Photos and text by Susan Adcock
The Greyhound bus station sits on what may well be the most culturally integrated city block in Nashville. It’s a building surrounded by buses and taxis and all kinds of people, all of them waiting in line for their turn to move. It is a smooth and intense operation, like a small-block Chevy, and it never closes.
On a wall inside the station is a love letter to the place. Sara from California writes, “You were that little spark of sunshine I needed.... I’ve been on the bus for three days now.” Not too far away are faded pictures of country music stars, a jukebox and a couple of guitars that have been bolted to the wall. Behind a steam table, in the same room, stands a wise and quiet man named Jerry, one of a large crew of Greyhound employees who should be given an honorary degree in behavior management. During an eight-hour shift here, these folks are likely to come across almost every type of personality.
The only thing everyone here has in common is a need to get somewhere—cheaply. Most of them also share an ability to cope with the world that is uncommon among, say, people at the airport. Occasionally, you will see someone come unglued at the bus station, but never with the unbridled angst of a CEO at the American Airlines ticket counter. The rules at the bus station are a little different. If you insist on making a scene at the bus station, Officer Charles Mann from the Metro Police Department will park his squad car in the middle of Eighth Avenue and casually or with great abandon (your choice) lead you to it. In his absence, there will be one rogue security cop and any number of passengers who will be glad to take on the job.
This is a place where, if you are $12 short on your bus ticket home, there will be a guy named John, whom you have never met, standing there willing to give you the money; where a good Christian woman named Hannah will give you her pillow if she finds out that you have to be on the bus 16 hours longer than she does. It is also a place where someone will relieve you of both the $12 and the pillow if you are not paying attention.
For passengers, it is a lesson in geography, an exercise in social skills and endurance. A good, long bus ride will reprogram your senses. It will inspire you to write a blues song or to call your Aunt Rose. There is a new cast of characters every few hours, and if you are very lucky, you will hear some of the best stories of your life somewhere between Birmingham, Ala., and Chiefland, Fla., at the “Jesus Is Lord” Citgo bus station.
Sit anywhere you like. There are bright, bouncy people just beginning their trip, thrown together with passengers who’ve been on the bus for 47 hours, sleep-deprived, self-medicated and gradually losing the will to live. There are women whose babies have cried for 127 miles and grown men who’ve sat next to them playing cards, oblivious to the noise. There are Army guys and truck drivers, exotic dancers and old black men who roll their own cigarettes; there are teachers, retirees, waitresses, mothers-in-law and Kurdish, Latino and African families. There are musicians, lovers, old boyfriends and monks. There are cowboys—real cowboys, not like Kix Brooks. (If Kix wants to continue to impersonate a cowboy, maybe he should go on down to the Greyhound bus station and at least meet one.)
One of the main rules of bus riding is this: Do not antagonize the Greyhound bus driver. It is best not to question his judgment or aggravate his already heightened sense of awareness. In the first place, he is piloting a machine that weighs 28,000 pounds, and in the second place, this ordinarily kind and dignified person has the ability to turn himself into Ultraman. Mess with him, and you may find yourself standing in a town you’ve never heard of. The burning smell of diesel fuel will not erase the memory of someone cheering as you exit the bus.
In Clanton, Ala., there is a water tower that looks like a giant peach; there is a restaurant called Gyros of Mexico. This is not an education that can be won on a scholarship. You can only get it through a big glass window. Take a blanket. Take notes. Unless you happen to be going through Jackson, Miss., take food. The Greyhound bus is as good as bad gets. After about 20 hours, your desire to watch reality television will have evaporated completely.
Riders agree that, while the price and the scenery are nice, the best part of the riding comes at the end. It’s easy to tell, as passengers disembark, which of them gets to go home now. They appear to have just reached the summit of Mt. Everest, overjoyed and a little low on oxygen. They will say that their butts hurt and that they will never ride the bus again. Then without thinking, they’ll spin a tale about a man who rode the bus all the way from Tupelo, Miss., to Rochester, N.Y., just to make it to his ex-girlfriend’s funeral. They’ll say that Ozark, Ala., under a full moon looks like Fellini’s Mayberry. And tomorrow or next week, perhaps as you are being paged for the fourth time in 30 minutes, or in that moment when your transmission ceases to exist, you might get the urge to grab all your blues cassettes, get on the Greyhound bus and ride.
For the rest of Susan Adcock's Greyhound photo essay, click here
