Did I just imagine having a conversation with Joyce?  Did we really talk about coffee and ‘getting the door?’  Were we really back at the house discussing the ‘ending’ of my last blog, or was it just my mind ‘tripping’ backwards, as ‘minds’ sometime will do?

 

These questions are bouncing around in my head as I sit in the chair.

 

‘The chair,’ is of course, the chair in front of the window.

 

‘The window,’ is of course, the window in our compartment on the bus, which we are riding.

 

So… what’s real and what’s not real?

 

It’s a simple question that demands an answer, but I’m poorly disposed to addressing it right at the moment.

 

For there is a feeling that has come over me, it’s a familiar feeling that I’ve had many times before, but not one easily described. 

 

Actually it’s a continuation of the feeling I’d had – just before the knock on the door.

 

At the time, it seemed like only minutes ago, I’d described it as a ‘hokey feeling’ that I’d had as the bus was approaching a bend in the road.

 

Now, as the knock comes once again on our door, and I hear Pup restlessly moving around in the upper bunk, I get up from my chair, noticing how ‘clear’ everything seems; the design on the arm of the chair where my hand is, the feeling of heavy air weighing on my shoulders, and the echoing of the knocking, slowly disappearing.

 

I opened the door.

 

She walked in as if she owned the place; early 30’s, maybe 40’s, I wasn’t sure, fleshy and very pretty, with long black hair, eyelashes that looked fake, and crimson lips that didn’t.

 

Taking it all in as I stumbled backwards, back to my chair. 

 

Falling rather than sitting, feeling foolish while trying to appear ‘cool’ - I wave my hand toward the bottom bunk, as a place she can sit, but she remains standing, looking at me.

 

She's wearing an orange and blue smock of some kind and purple, high-heeled sandals.  A cloud of vanilla perfume extends her presence by a couple of inches, bordering on overpowering, but more pleasant than not.

 

“Call me Cherise,” she said, her voice raspy from years of cigarettes.

 

I extended my hand, more in defense I thought, than welcome.

 

Two surprisingly ‘rough’ hands grasped mine, with a firmer than needed grip.

 

While my captured hand was entwined in the vise-like grip, I watched Pup rise from her sleeping position, with a somewhat puzzled look on her face.

 

Letting go of my hand, Cherise sat on the very edge of the bottom bunk, paying Pup no mind at all, as she stared at me with eyes as black as any black I’d ever seen.

 

“Ray.” It was Pup talking.

 

I heard her voice but couldn’t connect it, for the voice was coming from somewhere else.  Turning to face the window, I saw our reflection and it was as if we were at the end of a long tunnel.  I heard Pup say, “Ray, Ray.” “Something isn’t right.”

 

And then I was alone.

 

With - Cherise.

 

She was sitting on the bunk staring out the same window.

 

I shifted in my chair to look at her better, though I wanted to look back at the window, to see about Pup. 

 

Her raspy, yet sexy voice, filled the little room, “I just love the East River at night.”

 

East River?  The look of confusion on my face caused her to shrug, and while smiling at me, she said, “sorry, I just love New York, the East River and all.  And, Queens at night, you know; well, it’s an eerie night-glow.”

 

Slowly my gaze rotated back to the window.

 

And there, as impossible as it might sound, was the East River, and Queens, easy recognizable to me, although I couldn’t tell you why.

 

Never in my life, had I been to N.Y. City.

 

How was I recognizing what I was looking at ….

 

 

The ol stream needs a 'boost' ... so get on the stick - and send in a few bucks - so we can get a new servor.....

The average donation is $10, (me and Pup donated $10 each) but if you feel generous - I'm sure anything extra would be appreciated.

ice

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Opening my eyes I become awake. 

 

You know the feeling.

 

It’s as if you’re laying doormat in your body. 

 

Suddenly, but very calmly – you open your eyes and become aware of your surroundings, at least some of them.

 

The temperature is comfortable.

 

You feel neither hot nor cold – but just right!

