eleven-year-old traveling alone, am I?”
“For someone so young, you sure do catch on pretty fast.”
“I don’t have any other choice, do I? I mean, I’m here and they’re…wherever they are.” I petered out and sipped my coffee.
“Your mother included,” he said softly, lighting a cigar. Mr. Hastings was laughing. “I just want to let you know that I called the information operator up in Stockton. I found a listing for a Charlotte Ranes.”
“My mother.”
“Mmm-huh. Anyway, I called the number.” He looked over at me darkly.
“You probably thought I ran away or something.”
He laughed again. “Or something…” he admitted. “Nobody picked up.” He showed me a piece of paper with my house number on it.
“You get a lot of this, don’t you?”
“Well, Sebastien…I’ve been the station manager for about eighteen years, and I’ve seen a lot of kids come through here. But not many come through here having been sent alone by their own parents. People are shocked to see you here, that’s for sure. It’s obvious that you’re not a runaway. You don’t look like a runaway.” He glanced around, watching several people stepping down off an arrived bus. “You get a lot of this, don’t you?” He repeated what I had said, putting it back at me.
“I never thought much about it. But I know my mother’s not normal, Mr. Hastings.”
“No, I wouldn’t think she is.”
“She’s probably in San Francisco. She went with another new man to go get married again,” I continued. He looked me over, shaking his head.
“Not the first time, eh?” he rejoined with laughter.
“No,” I answered, sipping my coffee. Sitting there talking to him, I started to feel better. It was much better than being alone and being stuck in my head wondering about my aunt, who still hadn’t surfaced.
“Well, look…you hungry?”
“A little,” I answered.
“Why don’t we get something to snack on from the café. If they come looking for you, I’m sure they’ll page us. Okay?”
I got up and left the platform with Mr. Hastings and headed for the Grey Café once more. He told me all about how he’d been driving Greyhound buses since just after the end of the 1950s. I figured that was a long time to be anything.
Inside the terminal, the loudspeaker was still going full tilt.
“Departure to San Francisco through Simi Valley, Ventura, Santa Barbara, and San Simeon. Aisle 4.”
“1202 arriving on Aisle 1 from Palm Springs.” I found it hard to hear everything Mr. Hastings was saying, so I leaned in close as we sat at the counter, trying to catch his words. He probably just thought I was interested.
“Maybe I should try to make a call from the pay phone,” I interrupted.
“Go ahead, that’s probably a good idea. I’ll be here.”
I wandered across the lobby, speeding up and slowing down, trying to get to the pay phone and around the thronging masses. I reached up, grabbed the receiver, pressed zero for the operator, and requested a collect call. It rang twenty times before the operator came back on and apologized. I imagined the phone in the front room sitting on the small table ringing off the hook. Listening to the sound of it began to bother me, and I felt incredibly let down. I could’ve been killed or wounded in a bus crash, and my mother wouldn’t have known or thought to care. I made note for the second time that the only people who gave a damn about me were complete strangers—just like the mannequins. Only the people looking in the shop windows ever cared, even if it was only momentary. Maybe that’s all real love was—just something that happened quickly and vanished, a kind gesture to a stranger or a fleeting moment of passion. One false move or embarrassing slipup, and I’d be pulled from the display and either put back up into the storeroom or thrown into the industrial-sized trash compactor out back. At least my department store counterparts seemed to have a destiny. I had no
“For someone so young, you sure do catch on pretty fast.”
“I don’t have any other choice, do I? I mean, I’m here and they’re…wherever they are.” I petered out and sipped my coffee.
“Your mother included,” he said softly, lighting a cigar. Mr. Hastings was laughing. “I just want to let you know that I called the information operator up in Stockton. I found a listing for a Charlotte Ranes.”
“My mother.”
“Mmm-huh. Anyway, I called the number.” He looked over at me darkly.
“You probably thought I ran away or something.”
He laughed again. “Or something…” he admitted. “Nobody picked up.” He showed me a piece of paper with my house number on it.
“You get a lot of this, don’t you?”
“Well, Sebastien…I’ve been the station manager for about eighteen years, and I’ve seen a lot of kids come through here. But not many come through here having been sent alone by their own parents. People are shocked to see you here, that’s for sure. It’s obvious that you’re not a runaway. You don’t look like a runaway.” He glanced around, watching several people stepping down off an arrived bus. “You get a lot of this, don’t you?” He repeated what I had said, putting it back at me.
“I never thought much about it. But I know my mother’s not normal, Mr. Hastings.”
“No, I wouldn’t think she is.”
“She’s probably in San Francisco. She went with another new man to go get married again,” I continued. He looked me over, shaking his head.
“Not the first time, eh?” he rejoined with laughter.
“No,” I answered, sipping my coffee. Sitting there talking to him, I started to feel better. It was much better than being alone and being stuck in my head wondering about my aunt, who still hadn’t surfaced.
“Well, look…you hungry?”
“A little,” I answered.
“Why don’t we get something to snack on from the café. If they come looking for you, I’m sure they’ll page us. Okay?”
I got up and left the platform with Mr. Hastings and headed for the Grey Café once more. He told me all about how he’d been driving Greyhound buses since just after the end of the 1950s. I figured that was a long time to be anything.
Inside the terminal, the loudspeaker was still going full tilt.
“Departure to San Francisco through Simi Valley, Ventura, Santa Barbara, and San Simeon. Aisle 4.”
“1202 arriving on Aisle 1 from Palm Springs.” I found it hard to hear everything Mr. Hastings was saying, so I leaned in close as we sat at the counter, trying to catch his words. He probably just thought I was interested.
“Maybe I should try to make a call from the pay phone,” I interrupted.
“Go ahead, that’s probably a good idea. I’ll be here.”
I wandered across the lobby, speeding up and slowing down, trying to get to the pay phone and around the thronging masses. I reached up, grabbed the receiver, pressed zero for the operator, and requested a collect call. It rang twenty times before the operator came back on and apologized. I imagined the phone in the front room sitting on the small table ringing off the hook. Listening to the sound of it began to bother me, and I felt incredibly let down. I could’ve been killed or wounded in a bus crash, and my mother wouldn’t have known or thought to care. I made note for the second time that the only people who gave a damn about me were complete strangers—just like the mannequins. Only the people looking in the shop windows ever cared, even if it was only momentary. Maybe that’s all real love was—just something that happened quickly and vanished, a kind gesture to a stranger or a fleeting moment of passion. One false move or embarrassing slipup, and I’d be pulled from the display and either put back up into the storeroom or thrown into the industrial-sized trash compactor out back. At least my department store counterparts seemed to have a destiny. I had no
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