An Excerpt…

Chapter Two: The Smelling Type
Greyhound Diary

So, today I woke up in such a contorted state that my back felt more like an ankle tightly wrapped inside of a very tiny jar of nails. As the day lingered into the evening with about 35 passengers in tow, I felt the need to relax further but just as I made that dreadful decision, I was stricken by an abrupt jolt of a rank smell that one would only find buried deep in the bowels of two pigs sexing it up in a pit of their own crap.

“What’s that smell?”, my friend whispered to me with cautious eyes.
“I have no idea but I do know it doesn’t belong on this bus”, I whispered back.

We passed judgment like some old pros.

“Geez’us christ!”, someone whispered from the front of the bus but not in the normal whispering voice one would expect. A few packs of cigarettes a day took care of that ability years ago.

By this time, the smell was getting to be a little out of control. People were moving in their seats, others started moving their heads back and forth like they were in the middle of a 3-hour Baptist church preaching session. Finally, the smell came to the presence of the driver who took to the speakerphone quietly nestled between his steering wheel and the window–which he quickly opened.

“Now, I don’t mean to sound rude or anything”, the driver yelled through the speakerphone like an old crusty drill sergeant, “but whoever took to passing gas without going into the bathroom to do so will find themselves at the next bustop looking for another ride home.”

The driver, which up until this point, didn’t budge other than a few Greyhound notices of not smoking, drugging, or sexing on the bus. He spoke with a drawl that went beyond the South. He drew out syllables and made words with one syllable into incredible two or three layers of syllables. Listening to him made me think back to days where simple guttural grunts translated to paragraphs and essays of commands for food, water, or shelter.

When he finished speaking, and the laughter departed from our rolling tomb, most of the passengers felt at ease in knowing that the driver took to the situation with a fist and not an open hand. By this time, the smell was quietly leaving but not even 15 minutes later, the smell returned and it seemed as if it brought along its family members and a few side friends for color because it was fiercer, and more nuclear than its early introduction.

By the time we realized that the smell had reached the driver again, the bus was already pulling to the side of the road…

M.C. Davis

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