If I thought I needed the extra bus fare for my emotional baggage, I would have bought the extra seat. There’s a lot of us in here going to where the line ends, and I’m stuck holding my regrets lunch sack style in my lap like a schoolboy. I didn’t want to arrive for intake as unprepared as this.
If this is the group of us, here and now, it’ll be tough to choose a gang. That much can be seen. I’m not a rough and tumble type. I’ve never led a ragtag group of ne’er-do-wells. I’ll have to leave it up to fate to find me at a lunch table with whoever has the space.
I’m sitting next to a large man in corduroy coveralls who leans in and asks me, “First time?”
I try to convince my cheeks not to go blushed, but they rush to rosy anyway. I say, “Yeah, you?”
“I got in one time in ’29. Big-time flood of prospects that year. Spent a whole three months in solitary and another two in general. All in all, not a bad way to spend the summer.”
I smile and say, “That must have been something,” but I’m seething under the surface. I’ve been vying for a trip to lockup for three years and never once got a chance before a magistrate, not even one time had my petition reviewed. Here on this Greyhound, I’m just happy my number is finally up. I’m just glad to be on my way to the big house.
The driver makes an announcement that we’re three miles out. Says to keep our asses still and don’t one of us stand up early. A few overachievers leap up and wave their arms and get clubbed back down to the sticky leather. “No added time, here,” a guard says.
The woman sitting in front of me turns to the big guy, tells him she was due for a stint in ’29, too. She says she wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Tells us both that having a ticket isn’t the same as riding the bus.
“People’s sentences get stayed all the time, but once you’re on the transport there’s no turning back. You’re as good as got.”
She’s knitting an amorphous blob of something out of peach-colored yarn with two sharp needles she produces from her sleeves. I’ll have to watch her closely in the common room.
“I’m due,” she says. “I’ve got so much work piled up at the house, if I don’t get some time to myself, I might explode. I might just downright explode if I can’t get away for even just a month. Hell, if I play my cards right, I might never go back. I might just become a lifer.”
My heart flutters at the thought, but I tell it to be still. One should never count their chickens before they hatch, and that goes double for trips to the pen. Recidivism doesn’t come easy. You’ve got to really work the system.
Out on the last stretch of pavement before the road turns to dirt, there’s a railroad crossing stopped dead by a halted freighter. There’re people out in front holding signs. The transport bus lurches to a stop and guards speak foreign codes into their talkies. One guy shouts that he can see his mother out there with a bullhorn. Lady in front slaps her forehead and says, “God damn it, Cheryl. Always with the meddling.”
And then the horde surrounds us, puts their hands on the sides of the vehicle and we go rocking. They’re chanting about responsibilities and forgotten families, repairs to broken-down cars and visits with in-laws. One of them starts up singing a folk song that no one can hear, his acoustic guitar emblazoned with big bold letters that read THIS MACHINE PREVENTS PEOPLE FROM UP AND RUNNING OFF AND AVOIDING THEIR LIVES BACK HOME—AND ALSO KILLS FASCISTS.
Big guy starts getting antsy. He pulls me in close and motions for the lady in front to join us.
“I’m not going back. I’ve come too far. This might be my last chance to never see the sun again.”
The lady smacks his shoulder, nods her head fast in agreement.
“We’re with you, Slim,” she says. “You think I’m going out there with Cheryl? Never. Ain’t that right, friend?”
I’m giddy at the prospect of inclusion. This could be the start of our very own gang. We could even put in for the same work detail, maybe just expand this little group into a full-blown force.
“Let’s go to prison,” I say through gritted teeth.
Before I can think twice, the three of us are barreling toward the front of the bus. The lady rushes the driver while Slim and I push off hopefuls and shoulder check guards. Slim’s big paws manage to get around a heater, and he puts it to the crowd. The remaining guards toss theirs to the floor and I retrieve them, throwing one to the lady who is now behind the wheel. She orders the uniformed men out of the bus, then pulls down the brim of her new driving cap and floors the gas.
“What’s the sentence for armed robbery and theft of a motor vehicle, stretch?” she shouts to me.
I’ve got a nickname. An honest to God, bona fide con-tag. From here on out, it’s Slim, Stretch, and—the Driver? Lady Driver? We’ll work on it.
The way me and Slim figure it, we’re facing twenty a piece just for this stunt alone. Who knows how much more we can rack up when we get there. With the huge gray fortress looming heavily in sight, we press on toward salvation and sing Jimmy Buffett and Neil Diamond, the other soon-to-be jailbirds dutifully singing the bah bah bah’s.
At this rate, I may never go home. Who needs home when you’ve got three hots and a cot? Who needs family when you’ve got Slim and Amelia Earnhardt by your side? That one might stick. I like that one. We’ll workshop it later in the yard.