#91: Greek Yogurt on a Greyhound
HUMOR
The first time I set foot in LA, I was rushing off a Greyhound bus.
It was the summer of 2019. I had just graduated college and finished competing in the NCAA DIII Outdoor Track and Field Championships for the last time (brag). My best friend Dilys earned her title as the Women’s 400m Hurdle champion (bigger brag), and we lied on the official forms that dictated our free one-way flight home to say we lived in San Francisco. We kissed our parents goodbye on the track in Geneva, Ohio and flew west for our great California adventure.
We’d worked our way down the coast in a rental car from San Francisco to Santa Cruz then Big Sur to Santa Barbara. After all that driving, we decided we didn’t want to brave the LA traffic ourselves so instead we would take a Greyhound bus from Santa Barbara to LA and Uber around from there. My dad strongly advised against this informing us that the city of Santa Barbara had a reputation for bussing unhoused people down to LA to get them out of their glorious beach town. When we were on their glorious beach, I remember thinking it would be perhaps more glorious if the oil tankers were less visible from shore and the sand contained fewer globs of sticky tar.
When my dad offered us his fatherly wisdom, I can’t remember if I stuck my tongue out and said, “I’m a grownup now. You’re not the boss of me. I’m going to do it anyway,” or if I nodded sagely at his advice and didn’t bother to tell him that we were going to do it anyway. But I probably said something cutting about how it was uncouth to suggest two very young women who had never traveled alone before and who were both bright but tended to be overly trusting and naive would be unsafe simply because of a bussing program. Plus, the tickets were only fifteen bucks and my saved-up work-study money was dwindling. I had to live life for myself, after all.
So we picked the tar out from between our toes and walked from the Santa Barbara beach to the bus station. According to the schedule, we were in for a quick two-hour ride. Perfect for a nap before we hit the Venice boardwalk and scrounged up some grub in sunny LA. Or so we thought.
Upon entering the bus, we were greeted by a woman. Greeted is too comfortable a word. We were subjected to a woman. She was standing half in the aisle leaning over the bus driver’s empty seat scooping plain, seemingly unstirred, Greek yogurt into her mouth with her hand. It was, and I cannot stress this enough, all over the bottom half of her face. Legitimately all over it. Like she had just finished bobbing for apples in a tub of Greek yogurt and her prize was an individually packaged portion of that same Greek yogurt. Perhaps more alarming than her too-slow scoop, slurp, lip-smack of a snack time, were her eyes. They bulged so far out of her head I thought they might pop out and roll between my feet, down the bus stairs, and out into the freedom of the parking lot. It seemed unlikely she had eyelids. Those balls were exposed. Visibly spherical.
She stared at me, unblinking, for several moments while she scooped and smeared and slurped her yogurt, blocking my path to the rest of the bus. Finally, some angel a few people behind me in line yelled at me to “Fucking move!” and that startled me enough to break the trance I’d fallen into watching this woman “eat” her yogurt. So I mumbled something asinine like, “Excuse me,” and continued toward the back of the bus.
There were plenty of seats open, so Dilys and I chose our own, diagonal from each other so we could both sleep. At least that was the plan until I started looking around at the other passengers on the bus. Lots of men traveling alone. Many of whom seemed to take a special interest in us. Their smirks and lip-licking seemed to say, “Look at the delicious meals that just waltzed into my trap. I can’t wait to eat them up!”
I was trying to silently communicate with Dilys that perhaps we should actually sit together and stay vigilantly awake and alert with, as my dad would say, our heads on a swivel for the entirety of this bus ride instead of blissfully napping until our inevitable murders. But we were exhausted and had been joined at the hip for edging on too long. I’d lived with her for a month after my lease was up as we were training through the summer. We’d roomed together for the qualifying meets and championships. And of course, now we were sharing a bed every night on this shoestring-budget road trip. I understand why she needed a break from her totally-chill-not-at-all-neurotic-and-controlling-chatterbox travel companion. She sweetly communicated back with her eyes that she would like her own seat please and was I perhaps overreacting? And that was that. With a talent I will forever be jealous of, she was asleep before we pulled out of the station.
Dil fell asleep with her bag unzipped, Macbook shining like a silver beacon screeching “Take me!” so I reached back and took her bag. Yes, because I wanted to keep it safe with me so nothing would happen to it. But also to prove that something could very easily happen to it. We had backpacks and tote bags, which I tied closed, weaving my limbs through the straps. I wanted everything secure in case I too fell asleep. I looked ridiculous and paranoid. Because I was.
A man a diagonal seat ahead of me (two seats in front of Dilys) was watching me. Steadily. One of those bloodthirsty lip-lickers. He watched me select my seat and eye-conversate with Dilys and steal-protect her Macbook and tie all my bags together. He watched me the whole time. I didn’t like that one bit. But something told me that’s why he liked doing it.
I refused to meet his gaze, even as it was burning a hole in my cheek. I put in my headphones and scrolled through my playlists, too concerned with the man in my periphery to actually read any of the titles. Finally, he said, “You’re smart.”