 

That last thought reminds you of a fairytale – from your past, but declining your brain, and its invitation ‘to go there,’ - you instead, wonder about the time.

 

Go figure.

 

Then you notice a dream you had last night, it’s been drifting around in your head since you awoke, but now it’s beginning to mingle with your newfound consciousness; it was erotic in nature, that you’re sure of, but as to who was starring (in it) you have no clue, except of course – yourself.

 

Trying as hard as you can, you try to capture it before it disappears – which it does almost as you think the thought, and the next instant brings nothing but the smell of coffee brewing somewhere.

 

Your focus is suddenly on the window, remembering where you’re going, but of course, not where you are.

 

1937?

 

Why would one want to go anywhere other than home?

 

Where is home if not the present?

 

Why did you choose 1937, and furthermore, what do you know about 1937?

 

With its sometimes machine-gun action – the brain can overwhelm.

 

The window?

 

The window that was dark just seconds a go (or so it seems) is now bright with green, tree filled terrain, and a haunting hint of mountains to come. 

 

Searching with eyes still edged with sleep, I’m reminded of a morning in Colorado just last year, but this morning, I see nothing to indicate where I might be.

 

However, I am very aware of where I am in my life.

 

Having safely reached my sixth decade; I am no further along than ever.

 

Still cozy with things material – while looking to answer long held questions, I feel a particular kinship with the unknown.

 

It’s then - I hear rustling from above.

 

The next second in time directs me - back to the window.

 

Something has caused me to look that way.

 

We are approaching a bend in the road, and on the other side, I have the hokey feeling that I’m sensing something rather than seeing it.

 

Then…. A loud knocking on our door.

 

Joyce:  Don’t you think that ending is a little hokey itself?

 

Ray:  Sure, but that’s what happened.

 

Joyce:  Maybe you should change it anyway; you know you’re   going to get hit with the ‘cliff-hanger’ thing again.

 

Ray:  Of course, but it doesn’t matter, for that’s what really happened; what would you have me to do – make up something?

 

Joyce:  this whole thing is made up.

 

Ray: what?  The story - or life?

 

Joyce:  Nope. I’m not going there this morning; do you want a cup of coffee? 

 

Ray:  I did smell coffee now didn’t I?

 

Joyce:  so.. You smelled coffee; what’s so unusual about that?

 

Ray: Cause…. I smelled it before. 

 

Joyce:  I’ll take your word for it.

 

Ray:  Shortly after that I heard ‘rustling’ – which was you waking up.

 

Joyce: Yeah, I remember now, I heard you in the chair ruminating about where you were in your life.

 

Ray:  Really? I think I’ll take that coffee now.

 

Joyce:  Why don’t you get the door - while I get the coffee?

 

Ray:  I can do that; wonder who’s there anyway?

 

Joyce:  Oh you can’t ever tell – now can you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out the window I was staring.  Earlier in the day, magnificent countryside had passed before me, and while viewing it - all I’d been able to think of was - what was the same about what I’d seen, and what was different?  Truly this world keeps repeating itself over and over I’d said to myself, while at the same instant I had also felt the certain realization, that every once in awhile - it re-invented itself too.

 

To describe my surroundings at first - had sounded simple, but in actuality was proving quite difficult.  I’d been sitting, pen and paper in hand, watching for several hours – and still … - the paper was as blank as my mind.  Of course the reality was that my mind was not – blank – it was quite full, which was also the reason I was having trouble transferring that ‘fullness’ to paper.

 

Joyce was sleeping in the ‘top’ bunk, while I was sitting in the over-stuffed chair strategically positioned in front of the large window.  It had been through this window that I’d been keeping an eye on the world we were passing through.  But now, with my feet propped on the lower bunk, and the scenic view of before, changed to a constantly moving, black page, I marveled at the occasional streetlights flashing by, and hazy headlights that appeared in a seemingly random way.  All of this mixed together, and fading fast from view, seemed to me, as if stars…. dying in a lonely sky.

