“Jon is gonna be so pissed.”
“Have you tried calling him again?”
“I’m working on that part.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“I know he will. But he is gonna be pissed at first.”
The new bus had come to Salton City and apparently it was not going on from there the next 2 hours.
“Gotta have my scheduled break,” was all the new driver had said. He was a big black man with a left eye that looked like it once had met a boxer’s fist. Ernest H – ‘Your God’ had gone back to Bakersfield, when the new bus came to pick them up at the parking lot outside Palm Springs. All the passengers were weary, but some were not too weary to complain loudly over this new, unexpected stop.
“And I’m due in Mexicali for a meeting,” a pale-looking, freckled woman of about Carrie’s age snorted, but didn’t say anymore as if inviting everyone to guess how important the meeting was but not why someone who were due for an important meeting had to go to it in a Greyhound bus.
A fat Texan man in a crisp white shirt and tie argued for a long time with the new driver until he, too, had to give up to the imperatives of regulation.
“Look here,” the driver said with finality, “I’ve been going on for 10 hours until I had to pick up you lot up in Palm. Do you want to be in Mexicali 2 hours later, or do you want to be in a ditch somewhere because I feel asleep behind the wheel?” Continue reading