Ominous. Pulse-quickening, even. The only thing this man had seen me do was attempt to protect myself from him, which he was saying I was smart to do. Interesting way to confirm you’re bad news.
“Thanks,” I smiled, tight-lipped. If you don’t give them an inch, they will cut up your body, string it together, and drag it by their truck nuts for a mile.
“Where are you from?” His smile was more a sneer.
“LA,” I lied. Better he didn’t know we’d be in unfamiliar territory. Although, I doubt he believed me.
“I’ve been all over the country, seen all kinds of people. Girls aren’t smart like you,” he wanted me to be flattered. He was leaning with his elbows on his knees now in the aisle, dangerously close to my seat. I pressed myself against the window. Said nothing.
“It’s a compliment. I’m saying you’re smart,” he emphasized. I could see his gears turning. Maybe I was actually stupid?
“Oh, thanks,” I said through another tight-lipped smile. I turned my head toward the window and held my breath.
Thankfully, he got the hint.
An hour of traffic later, the bus driver announced that our two-hour trip was shaping up to be more of a four-hour one. We hadn’t moved in minutes. The miles were inching by. My eyelids felt so heavy.
I jerked awake to the sound of my Airpod hitting the bus floor.
I spun around in my seat, movement constricted by the bundle of bags tied to my arms and legs. Leaning over the backrest, I said to the father with his young daughter behind me, “I think I dropped my headphone under the seat. Can you reach it?”
The father nodded, bent, and retrieved my pod. He held it up so I could see, then he met my gaze. It was serious. Important. He looked at me. Then at the man, who, I realized at this moment, had moved into the seat directly next to mine. Then back to me. He was stern. It was a warning. Whatever that man had been doing while I was asleep, he was bad news. The father wanted me to know. I nodded slightly and thanked him.
I turned back around in my seat, afraid.
The man was staring at me again. He jerked his hand back to a still-sleeping Dilys. “This your friend?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I was afraid to acknowledge him. The bus driver announced we’d be arriving in LA in 15 minutes. What would happen when we got off the bus? Would he follow us? What if he had people waiting at the station?
“I said, is this your friend?” He raised his voice, angry I was ignoring him. Dilys woke up confused, then panicked off my expression. Before I could say anything, a cell phone rang a few rows back.
“Hello? Yes, this is she!” chirped a young girl.
“Oh, now’s a fine time. I’m actually just on a Greyhound bus about to arrive in LA.”
A pause. The man shifted his focus away from us to her.
“Mhmm, I’m actually solo backpacking around the continental U.S. for the first half of my gap year until I enter the Peace Corps.”
I wanted to scream. Shut up! We can all hear you! Stop revealing how vulnerable and alone you are! And then, and I’m genuinely not kidding, she said, “I’m not 18 yet, but I will be by the end of the summer.”
I got up on my knees in the seat and peered over hers desperately trying to catch her eye. The father behind turned too. The man in the seat next to me was practically salivating.
She laughed, probably reciting her social security and routing numbers, until she felt all our eyes on her and looked up embarrassed.
“We’re about to arrive at the station, so I’ll have to give you a call back.”
She looked at me as if to say sorry. And I wanted to scoop her up and put her in the tote bag tied around my leg.
The bus lurched to a stop. Everyone started filing out. I was panicked. Dilys could tell I was on edge, but I didn’t want to say anything until we were out and in the clear.
We disembarked and I lost track of the man. But I had eyes on Peace Corps. She was distracted as she got off but thankfully followed us into the women’s restroom. I wasn’t the only one freaked out by the man on the bus. Several of the women who had been on board agreed to stay in the bathroom until our rides arrived. There was camaraderie in recognizing our universal language: fear. We watched Peace Corps get safely in a friend’s car before our Uber came. All the while, yogurt lady leaned against the sink with a look that said this is why I always finger-feed myself Greek yogurt on a Greyhound.
Exciting update! Respectful Smartass officially has 500+ subscribers! I was sitting at 499 for several days, obsessively refreshing my dashboard. Then yesterday I forgot all about it and a few people subscribed while I wasn’t watching the pot boil! Crazy how that works. Leave your pots unmonitored on the stove, people. That’s the moral of the story. From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING HERE! I’m NOT sorry for yelling because I’m GEEKED! You all RULE.
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. Yes, this is another newsletter plug. Nature is healing! The girls are starting Substacks! I met the incredibly funny when we were (by some miracle) on a show together at SF Sketchfest (Ely is certifiably funnier than me, as you’ll see in her newsletter). Ely has the unique ability to make you feel seen while keeled over with laughter. There’s heart in her humor. And that’s pretty much the highest compliment I can bestow. Her latest post, baby on the greyhound bus, inspired my own greyhound story for you today. Go sub! Share the love!ilysssssssm bye,
Ariana
"Greeted is too strong a word. We were subjected to a woman." 😂😂😂