 

It had all started eight hours earlier, at 3 p.m. when we had been standing on the corner of NW 18^th and Meridian in Oklahoma City – and a yellow bus, it looked like an old ‘Greyhound’ that had been re-painted, pulled up to where we were and stopped.  I was staring with mouth open - at the obviously fresh - bright yellow paint - while Pup was jabbing me in the side and asking – ‘is that the bus - is that the bus?’

 

Of the two of us I think I was more surprised at the bus than she was, although I am at a loss – now – as to what I was expecting.  While I knew that a ‘bus’ was supposed to pick us up, I guess I was expecting something more than a ‘used Greyhound reject’ with a new paint job.  And the fact that it was a ‘gaudy yellow’ just compounded everything to me.

 

But the exterior of ‘our ride’, which Joyce had taken to calling it, was nothing compared to the inside.  The interior we were told was sectioned into five small but luxurious compartments, two on each side of the bus, and the fifth along the back, which was somewhat smaller than the others.  The driver, a large man, easily over 6 foot, and well into his 60’s, had directed us to the compartment directly behind the driver’s seat, continuing his running commentary, while chewing gum a mile a minute – telling us that each compartment came equipped with it’s own commode, and small sink.  With this bit of information I couldn’t help but think – ‘gee that’s a lot of commodes for one bus’

 

As sort of a ‘throwaway line’ as he made his way back to his seat, he’d also told us that since picking us up - all five compartments were now occupied.  I’d looked around after he said this, but there was no sign of anyone else, and no time to investigate, since it was apparent that we were about to get under way.

 

Two bunk beds, one on top of the other, dominated one side of our compartment, and a single chair in front of a large window made up the opposite side.  This arrangement caused one person to have to sit on one of the beds if both were up at the same time.  It was a totally ‘cramped’ arrangement that somehow seemed ‘homey’ to both of us.

 

So far we’d been on the road for about 8 hours and according to Edgar we still had another 8 to go, with an arrival time of around  8 in the morning.  As to that ‘destination,’ we had no idea where we were going, only that it would take 16 hours to get there. 

 

As I sat in the dark contemplating all that had happened since the early afternoon, I couldn’t help but wonder about this trip to 1937.  What did it mean that I’d paid $5000 for a ride on a yellow bus, and to where?  Of all the crazy things I’d done in my life, this one felt more right with each passing moment, even though to where those ‘moments’ were taking us remained a mystery.  I was not without an interesting clue however.  Ever since boarding the bus I’d noticed the initials ‘BGE’ everywhere.  They were engraved on the inside of our door right about where a ‘peep-hole’ should have been, stamped in blue on the sink and commode, embroidered on our sheets, and even inserted in the window I’d been looking through.

 

And now…. As I drift off to sleep, I hear the faint, soft sounds of music coming from somewhere in the bus and a strange ‘clickity-clack’ sound that I recognize from a distant time.

 

Of course ‘you’ must think I’m making it all up, but no, this is the real deal, and I have no way of knowing how it will turn out.  All I know is that this time it’s not a dream, or a story from my imagination, it’s life in real time, with a touch of fantasy darting around the edges, not unlike the dark shadows out my window.

The little red HHR whipped underneath the carport, and as it came to a standstill – Joyce McComas, a.k.a. as The Pupster, disembarked with a briefcase in one hand and a bulging shopping bag in the other; the latter, obvious evidence of her quick stop at Wal-Mart just a few minutes ago. 

 

It was Friday, she was glad to be done with the week; initially walking past their mailbox on her way into the house, Ray always checked it when he got in anyway, she, on a whim it seemed, turned around and walked back to it. Lowering the little metal door, she peered inside to make sure there were no spiders, before sticking her hand in to retrieve the single, lone envelope that was lying inside.

 

Inside the house – she set the shopping bag on the kitchen counter and tossed her briefcase on the little table where once a ‘landline phone’ had been: that of course had been before cell phones had became logistically and economically smarter.   

