Greyhound at Night

The bus has no wifi. In my part of the world, this is actually worth complaining about. The clock eeks toward 9 PM. We pass Baton Rouge, a crown of smoke and oil on the river. 

Before that, we crossed flatlands, swamps.  Trees like wrinkled fingers stretched from the water. I had a song in my head, a cyclical, sensual dance jam by a New Orleans musician I had seen perform at a private party.  The song contained maybe 14 words, total–but those 14 words filtered through warbled bass chords, created a hypnotic echo chamber.  I was obsessed.

I remember a news-turned-horror story about a Greyhound bus murderer. It went like this: the murderer looked just like everyone else. He put a gun to the driver’s head, ordered him to pull over. 

“Step out,” said the murderer.  The driver stepped out.  

The murderer followed him.  On some stretch of Texan nowhere, he shot the driver. The sky ran in every direction, stars cringing. Unnoticed, a lizard crossed the highway. One by one, the murderer ordered passengers off the bus. One by one he shot them. 

I like to believe that, were I on that bus, I’d keep my headphones in. I’d run singing that damn cyclical, sensual dance jam to my bullet.  I wanna love you right, I’d croon, leaning into the barrel of whatever gun had been too easy for the murderer to purchase. 

On a bus with no wifi, we can imagine ourselves the heroes of our mobile village. There are no movies or stories to tell us otherwise, no Instagram likes or passive aggressive emails.  And isn’t the point of travel, anyway? To escape our social and professional routines? Grow?

Here are some recent photographs from hangouts, lives, and shows I’ve photographed.  I hope I take many more on this trip: