the bus inhabitants minding their manners and leaving me alone—maybe I was painted red to them—and around noon my attention was taken up by the way the Greyhound little by little was navigating streets where the buildings grew taller and taller. We were now in the big half of the Twin Cities, according to the driver’s good-natured announcement, and whatever the other place was like, everything about Minneapolis was more than sizable as I perched on the edge of my seat peering out at it all. The first metropolis—it puffed itself up to that by stealing half the word, didn’t it—of my life.
Wide as my eyes were at the sights and scenes, it was hard to take it all in. Even the department store windows showing off the latest fashions seemed to dwarf those in, say, Great Falls. Likewise, the sidewalks were filled with throngs that would not have fit on the streets back in Montana. People, people everywhere, as traffic increasingly swarmed around us, the tops of cars turtling along below the bus windows barely faster than the walking multitudes.
As the Greyhound crept from stoplight to stoplight, I couldn’t help gawking at so many passersby in suits and snappy hats and good dresses on an ordinary day, each face another world of mystery to me. Where were they going, what drew them out dressed to the gills like promenaders in an Easter parade? Where did they live, in the concrete buildings that seemed to go halfway to the sky or in pleasant homes hidden away somewhere? I wished this was Wisconsin so I could start to have answers to such things, all the while knowing I was many miles yet from any kind of enlightenment.
When we at last pulled in to the block-long driveway of the terminal, with numerous buses parked neatly side by side as if the silver dogs were lined up to start a race, the driver called out that routine I knew by heart now, lunch stop, conveniences, and so on. Minneapolis, however, was his changeover spot, so he got off ahead of the rest of us, but the relief driver was not there yet, and when I reached the bottom of the steps, the departing driver gave me a little salute and said with a serious smile, “Take care of yourself, son.”
Son. My chest was out, I’m sure, as I charged through the double doors of the bus station. I knew the driver had only said it because we were inadvertent buddies after dealing with the larcenous man in the suit, but no one had called me that for the past two years.
In high spirits, I gazed around the teeming depot to scout matters out. The slick-looking blue building, when we’d pulled up to it, took up most of the block, with a rounded entrance on the corner where three fleet greyhounds the same as on the bus seemed to be in an everlasting chase after one another around the top of the building. But more impressive to me was an actual restaurant, just like you’d find on a street, tucked inside the majestic terminal, with a full menu posted. It hooked me at first sight; all due apology to Gram and her decree of a sandwich for lunch, my stomach was only interested in a real meal. Hadn’t I been through a lot since Bemidji, coping with the danger of being robbed blind? That kind of narrow escape was bound to cause an appetite, right? Besides, I still was carrying loose change wanting to be spent.
Anyway, feeling highly swayve and debonure out on my own in grown-up territory, I found a table where I could see the big clock over the ticket counter—most of an hour yet until the bus was to leave, but I wasn’t taking any chances—and was served Swiss steak by a pleasant waitress, although I didn’t know what she was called because it wasn’t written on her breast. To me in my grand mood, only one name in pink stitching deserved such prominence anyway.