The Greyhound San Francisco Express left from Harrah’s Casino in Reno at 7:45 in the morning — supposedly. Clearly, it is the fastest ground way to return to the City. It was January 2, the day of the Rose and Fiesta Bowls, games I wanted to see. Plenty of time. In the line in front of Harrah’s there were only four people. I figured it was a cinch to get on the 7:45 bus to return to the University of San Francisco in time to see the games. My considerate brother who lives in Reno had asked me if he should wait, just in case the bus did not arrive. It was New Year’s and Reno had been jammed. I had taken this bus before so I foresaw no problems. Wrong.
As it seemed to be the height of imprudence to wear a Roman collar to get on a Greyhound in front of Harrah’s the day after New Year’s, I was in mufti. Seven forty-five: no sign of a bus. At about 8:30, rumor had it that a bus was on its way, but it turned out to be a Sacramento local bus. There seemed to be no semblance of lines or order. That always bodes ill. By the time the bus arrived, desperate street-wise people jammed around the door. A very tiny, tough white lady was telling a black gentleman, wearing a gold-leafed New Year’s hat from Harrah’s the night before, that she was “going to get on this next bus or all of Reno would know about it.” She threateningly bared a lighted cigarette. Certainly I wasn’t going to challenge her. Actually, she started out behind me in the line but managed to get in front of me.
When the bus arrived, everyone madly jammed in about the door. It was a wild scene. The driver announced that this bus was a local to Sacramento, going to Truckee, Colfax, Roseville, and such places. He maintained that the San Francisco Express would be there in ten minutes. I mistakenly believed him. The lady with the lit cigarette did not, so she went off. I heard no yelps.
Meantime, the folks wanting to go to San Francisco made another queue in the second bus slot. The third slot was also becoming more and more crowded with folks waiting for an Amador Stage going somewhere. The scene was a mess. I lost my fourth place spot as Greyhound or Harrah made no attempt to insist on “fair” lines — first come first served. Clearly, it was instead the law of the jungle. Every man for himself. I felt the veneer of civilization rapidly shedding off me as I contemplated how to get on the next bus, if there was one. I don’t even smoke.
I tried to station myself between both queues so I could make a fast break for whatever lane the bus came into. About ten o’clock a bus, this time with a San Francisco marking and mostly already filled suddenly came around the corner. The driver pulled into the second slot. I was not in fact strategically placed. Myriads of old ladies, Filipino men, black matrons, and Asian college students made it look like I was standing still as they rushed to the bus door. The driver did not even try to get out or propose a fair order. He took about ten passengers, shoved the others out the door, and took off. The pushiest, I noticed, got on.
What to do? I should have called my brother and stayed another day. However, someone asked a harried lady at the inside bus desk when the next bus would be. She said, just to calm things, I am sure, “20 minutes.” I believed her as did about ten other folks. This time I was about number five in line, determined to imitate the little lady with the cigarette. There was a portly Mexican man wearing a 49ers hat in front of me with a man from Marin County and his wife in number-one position. Two bags without owners were sitting at my feet. Twenty minutes went by. Nothing. Another twenty, still nothing. The little man at the front of the line snapped, “I know they told me a lie inside.” The Mexican man reluctantly agreed, as did I.
Sometime later, another bus marked San Francisco pulled in. It was also already crowded with pick-ups from other casinos. At this point, two Chinese girls rush out to claim their bags in front of me in line. This barging-in infuriated a black matron waiting in back of me with her son who looked like a tackle for the Raiders. She immediately claimed foul of the Chinese girls and, with her son, marched to the head of the line. I was very careful to muscle my way in behind them and the Chinese girls. I was, of course, no longer number five in line but closer to fifteenth.
The Mexican man meanwhile had gone over to sit down. He lost out completely. Some very tiny Chinese ladies also in front of me had managed to wedge in six or seven of their relatives. I recalled how the aggressors on the earlier bus had made me, number four in line, miss the bus and probably the game. Somehow, I managed, following the Chinese lead, to get on the bus, maybe next to last to get on.
