Sunday, November 13, 2005

Trip To Dallas Part I: The Bus Trip

So I neither slept nor played Zuma on the way to Dallas.

My sister-in-law dropped me off at the downtown Houston bus station. I checked in and sat down to wait like any normal person would do. But I was not a normal bus traveler. I was white. And I wasn't drooling. Most white people who ride the bus are dirty individuals with many piercings and crazy eyes. As I was waiting, a dirty white kid came up to me whining some bullshit story about having lost all his money and his ticket and how his mommy couldn't send him another ticket until 10pm and he didn't know how he was going to eat. Then he started crying like a little bitch. Then he said he was joining the army next week.

Zelda (amid peals of laughter): "How old are you?"

Blubbering White Kid: "21."

Zelda: "Son, do you have any idea what they are going to do to you in the army? You're a big boy. There's no reason to cry. So you have to wait awhile. Big deal. I know it's inconvenient, but when you're in boot camp, you will wish you were stranded in a bus station."

Blubbering White Kid (still whining): "I know, but no one will help me and I don't know what kind of a place this is. They just laugh at me when I ask for money."

Zelda: "That's because you're crying."

After instructing him on the finer points of panhandling, I gave him my change, kept him from hugging me, and sent him on his way. God help us if that is our military. He looked better suited to a legalize pot rally.

I boarded the bus and snagged a window seat because I get carsick if I can't see outside. Bad idea. Most people will allow the single, non-crazy white girl to ride the bus in peace and not inflict their low i.q.'d presence upon her, with one exception. Crazy white men.

I saw him board and knew instantly that he was going to:
1.) Sit with me
2.) Talk to me
3.) Hit on me

He sat down, grinned a boozy smile, and offered me his dirt encrusted hand along with the wine he was drinking out of a soda cup with a straw. I politely demurred and crunched up against the window.

He started talking about his kids, a pleasant enough subject. But with people like him, it always turns to how much child support he has to pay for them. I have a theory that this is how they get to talk about what good fathers they are, coupled with how much money they make. The only problem is that if they are paying $5,000 a month in child support, how am I going to gold-dig any of it?

Guys like that also seem to think that if they have fantasized about something long enough, they are competent to speak on the subject as if they have the actual experience. I was subjected to long, intricate stories about houses he'd built for himself with his own two hands, hot bisexual girls who fought for the privilege of having a three-way with him, and his super-schlong - able to ferry 8 Catholic girls to school and leap tall buildings in a single bound, not to mention giving the most splendid orgasms known to women.

I tried to read. I tried to sleep. I tried to hold my breath long enough to pass out. All useless endeavors. He asked to read my book after telling me that he must have read 100,000 in his academic career. I let him, hoping for the miracle of silence. Not only did he move his lips, he also read aloud. After stumbling over "anarchy," he handed it back.

The more wine he sucked through that straw, the more he started talking about my boobs. Apparently, in spite of the hundreds of threesomes in which he had participated so enthusiastically, he'd never seen bigger ones.

He asked if he could give me more children. He asked if my husband was going to meet me at the bus station and if he wasn't, why? And if I were his "old lady" he'd meet me at the bus station with a Rolls and a dozen roses. Amused by the thought of someone meeting anyone at a bus station with a Rolls, I let him prattle on. At some point he asked to see my cell phone, and like a mother trying to placate an ADD child, I let him. He tried to photograph my boobs with it. I held my book firmly over them. Then, at his insistence, I took a picture of him and the tattoo on his neck. I guess if I had a tattoo on my neck I'd want people to take pictures of it too.

It was with sigh of relief straight from the inner depths of my soul that we pulled into the Dallas bus station. My tattooed friend shook my hand again, and gave it a smeary kiss. I hauled ass off the bus. Carlos wasn't there yet, so I paced for awhile.

After a few minutes, I realized that I had gone from the frying pan to the proverbial fire. Pimps and pimp wannabes as far the eye could see, eating their pimp food, walking their pimp walks, and, worst of all, staring their pimp stares.

Lest anyone think I'm overly sensitive, I assure you I'm not. I've had people glance my way since I was 16 and I don't even see them anymore. But not in this case. I looked around and thought, "No one is on my side." I made for the ladies room and called Carlos. "Do me a favor," I said. "I'm staying in the ladies room. Call me when you get here and I'll meet you outside.”

"Is it bad?" He asked.

"Yeah. Real bad"

I hung up and called Big Dick and tCj and we finalized our plans to meet up.

I talked to the cleaning lady for awhile, who was really charming, especially after Neck Tattoo. Then Carlos called. "Hey, I'm outside in a silver car and I'm looking at a fat woman with three suitcases."

"I'll be right there."

I took a deep breath and plunged out of the restroom at a breakneck pace, dodging pimps and hos and all the rest of the intellectually bereft. If my life were ever made into a movie, this sequence should be shot in slow mo with me dodging past the last pimp, who "wanted to axe me something," and diving perfectly into Carlos' car, like a football hero catching the winning touchdown.

"Drive, motherfucker, drive!" I shrieked in a terrified frenzy. If I'd had a belt I would have whipped him like a carriage horse. It was only after being safe in the car that I realized I had been clenching my ass for almost 5 hours straight....

Stay Tuned for Part II: At the Nudie Bar