COVER -> American Dreams
When the door opened, the wind caused a decided chill, as we stood in line for seats on the Greyhound from Chicago to Omaha. The Hispanic couple with their three beautiful children cut quite a figure, eating fried chicken from a plastic grocery bag, the children dancing in a circle and waving their arms overhead, bumping into people because of their dizziness - no one minded the bump.
Behind them was the tall, lean blond with a very large backpack, heavily accented English - it sounded Scandinavian at first - and a sack of fruit in his left hand. He was talking to a young American Black, in low whispers, laugh- ing from time to time between themselves, seemingly recalling fun and mischief that they had shared.
Between the tall fellow and myself was a young couple leaning against a baggage cart more from exhaustion than for simple relaxation. Although the wind was cold and the weather damp and chilly, she wore only light weight green scrubs, a patterned black blouse and shower sandals. She wore a filthy dark green coat that was at least four sizes too large for her. The young man was dressed in grunges, black droopy pants, torn long-sleeved orange T- shirt with a religious blasphemy of some sort emblazoned on it, worn and abused hundred-dollar high-top sneakers (no socks), and a strange cap (later I realized it was a common billed cap with the bill torn off, worn backwards). His coat too was worn, filthy and very large for his frame. They were both small - she no more than five feet two, he about five feet six - and thin, even gaunt.
The bus driver was very polite, even solicitous, about each person's comfort and enjoyment of the ride. He appeared to be in his fifties, a very black Black with large, kind grandfatherly eyes, a beautiful smile and straight bright teeth. He helped wipe the Hispanic children's sticky fingers with one end of a wet towel while the father wiped his own on the other end. He told the children they would be seeing wondrous American countryside, as they looked him in the face, thoroughly bewildered, obviously unfamiliar with the English language. He helped the mother with her coat and raised two of the children up with one sweep for the father to carry them to their seats.
The Mutt-and-Jeff pair were next. They presented their tickets and spoke softly to the driver. Then all three chuckled as they went to the bus.
The young couple leaning on the baggage cart took the one small shopping bag that they had on the cart and moved forward, pushing the cart to one side. She reached into the bag and pulled out the tickets, presented them to the driver and paused. The driver drilled the tickets with his punch, gave them a hearty welcome and passed them on.
Just as he began to take my ticket, a plain-clothed security guard - the lump above his belt in the small of his back betrayed a revolver and he was thoroughly familiar with the staff here - whispered loudly to the driver, "Do they look like runaways to you?"
"Not really," the driver replied.
"He's carrying a driver's license that says he is twenty-three, but I do not believe it. It is a good license, though, not a fake. Jus' doin' my job." He shrugged, chuckled and walked on, glancing to both sides through the press of riders that were now standing at the gates on the west side of the terminal.
"Mind if I have a smoke before boarding the bus?" I asked the driver.
"If your mama lets you smoke, I guess it would be all right with me," the driver replied with a smile. "Here, stand in front of the bus so I won't forget you."
I lit a cigarette as the security guard came to me from my right. He was having a smoke, too.
I told the guard that I had clear memories of the old Chicago Greyhound station, the one that was completely underground. Late at night, two elderly Black gentlemen from the terminal maintenance staff would mop the floor. They had mops with handles that were at least six feet long - or appearing to be that long to a youngster. They would shuffle down the room, from the entranceway to the rear, side by side, taking short steps to move forward with their mopping - it was shuffling, and it was a dance, too, as I thought about it. They made those long arching sweeps with their mops. The cleanser they used on the floors had a pungent pine smell, plus the infamous Greyhound bus station disinfectant - once you smelled it you would recall that odor anywhere, any time, for the rest of your life. And they sang. Not loudly. Quite softly. You had to be quiet to hear them. They sang very sophisticated arrangements of duets, sometimes rhythmical blues numbers, sometimes children's songs, sometimes popular music of the day. But quietly and softly, so that everyone had to be quiet to hear them.He asked if I thought the young couple might be runaways, and I answered that I did not think so. While they looked very young, I was of the opinion that their appearance was deceptive - they were older than they looked. Then we commented back and forth on their appearance. She had two rings in her left eyebrow, recently pierced, with a puffy soreness apparent above her eye and a small amount of fluid draining from the holes. She also had a lip ring in the left corner of her mouth, also quite sore. Beneath her eyes were the long, dark streaks of bluish green that showed, not a bruise, but exhaustion. She had been awake for days and days, not just overnight."You know what it was, don't you?" I asked the guard.
