A phone. It was time. Papa was nodding off, snoring as we stopped sure enough at another rinky-dink post office. A few people gathered their things, scuffled off the bus. I headed up front, where I saw the bus driver stepping out for a quick cigarette.
I tore off, in the direction of the restrooms. The lights buzzed and the air was thick and full of mosquitoes. I wiped my eyes and approached the nicest looking lady I could find. When she smiled at me, I gave her a story about how my grandpa and I needed to check in at home. She obliged and handed it over. My hand was shaking some as I pulled out the crinkled piece of paper with Mrs. Magnolia’s number.
I held it in my hand. All I had to do was punch in the digits. There would be a big fuss all right but at least we’d be safe. Then something crazy happened. Crazier than my own grandpa forgetting who I was. Crazier than this bus business and crazier than me being Tennessee.
With the traffic blasting down the road in all directions, I planted my foot in the gravel and smacked the mosquito feasting on my arm. I told myself I was going to get him to come around. He had a bucket list, just like I had a stinking chore list. And yeah, he was a little out to lunch at the moment, but maybe he just needed to get to that harmonica. His dream.
People with dementia still had dreams, right? Sure they did. I saw it swimming in his eyes, how they flashed when he spoke about Robert Johnson and the blues.
We’d be in Arkansas by morning, and maybe then the Papa I knew would be back in the saddle. This was just a hitch in the plan. I decided I’d give it tonight and then try Mrs. Magnolia. She’d know what to do.
I handed the phone back, thanking the nice lady now studying me carefully as I scurried back to the bus, back to the seat where I’d left him. He was asleep again with his hat pulled over his head.
I’d never made so many bad decisions in one day, but something in the buggy Tennessee night had stirred me up good, because sitting there with Mr. Clem Wallace, my grandpa and traveling bluesman, well, I felt like this was our adventure.
And we might as well ride it out.
Night travel was different from day travel. Adventure turned to mystery. I couldn’t see where we were headed or what we were passing, only a stream of never-ending headlights. All the sunny promise from earlier in the day became lost in the darkness swallowing up the bus.
Every bump in the road had me on my haunches. Every cough and sniffle and my eyes sprang open. And every time Papa turned and smacked his lips or called out to no one at all, I was hoping he’d hurry up and crawl from out of the cobwebs.
I had other problems, too. Mainly I had to pee so bad it hurt, but I couldn’t force my legs to get me down the aisle to the bathroom. And a change of clothes would have been nice. Some dinner. The soggy hot dog from the country store was nothing more than a faint memory, the chili just a splotch of rust on my shirt.
We were coming up on Nashville. I could tell by the way all the folks on the bus were zipping and snapping, shuffling their things. I was quickly fascinated by the glimmer in the distance. It was shimmering and quivering with energy, and I was, too, leaning over Papa for a better view.
Nashville. Electric and alive with twinkling lights and rolling traffic. My stomach folded over, and my bladder sent a reminder as we approached. The town looked like its own planet, and our bus had been sucked into the pull of its glitz and glamour.
The road widened, branching out to swallow the swell of traffic. The night was no longer dark but blazing with activity. Papa didn’t miss a snore as I took in the roar of traffic signs, the dazzling lights, and colors splashing off the enormous buildings, ricocheting off the water. The city was alive and kicking, and I could feel the music in its pulse.
I’d never seen anything like it. I felt my eyes go big, trying to take it all in. I was amazed by the size of life, the endless string of headlights and those gleaming buildings. We crossed the bridge, the river like a mirror, capturing a ripple of bright skyline like a painting. I must have been a little too curious, because my elbow slipped and found Papa’s gut and he grunted to life.
“What in the world?”
“Look, Papa,” I whispered. “Nashville.”
I saw the city in his tired eyes. Eyes waking to the shine of the city, the river, the glow against the sky.
“Well, I’ll be.”
The bus crawled up the interstate as we snaked toward the exit. All the people in the front were up, and their voices took on some of that skyline buzz in the distance. The city had us up and wound, feeding off the energy of the lights. Papa fixed his hat, gripped his guitar case between his legs.
I sat up straight. “Are we getting off?”
I was only beginning to understand layovers. Turned out we had some time to kill until the bus left again. But I couldn’t let Papa wander the streets of such a big city, not as the bus grumbled down the road away from the lights and past a stretch of low buildings, dark as the night, scarce streetlights washing over empty sidewalks. I turned back and lost track of the skyline as the bus veered left, into the terminals.
I took some measured breaths. Mom always said to take deep breaths when I got worked up, back when she used to rub my back when I’d wake up after a nightmare. “I don’t know, Papa. Maybe we should stay on.”
“Nonsense. This is Nashville. Let’s get a taste of the town.”
We’d sort of passed “the town” when we crossed the bridge with the riverboats chugging along. Looking out window now, all I saw were graffiti-tagged underpasses, a rental car place, some fast food joints. And, of course, the bus station, where we were headed.
Most everyone hustled off the bus. While Papa and I waited for the commotion to settle, I ran back to the tiny bathroom, leaving the door cracked because the chemicals made my eyes water.
Afterward, we moseyed into the lobby, which looked new and run down at the same time from the never-ending hands and feet. I took several more of those deep breaths.
People were everywhere, slumped over benches, huddled in the corners charging phones and passing time with heavy eyelids and empty stares. I inched closer to Papa, thinking how it must have looked, the two of us in there, him with his suit and hat, guitar case in hand. Me in yesterday’s clothes, tired and hungry and scoping out the vending machines. The two dollars I gave away would have really been something right then.
Papa didn’t seem troubled at all. In fact, he seemed ready to rip after the hours of sleep he’d racked up on the road. I was flat beat, exhausted from the laps of worry running through my head.
“You hungry, Caleb?”
I almost pulled a neck muscle looking up so fast.
Caleb.
I’d never been so happy to hear my name.
“Huh?” he said, looking down at my hand in his. I hadn’t realized I was holding his hand. I let go.
“Yeah.”
He sucked on his bottom lip, turned towards the row of vending machines. “Gotta be something better than this.”
I shot him a look. “Do we have any money?”
He started patting down his pockets. “Oh, I know how to make a buck or two. Come on.”
Right there, in Nashville, Clem Wallace became a street performer. He staked out a place under the streetlights, where a night custodian was sweeping trash between groups of smokers. Papa found a seat on the bench and got to work.