Fate did not want us on this bus. Fate had abandoned subtlety, and had wrapped herself around my leg, begging us to not to board as I dragged her up the steps and on to the awaiting Greyhound.
It was ten before five on a brisk fall afternoon in the ugly bus station a mile east of the house where George W. Bush lives. Fate's first warning: as the guy announced over the speaker that the next bus to New York would be leaving at five, the girl at the counter insisted there wasn't a bus until six.
Odd. But, knowing Greyhound tickets are valid for any time, we chose to ignore her. I bought one for myself while Jenny was in the bathroom, but the girl wouldn't let my buy one for Jenny until she saw Jenny's ID.
Odd. While I waited for Jenny to emerge, a dude in a leather jacket offered to sell me a ticket he guaranteed was valid. Now, I know from experience that nothing valid is ever sold by dudes in leather jackets. But the clock was ticking.
The sign at Gate 1 said that the bus to New York always boards at Gate 1. The guy at Gate 1, however, insisted that the New York bus was boarding at Gate 5. Neither counter worker would confirm this. Odd.
But we were anxious to get home, so ignored Fate's hints. Against all logic, we bought the potentially -fake ticket to the probably-non-existent 5:00 bus and boarded it at the undoubtedly-incorrect gate. Against all odds, the door slammed shut, and before we could even sit we were on our way to New York.
Fate stood at the curb and watched us depart, sadly shaking her head. We settled into the only available seats -- aisle seats in the last row before the bathroom.
Realizing the terrible ramifications of our unfortunate location, Fate resolved to keep trying.
An hour into the drive, an unscheduled, unofficial rest stop somewhere on I-95. As he dashed to the bathroom, the driver warned us not to enjoy Roy Rogers too long, because there weren't any other Greyhounds coming to pick us up if we got left behind; but we bought our ice cream treats in plenty of time.
A few minutes later, a truck spun out right in front of us. It shot sparks across the road, and very nearly collided with us; but our driver deftly avoided accident, and we kept going.
Exhausted by this point, Fate knew she couldn't save us. All she could do was exhibit impeccably poetic timing: it happened as soon as we crossed the New Jersey border.
A man, clutching his stomach, dashed from the front of the bus back into the bathroom.
The lights in the bus, dimmed since we left DC, turned on. People in the front were standing, scrambling, pointing.
And then, row by row, seat by seat, people started holding their noses.
Normally, smell is invisible to the human eye. But watching the people in front of me, the progress of this stench was completely perceptible. One row after another, people suddenly clambered for handkerchiefs, pinched their noses, breathed through their shirts, held their breath. It was like the fireball through the tunnel in Independence Day -- all you could do was watch its inexorable approach and wait for it to destroy you.
I should have held my breath.
I had seen it coming. I had observed its power. I knew what it would do to me. But who can resist? When a person farts, the other people in the room inevitably must sniff for themselves. It's human nature. So when my seatmate started retching, I ignored my better judgment and sniffed.
I really should have held my breath.
The effect on the bus was incredible. The odor was intense and unrelenting, as repulsive as they come. Yet no sooner had our adversity begun then seventy silently suffering strangers suddenly bonded as comrades in the same struggle. The laughing and the joking were drowned out only by the gagging and the choking, and by the gurgling explosions coming from the bathroom that served to remind us that whatever we might be going through, it was far worse for this guy than it was for us.
Fate was wrong, I cheerfully thought. I'm the guy who runs PoopReport -- of all people on this bus, it was clear my presence was meant to be. Here was a society united by poop! My theories had been proven -- poop is a basis for shared humanity! Utopia is possible through poop! On this bus, at this moment, we're not black or white or young or old or rich or poor -- we're all just people, united in empathy and understanding of the tyranny of the bowels!
The guy next to me, silent the whole ride until now, explained in a nasal voice (he was pinching his nose with his thumbs) that he had been on the bus since Kentucky -- 22 hours ago. Moments before, he had exalted in the knowledge that there were only two hours left in his ordeal; now, two hours was an eternity. Pausing as another volley of ass-fire burst in the bathroom, he declared, "I ain't never sitting in the back again!"
Pointing to the people up front frantically wiping the floor with napkins, Jenny observed that it was probably just as bad up there.
A girl in the row before mine had sprayed perfume on her sleeve and was breathing through that. Joining our conversation, she generously sprayed some on the seat-back in front of me. If the air had been hard to breath before, her kind gesture made it a whole lot worse. The smell of anal napalm was shredding my nose, and now the acrid perfume was burning my throat.
Unfortunately, breathing through my nose was the least painful option. As the bathroom continued broadcasting its soundtrack of inhuman suffering, I closed my eyes and waited to begin sympathy vomiting.
"Yo, you alive in there?" someone shouted. All talk ceased as we all strained to hear the poor guy's response. Finally, meekly: "Yeah, I'm alright." Everyone exhaled in raucous laughter, then whimpered when they had to inhale a moment later.
After quite a while, the poor guy emerged to sympathetic catcalls and sarcastic applause. He made his way back to his seat, slumped against the window and didn't move for the remainder of the journey, except for a brief bout of vomiting an hour later.
That time, the driver pulled over to make sure he was OK. After confirming he was, the driver decided to check on the condition of the bathroom. Silently, everyone watched his face as he gathered his courage before the closed door. I had been in there a few moments before because I really had to pee, but an open window had sucked most of the smell out, and there was no light so I didn't see anything. Now, with the interior lights providing ample illumination, he opened the door, gasped, and slammed it shut. Everyone rocked with laughter, except for me -- I started scraping the bottoms of my shoes on the floor.
After that, the smell faded, and the drive returned to blessed monotony. Being a diligent PoopReporter, I pulled out my notebook and started outlining this story. It was more than my duty to report this event -- it was my fate. As we passed Newark Airport, only fifteen minutes from my great city, anticipating the smell of Port Authority to be the sweetest I had ever known, I began composing this story's triumphant ending -- a repudiation of Fate's misaligned meddling:
"Wherever there's a fight so a fella with cramps can use someone's private toilet, I'll be there. Wherever there's a Taco Bell burrito beating up a girl's colon, I'll be there. I'll be in the way people yell when their asses belch fire and -- I'll be in the way kids laugh when they really have to go and they know they're about to find a toilet. And when folks --"
But that's as far as I got. As the proud spire of the Empire State Building rose into view and the towers of Midtown materialized around it, the smell came back. Horrible, biting, brown death choking us all. The guy, asleep or unconscious, hadn't moved, but his ass was still wide-awake and hard at work.
It wasn't funny this time. We descended the ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel, the bus weaving recklessly as our driver decided that traffic laws made exceptions for emergencies like this. And then we entered the tunnel, and then the bus stopped and a line of taillights stretched interminably before us, and the only sound was the hum of the engine and the hiss of seventy people breathing through their mouths.
I realized the fallacy of my triumphant ending. Screw this -- Fate was right. I may be the PoopReport guy, but this was too much for any man to bear. Next time Fate suggests I shouldn't be riding the bus, I'm turning right around and renting a fucking car.
-- Dave
Like Dave? He's featured in The Journal of Ass Production!