"Tell me what you mean. I don't get it," he replied.
"They were singing the terminal to sleep. Their job was to put out there the Greyhound terminal lullaby for the folks who would have to spend the night in the terminal waiting for a morning connection. They were not there just to clean the floor. They were getting the travelers ready for shut-eye."
"That's beautiful, man. That's wonderful. We need that here, now. We need to get our folks bedded down at night to wait for morning buses, too, but we sure as hell don't have moppers who can get the folks ready for shut- eye. I wonder what became of them," he said.
"I wonder, too," I replied.
"Well, I think it is a fifty-fifty chance they are runaways, but I need more than that. If they are, I hope they are returning home, not running farther away. I sure as hell don't want to hassle them if they aren't, because that gets my ass all jammed up." He drew one more pull on his cigarette, put the butt in the sand bucket, said goodbye and goodluck and turned to walk back into the terminal.
The only strange feature of the young man that I noticed was his hands. On the eight spaces between the joints on the fingers of each hand were small tattoos - I could not tell what, but clearly tattoos. Like the young lady, he also had a lip ring, on the far left of his mouth, but it had been there a long, long time. It was not a fresh piercing like hers. The other matter about him was the wad of money he pulled out of his pocket - several hundred dollars at the very least, straightened in a pile, then curled or rolled into a ball and stuffed in his pocket. When standing in line, he had pulled it out two or three times and looked at it - not counting the money, not opening the wad, just looking at it. His ankles were badly scratched - his pants went down to about mid-calf, exposing enough of his ankles and lower leg to see deep scratches, most of them now covered with scabs, obviously recent in origin but almost painful to look at. She also had scratches on her ankles, but nowhere near as deep or as sore as his.
There were fewer than thirty people on the bus as we pulled out of the Chicago terminal. It was 7:40 a.m. and I had been waiting since 3:45 a.m. I welcomed the cushioned seat which would, of course, become more and more uncomfortable after two days.
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Prison had toughened him. He sat for a long time staring out the window, on the aisle side of the seat-pair, as I sat across from him in the window seat on my side.
At first, I did not realize he was talking to me. I was tired and thought that I would go to sleep soon, but the coffee had kicked in and I was unable to sleep. I had a book, a very technical treatise on the status of the American Indian in federal law, written by Father Prucha. I heard spoken words, of course, but I did not realize that they were from my travelmate and that they were directed at me. When I did realize it was he speaking and to me that it was directed, I paid attention. But I missed the very first part. "She's almost five now. Her hair is blond. She has blue eyes. She is very tough. Won't cry when she falls and hurts herself. Picks herself up and goes on with her business. She is always busy. Never asks for things to do. Never says she is bored. Always up to her busy-ness.
"Last time I saw her she was two. Luckily my mother was there and took a picture. It was at my trial. Mom got a good shot of her. Take a look." He reached for the little rectangle he had lying in his lap. It was a three by five photo, first pasted to a piece of card- board - the kind that tablets are glued to - and later with the edges re-fastened with scotch tape, by now the surface smudgy and dirty.
It was hard to see clearly the little figure, apparently in her mother's arms, unmistakably a two-year-old, blonde, blue-eyed little girl.
"Haven't heard a word from my wife. Not directly, that is. I got the papers for the divorce, of course. And the court notified me two years ago that she had moved to Omaha. And the court also notified me a few months ago that there would be a final hearing on the mother's sole custody petition this Friday. That gave me three and a half days to get from Joliet to Omaha.
"T'hell with the lawyers. I'll go to the hearing. But just to see my daughter. Her real name is Prudence. `Prudy' we call her. Well, that's something neither her mother nor her father had an ounce of, ain't it true? Prudence. I still laugh when I think about it. Her mom was reading one of those romance novels. The lead character was named Prudence. Well, that is how kids get named these days, right?"
I had been very attentive throughout. As he spoke, when he sought my approval with a question, I nodded. As he rehearsed the bad times, I dutifully tsk-tsk-ed. When he brought up startling facts and experiences, I looked startled. There was no exchange of words, but rather a two-way communication by way of body language and monosyllables sotto voce.