There was only one seat I could see left, the one just behind the driver on the aisle. It was full of baggage. I asked the stout black lady sitting in the window seat if I could sit there. She kindly said yes. Some man in front of me rushed up to put her bags in the overhead racks. I figured she weighed about 250. She was wearing a yellow knit pantsuit and had a moustache. I tried to squeeze unassumingly into the too narrow seat. Close encounters. As the bus pulled out with me pressed in the front seat, I saw the Mexican man out the front window. He waved good-naturedly as if the world is this way all the time anyhow.
The lady wedged next to me was from the Pacific Northwest. She immediately told me that I was to thank her for getting this bus here to Harrah’s in the first place because she had raised hell at a previous casino when the bus did not show up. I thanked her. She next stood up before the other passengers to congratulate the driver. She proposed to take up a collection in his honor. I heard no seconds.
The bus began. I tried to read the Dante I got for Christmas. The lady, her name seemed to be Miss Emily, began to talk. She told me about everything that had happened to her in her whole life. She was originally from Anacostia, across from Washington. I did not tell her anything. She told me that this bus was going to Portland. I tried to explain, “No, it is going to San Francisco.” This was a mistake. “The driver told me this bus was going to Portland.” She told me about her job, her family. She had been in Sweden and Germany. “The houses there are like matchboxes; they eat good, though.”
She told me that her husband was overseas. She lived by herself and had no children. “But,” she told me, “everybody loves me. I do good to everyone around me.” I figured she probably did in her own way. I sort of liked her, if she would just shut up. In her apartment, she continued, there was no one “except me and the Man upstairs.” However, she had photos of “Martin, the Kennedys, her father “, and someone else whose name I did not catch. She told me people are amazed to see these photos in her apartment. She thought somebody by the name of “Ragan” — she carefully spelled it out about five times — had paid off millions to Reagan, for what it was not clear.
Miss Emily earnestly told me that her father was a good man. She had lots of brothers and sisters, and they had a good time. She told me that her father loved three things: “the Messiah, his farm, and his family.” She also told me he weighed 145 pounds. She never once stopped talking all the way to Sacramento, three hours away, except for maybe three minutes when she snoozed near Roseville.
Meanwhile, there was a mid-western farmer in the seat across aisle. He was telling the driver how corrupt things were in Washington. He also told the driver what a great driver he (the Greyhound man) was. Miss Emily agreed with both of these propositions by nodding her head. She again proposed taking up a collection for the driver. Again, no takers.
Every time it looked like I was listening to the Iowa farmer’s conversation or watching the snow scenery over Donner Summit, Miss Emily would punch me. I could only hear about every third word she said. She sort of whispered and the bus was loud. So I pretended to agree with everything she said. She told me that she belonged to some secret organization seeking reparations. She told me that she did not come to America voluntarily, even though she was born in Anacostia. She noticed that both the American Indians and the Japanese had gotten “reparations.” Her organization had hired a lawyer for the same purpose, but he was no good. So now they were going after the lawyer who won the Japanese case. She figured to gee reparations — $20,000 apiece she calculated — if not exactly from the Man upstairs, at least from the Great White Father with the help of the lawyer for the Rising Sun’s Sons.
My neck was getting sore listening to Miss Emily. I could not relax because she punched me every time I wandered off mentally. The bus finally arrived in Sacramento. It seemed that Miss Emily had to catch her Portland bus there. She said good-bye and told me to look her up if I ever go to the Northwest. I promised.
Fortunately, no one sat in her seat in the two-hour leg from Sacramento to San Francisco. I took out my Breviary and finished my Office. I got back to USF in time to watch the second half of the Notre Dame-West Virginia game and the Orange Bowl. I felt my day complete, thanks to the law of the jungle, Miss Emily, Lou Holtz, and the Man upstairs.