You never know who you will meet on a bus trip, but they are going to change your life.
Wish you were here... no matter where this is.
Writer’s note
You hear stories on a long-haul bus journey. And they could be total lies or they could be the whole truth. The thing about the stories that are true is, strangers will say things to strangers that they would never tell anyone else. At least in theory, then, the bus ride is the most perfect world.
You set out to cover everything west of the Mississippi, this your bus trip after you graduate from high school and want to find new things that you don't know you are looking for. You start to find out that it's actually these boys you are looking for, the boys you meet easy on the road you didn't meet back home. You want to take all of them with you or stay with all of them, if that's okay.
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The beginning of the story…
MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
On the bus there is no night or day. There is only motion. And you roll through the lives of the boys that you meet.
I met seven of them on my recent trip.
I can't forget any of them.
Fresh out of high school, I was a boy looking at the summer. Somebody was talking about seeing America by bus. I got on board in Minnesota, where I'm from.
The next state over, when the bus goes west on 94, is North Dakota.
NORTH DAKOTA
John is happy. I like how happy he is. I like everything about him...
He gets on the bus in Jamestown, not too far from Bismarck. I've already gone through Fargo with no one to talk to. I'm probably not going to be the one to start too many conversations.
I think there are plenty of seats available but John sits down next to me, no hesitation.
"I live in Bismarck," he says.
"Oh."
"Made a trip over to Jamestown."
"I see."
You can tell I'm not much of a talker. And you can tell that John is.
"Look what I got," he says.
He brings his foot up and props it on his knee. The shoe is unusual, two-tone leather, kind of a tan color with a darker brown.
"Brand-new," he says. "I found an old pair in the attic and my parents told me they're called saddle shoes. You can find them in Jamestown."
"They're nice."
"Oh man, I could have taken you there. We were just there."
I didn't know him then. That doesn't seem to matter.
He runs his finger along the edge of the sole. I think he doesn't want to get a fingerprint on the upper.
"I've never seen them before," I say.
"Girls wore them. Boys wore them, too."
"Dancing?"
"Sure, why not?"
They've got style. I will always associate saddle shoes with John. I glance up at his face. He is still admiring the shoe across his knee and that gives me the chance to think about him.
He makes you feel comfortable, like all the rules you play by when it comes to boys are just silly to his way of thinking. It's weird when you meet somebody who refuses to follow the rules.