"I am not asking for nothing, mind you. Not a bit. Nothing. She had the Bonneville, fully paid off. She had the house with over twelve thousand dollars paid down on it and two years' worth of payments. She had decent furniture, a nice community, all that shit that goes with it. She was the one who wrecked the car, totaled it on the freeway. She was the one who did not make the payments on the house and had to sell it for less than the goddam down payment. Lazy bitch won't get a job, no, no job, too busy taking care of Prudy to get a job. Begging my mom for money all the time. Sponging off her parents, my in-laws, my old boss.
"I ain't asking for anything, even what is rightfully mine, my own shit. This here cattle buyer that she is living with, let him pay the bills. He gets to enjoy living with Kathy and Prudy, let him pay for them. At this point, I just do not feel responsible.
"I am figuring that this is going to be my last chance to see Prudy. I have thought this through very carefully. After all, I have had time to think though lots of things very carefully - all the time in the world. And I am all right with it. It's all right with me. Kathy can get on with her life, with Prudy, I suppose."His voice trailed off after this point. He had been speaking more and more slowly, ever more quietly, until I could not discern anything. His head nodded a few times and he fell asleep.
The fourth stop was a rest stop where the passengers could leave the bus for food, toilet, smoke, fresh air or whatever. The Hispanic family was seated behind the driver and they were all - all five of them - sound asleep, the youngest child snoring loudly.
The Mutt-and-Jeff pair got off the bus and went inside the truck stop to buy food. They returned with a large sack of junk food.Their behavior seemed so strange, this Scandinavian young man and the American Black engaged in soft, quiet chatter, constant, incessant chatter - laughing occasionally, fully engaged with each other. A mysterious pairing, it seemed.
When we got on the bus again, my travelmate across the aisle awoke. He asked if we had stopped for food and drink and I replied in the affirmative. He went to the front of the bus and asked the driver if there was time for him to retrieve a cup of coffee. The bus driver said we had a full fifteen minutes before departure and to go fetch the coffee and not rush.
He returned with a sweet, creamy coffee which he sipped loudly with decided relish. "I'll never drink another cup of black coffee, if I can help it. Three years of that swill. I like one quarter cream and three quarters coffee, with lots of sugar stirred in. That's coffee to me."
He cradled the coffee in his two hands, a paper cup, obviously not very hot with all the cream he had poured into it. His face appeared to be almost worshipful as he glanced into the cup. Then sipped. Then worshipped some more. "Everyone thinks that I am the badass in this situa- tion, y'know. Everyone."
"Well, I don't know you well enough to know if you are a badass or not," I replied.
He looked annoyed that I had spoken. This was his monologue, not some sort of conversation. He was not finished telling his story and I would be well advised to keep my remarks to myself - I read that from his look, not from anything he said.
"Sure, I have a bad discharge from the navy. Sure, I went AWOL three times. Sure, I caused trouble with two other sailors. That's a fact. But there are more facts than that. There are not just a few facts about me. There are some more facts that have to be taken into account. "These two fellows that I beat up, they was humping Kathy. Both of them. Sometimes both of them at the same time - y'know, one right after the other - I don't mean simultaneous. Not that I blame them, either. But what's a man to do? She is out there, inviting them aboard, sitting in the bar loaded and horny - she always got horny when she got loaded - and she invites them to take care of business for her. She didn't know - and she wouldn't care either - that they were my shipmates, even bunkmates. I knew what she was like before I married her. I knew what went on. I also assumed that it would continue after we got married. I loved her, and it was all right then.
"But then it changed. Hearing them two swabbies bragging about jumping Kathy, how much and how hard they could drive her, made her sound like a horse, a draft animal. Sure, I lost it. Sure, I beat the shit out of the two of them - at the same time, just like they humped Kathy at the same time, I beat hell out of them at the same time. See these marks on my left hand? Them's teeth marks. Six teeth, all across the top, removed with a combination of a left cross and his face hitting on a pipe. Then I hit him again and a half a tooth got buried in my knuckle.
"The other one, they had to remove his nuts. The surgeon had to do it. Crushed. Crushed nuts with my bare feet. It felt good, too.