 

With only the letter remaining in her hand, and the phrase ‘logistically and economically smarter’ rocking around in her head, she looked at the envelope to see who it was ‘to and from.’

 

Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. McComas, the ‘return’ was simply L.A. California - which was kind of unusual.  She couldn’t remember the last time they had received anything from California. ‘Probably trying to sell us a credit card,’ she said to herself, half wondering if she actually spoke aloud.  Tearing open the envelope she unfolded the single sheet of paper and read:

 

This certifies that Mr. and Mrs. McComas have been approved for travel to 1937.  Please follow below instructions to the letter.

 

1) Go to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. 

 

2) On September 28^th 2008 - Proceed to NW18th and Meridian Blvd.

 

3) At exactly 3 p.m. a bus will arrive.

 

4) Board the bus.

 

5) Give this letter to the driver.

 

 

At the bottom of the page was an unsigned signature block:

 

Stuart Givens

Departures

1937

 

Chuckling to herself, she laid it down, and started coffee, while wondering what time Ray would be coming in from work; he’d surely get a laugh from the letter. 

 

Of course the letter was a joke, it was a ‘play’ on Ray’s latest blog – ‘traveling back in time to 1937’ – but as to where it had come from, or who might of sent it – she had no clue.

 

Picking it back up she flipped it over, and was surprised to see handwritten words on the back.  They had been written in red ink, in a peculiar fashion, and as she read, she was reminded oddly enough of letters from her grandmother.

 

for 5 Large, Ice you have to consider what you memory is like right now, this very minute & what it will be like in 1937, and then, when the trip is done, and then, 2 weeks later, and then 2 months after that. "What a long strange trip it's been" what trip? oh, that trip? a mind trip, and somehow, I doubt, in these days and those days, and considering you will someday have to return to these daze, not a kind mind trip. Sounds like a rip. Van Winkle. Time Wrinkle.

I'd skip it. There's no place like home.

 

Hearing steps on the back porch, she finished reading the letter, and had just laid it back on the counter, as the door opened, and Ray walked in.

 

“Hello Darling,” he said, setting the small ice chest he used for a lunch box on the floor, and gave her a kiss.

 

Without a comment – she picked up the letter and handed it to him.

 

After he read it, he turned it over without her having to tell him, and read what was written on back.

 

Laying the letter down – he took off his hat and looked at her, saying, ‘well I guess it’s time to tell you about this.’

 

“About what?”

 

“Well, he said, you know that story I wrote on my blog, about 1937?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, it’s kinda like this, uh, I didn’t make up the part about calling that company on the phone.  I sent in the money.”

 

“You what?”

 

“Well, I didn’t actually send it in, they deducted from our credit card.”

 

“Are you telling me,” she said, “that you paid $5000 for a trip over the phone to god knows where?”

 

“Yeah I did, and don’t ask me why, it just felt right, that’s all I can say.”

 

“Ray, have you lost your mind?”

 

“No, well, I’m not sure really,” he said with a wry smile.

 

“So – this letter,” she said picking up the letter, “this letter is your confirmation letter?”

 

“Well, they did say they would send directions.”

 

When she didn’t say anything, he went on.

 

“What I don’t understand though is this writing on the back,” he said, as he took the letter from her.

 

“What about it?”

 

“Well, for one thing, it’s the comment that Cher wrote on my blog – yesterday.”

 

Walking over to the counter where she’d opened the letter, Joyce picked up the torn envelope and looked at it.  It was postmarked the 12^th of September L.A. California.  Handing it to Ray she went over to the coffee pot and poured a cup of coffee while he looked over the envelope.

 

“Mailed three days ago from L.A.,” he said.

 

“Now that’s a mystery, yes?”

 

Looking at him with mock disdain, she suddenly broke out in laughter.  “This is a joke on me, right?”

 

But her laughter died away as Ray didn’t smile.

 

“Not a joke?” She said.

 

“I wish,” he said, as he stood up.