"Hey, if they had spoken of her with respect, like whatta good lay she was, like how pretty she was, how she could really make a man feel like a man. Y'know, I might have taken it as a compliment. Well, y'never know - like after the fact and all that.
"The lawyer said it was an unprovoked attack. Like out of the blue I sailed into these two and beat them up. What's a fella supposed to do? I was not in the mood to tell them the details. That was up to the investigating officer, wasn't it? I was in no mood at that point to tell them all about my private life, about my whoring wife.
"Sometimes, when you try to get the law to take your side, you wait years and years for an outcome. My mom had to wait for three years to get an insurance settlement, then back to court and wait two more years before she got her first dime. Me, I am in the navy accused of assault against these two swabbies and within seventy two hours I am no longer in the navy.
"When they want, they can make the law work awful fast, can't they?"
After a long silence, he said, "Wish I had gotten another large cup of creamy coffee. Damn!"
He turned to the window. He looked as though he was quite relieved, after having told his side of the navy story.
I hauled out my book and read for over four hours.At the next long stop - another truck stop - almost everyone got out and lined up for food. I had sandwiches and a few bottles of ginger ale to drink. I bought a bag of chips and a cup of coffee, black coffee.
My travelmate looked in the cup and said, laughing, "You a ex-con, too?"
He ate a submarine sandwich and a bag of chips, with another large creamy coffee to wash it all down. He had a second cup in another plastic bag on the adjoining seat. The eating went quickly and he turned to me again, as though there were some sort of unfinished business he had to take care of.
"I've never smoked a joint in my life. Never a line of coke. No crack either. None of it. None. I don't smoke cigarettes because I don't like drugs in me - even nicotine. I had a few beers in high school, never liked the hard stuff, don't consume alcohol at all. Caffeine is the only exception, probably from drinking too much cola as a kid. And the court turns me into a junky. Isn't that some kind of sorry shit, man? Me, the junky.
"Again, there's facts and there's other facts. Sure, I could have said, Kathy, no more coke, no more crack. Go cold and get it over with, because you'll never have `nother taste of shit as long as you live.
"Sure, I could have said that. But have you seen someone go through withdrawal? She died on me, really. At least I thought she was going to die. I can't go though another night like the one where I locked her up, then sat with her as she went through withdrawal.
"That's the one thing I always hated about East Saint Louis, Illinois - the crack is always available. She could go to the dry cleaner, a half block away, and either at the shop or on the way she would get it and come back and go to the toilet and come out and be another person. It was no secret. Everyone in the neighborhood knew she was an addict. But so was the cop. So was the postman. So was the recreation guy at the park. Hell, I think her priest was an addict!
"All the money went to crack. Y'know what that is like? Prudy did not have proper clothes, did not have good food to eat. My mom always tried to look on the bright side of things. She always said that Kathy was a good mother, but then it would come out that Prudy did not have decent clothes and all she ate was junk food. What does it take to have a mother forget a child, her own child, a human being that was born between her legs? What does it take? Crack. That's what it takes. It makes monsters out of people.
"So I am thinking, I cannot stop this. What if I get her a small stash of crack, y'know, a stash she can go to when she needs some. We come to a agreement that she tries to stretch it out, like one in the morning and one in the afternoon and tries to make it last as long as possible. And we're working serious on this as a way to get by, a way to live.
"I think we have a understanding. I make the contact. I come up with the $500 and I make the arrangements. I pick up the crack - it's in a grocery plastic bag, got Kroger written on it. I make no effort to conceal it. It's on the front seat of the pickup.
"The goddam cop comes through the stop sign, going at least sixty miles an hour, chasing this kid, hits the pickup truck and arrests me for a traffic violation. I am running my mouth when he cuffs me and walks to the truck and sees the bag and says, `Well, well, what we got here?' And I get three years. And the prosecutor says that I am the junky. I am, once again, the badass.
"Me? I am thinking that the cops have investigators. They will find out the real story. They will find out that I do not drink and I do not do drugs and that Kathy is a addict.
"You know what, man? They never interviewed her. They never talked to a neighbor. They never questioned my mom or her mom. No one ever asked the question, `Who uses drugs in this house?' Am I going to rat out my own wife? Sure, she is a whoring bitch, but am I going to rat her out? Sure, she is a addict who cannot take care of her own flesh and blood. Am I going to set her up to do time?
"It's clear to me immediately, clear as a bell. Kathy cannot do time. Me? I can do time, but Kathy cannot do time. She has this condition. Mom gets me this lawyer who plea bargains the case to seven years, three years with good behavior. Me? I behave good when I have to. Me? I got the record. I am the junky. I am the badass.
"Wanna laugh? Wanna have a good laugh on me? The welfare, the Illinois welfare, the state people `cause I am a con, and they investigate to see how Kathy is doing. They tell her to stay home and take care of Prudy and they will make sure she has enough to live on.
"It ain't enough, of course. Never is. She goes to my mom and to her folks and says how rough it is and they are forever lending her money. Me? I am humiliated. Every time my mom tells me how she gives Kathy money, I feel humiliated, like I can't take care of my own and all that. The wel- fare? Well, I'm sorry but the state put me here where I cannot work for my family. That's their business. But they can keep my family going for me as long as they have me locked up. That's how I feel about it.
"Then last year, there is this big reform thing and Kathy and Prudy are caught in the middle. Kathy goes back to school to learn bookkeeping.
"With help from the state people again, she gets a terrific job as a billing agent at the stockyards. She meets this guy and they get along fine. And the next thing, the company transfers him to Omaha and Kathy follows and takes Prudy there.
"Here comes the clincher. Here comes the big one. I got this four year old Bonneville, she's one sweet machine. I am figuring that the pickup is good enough for Kathy to get around in. Sure, it got damaged in the accident, but it got repaired and runs ok. I tell Kathy don't drive my Bonnie. Don't never drive my Bonnie, `less you have a very, very good reason.
"Course, there is no good reason. Within a week after I am sent to Joliet, she goes into my dresser and finds the key. She wants to go to Springfield to make a crack score. She gets seven miles north of East Saint Louis and off the road she goes, totals the Bonnie. She comes out without a scratch - my mom was watching Prudy at the time. Not only is the car totaled, but it costs $80 to take it to the junk yard!
"Kathy quits. Kathy goes cold turkey for the weekend and quits the crack. This to me is mind-boggling. I am barely arrived at the pen and she quits and it was her goddam addition that got me here in the first place. Hey! I don't make no bones about it. I cried! It's still enough to make me cry when I think about it.
"Well, Kathy and this cattle buyer are settled down in Omaha. Mom is coming to meet me here, said she would stand by me no matter what, took the bus from East Saint Louis. I gotta see Prudy for myself. Friday we all talk with the judge. We'll see what happens."
The Iowa landscape had changed from the rolling country to the flat lands, from the flat lands to the rolling hills that adjoin the Missouri River, and on the horizon we could see the outlines of tall buildings. Omaha, twenty-five years ago, was a lively bustling city with a wonderful downtown. As the bus left the freeway and made its way to the terminal, I could tell that the ravages of malls and suburbs had been visited on poor Omaha. The downtown looks like hell. Multimillions of dollars have been made in the business community and by the financiers but there is no one left to plead the cause for a dying downtown. Omaha, the real American city at the edge of the millennium.
"God bless America!" he said. "Mom is here, there she is waiting."
As we left the bus - all had to get off for the bus to be serviced - her voice could be heard. "Mark, Mark!" she called.
He picked her up and turned her about, swinging her round and round. She choked and gulped, both of them laughing.
"How did you know I could be arriving on this bus? Why did you come so early? How are you?" he would have continued asking questions without waiting for answers had she not put her hand over his mouth.
"We'll take care of all your questions later. I have us a place to stay," she said.
He had a small canvas bag in his right hand, his left arm drooped over his mother's shoulder. He waved a little with his left hand as they walked out of the terminal and he turned to me as he said, "Wish me luck." It was obvious that his light skin and blue eyes had come from his father. His mother was a very beautiful, very dark Afro-American, no more than fifty years old, slim and trim, dressed in a well tailored blue suit, as tall as her son but half the weight, a mighty handsome pair as they walked from the terminal.
Under my breath I said, "Good luck."
COMING FRIDAY: Part 2 of 3 "Carly and Udy"
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