A Story from Marcus

Nick and I boarded the Greyhound bus with great anticipation that August morning in the summer of 1988. As we scurried on board we looked for two seats together in the back of the bus, where our fishing poles would least inconvenience the other travelers. As we settled into our seats, our excitement was strong enough to overcome the less than pleasant environment of a Louisiana-based bus making roundtrips between Shreveport and New Orleans. The oppressive heat, unidentifiable odors, and general dirtiness were easily overlooked in our joy and thrill of accomplishment. We were on our way to our first real fishing trip, and we had been eagerly looking forward to this moment all summer.

It was two weeks before the start of our sophomore year at Byrd High School, and we were headed to Grand Isle, Louisiana for a three day fishing trip with my cousin Beau. Beau was an avid outdoorsman in his early thirties, and he owned a camp in GI that was our destination. In the spring of that year Beau had invited us down, and after some debate my mother and Nick’s grandmother both acquiesced, given two conditions. Condition 1: we had to find our own way down there. Nick was 15 and had a driver’s license, but no car, and I was still 3 weeks removed from my 15th birthday (and 1 ½ years removed from a car). Thank goodness for the friendly wheels of Greyhound! Condition 2: we had to pay for it ourselves. So we mowed lawns, toiling in the sun all summer long. I can still feel the sweat rolling down my back as I pushed the lawn mower, thinking all the while of the big payoff: Nick and me, on a fishing trip by ourselves. No parents, no responsibilities, no rules -- only fun!

All the hard work was now behind us as the bus started its engine and idled out of the downtown station. We were on our way to big adventure and manhood! But as the bus pulled into a post office in Coushatta an hour and a half later, most of our excitement had been replaced by the realization of what a long bus ride this was going to be. It is impossible to describe how slowly time crawls to a 14 year old boy on a 10 hour bus ride. At the time, Greyhound traveled down Highway 1, and made stops at a gas station, post office or grocery store in every po’ dunk town between Shreveport and New Orleans. Coushatta, Natchitoches, Cheneyville, Marksville, Krotz Springs. It didn’t take many stops before we had established a routine. One of us would dash off the bus, choke down a cigarette, run to the restroom, and then re-board the bus while the other one would watch our gear. We would alternate stops, switching responsibilities. This system got us as far as Baton Rouge. Evidently the management of Greyhound felt that 8 hours was much too fast to make the one-way trip from Shreveport to New Orleans, so they lengthened it by dropping in a two-hour layover in Baton Rouge. Fortunately, my Uncle Guy lived in Baton Rouge and was able to break up the monotony of the trip. Guy picked us up at the station, treated us to a square meal at a nearby Piccadilly, and had us back at the station in time for Nick and me to enjoy a cigarette together.

As we boarded the bus (nonstop between Baton Rouge and New Orleans), we thought that we were home free. Little did we know that more difficulty awaited. The plan was for Beau to pick us up at the New Orleans Airport at 8:00 P.M. We would spend the night at Beau’s house in Bayou Gauche, and leave for GI before daylight the next morning. The bus pulled on to I-10 at 6:45, right on time to make its next stop at New Orleans International at 7:45. At about 8:15, 20 miles from the airport and at a standstill on an interstate posing as a parking lot, I began to really worry. At the very earliest, it would be 9:00 before we could possibly get there. I had my cousin’s home number, but little good that would do. Cell phones and pagers were reserved for doctors and lawyers at that time, so I couldn’t call from the bus anyway.

At 9:10 we pulled into the airport terminal, and I knew that Beau was probably on his way back to Bayou Gauche. As the bus driver eased over to the curb and applied his brakes, a new dilemma arose. The driver flung open the doors and jumped out of the bus, and began chatting to a cabbie standing nearby. Nick leaned over and asked, “Is this the airport stop?” “No, surely he would have said something like he did at all the other stops,” was my logical reply. Sure enough, the driver jumped back on the bus, closed the door, put the bus into gear and headed towards the real airport bus stop. The second airport bus stop never did come.

I distinctly recall the queasy feeling creeping into the pit of my stomach as the bus motored out the gates of the airport. And I recall that queasy feeling spreading throughout my insides as we passed Veterans Boulevard headed towards the downtown bus terminal. By that time, Nick and I both knew that our well-laid plains were quickly deteriorating into disaster. “What should we do?” Nick asked, as if I had some clue. “We have to get back to the airport,” was the only thing I could muster. As the bus slowed to an approaching red light, I grabbed my bag and headed to ask the driver if he could take us back to the airport. His answer was, “No, but you can get off here!” as he flung the bus door open. So I scrambled down the stairs and off the bus with the relief that if nothing else, the bus ride from hell was finally over. When the bus doors closed and the light changed to green, I glanced back as the bus motored down the highway. I will never forget the look on Nick’s face as he peered out the bus window at me. In my haste to get off the bus and back to the airport, I had forgotten Nick. The ever-growing queasiness that had been building for over an hour turned to full blown nausea at that moment.

I crossed the street to a nearby 7-11, and sat on the curb thinking about what I was going to do now. I was 14, alone in New Orleans, and I had just deserted my friend on a Greyhound bus. About the time I resigned to call my dad and ask for help, my spirits rebounded. The streetlights cast the unmistakable silhouette of Nick carrying his bag and our fishing poles. Nick trotted up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “I guess you were in a hurry to get off the bus!” A hardy laugh eased the tension, and hope was rekindled. I quickly dug through my pockets and found Beau’s telephone number. I located a pay phone, placed a collect call to his house, and finally made contact with him. Beau would pick us up at the 7-11 store in about an hour. Our trip was saved from the depths.

To celebrate our survival we decided to wait at a pool hall across the street. The pool hall was a typical seedy New Orleans watering hole, with all the usual lounge décor… a cigarette machine just inside the front door, two ragged pool tables, an old wooden bar, a juke box in the corner pumping out Led Zeppelin, and a bearded, pony-tailed bartender who cast us a sideways look as we strolled into the establishment. In New Orleans, the bar keep had probably seen odder sights, but it is hard to fathom something more unusual than two 14 year old boys with duffel bags and fishing poles. After smoking a cigarette and shooting a game of pool we decided to really stretch the limits of our burgeoning maturity. Nick and I confidently approached the bar and ordered a man’s drink. “Two glasses of scotch on the rocks,” Nick boomed at the bartender. At the time, Nick (who was a good looking guy of Italian descent) may have passed for close to 18 years of age. I, on the other hand, was 5’10 and 115 pounds soaking wet. I looked a lot closer to 12 than I did 18. Evidently, the minimum drinking age at this establishment was based on whether or not you could put money on the bar, and since we both passed this requirement, the bartender poured two drinks of house scotch, and slid them over to us without so much as a word.

Nick and I returned to our table, lit up a cigarette, and quietly sipped our scotch. I am sure we looked quite ridiculous at the time, but it is a moment I will never forget. The fishing trip became an annual pilgrimage for Nick and me, and we had many adventures (and misadventures) along the way, but that first trip will always be special. We had boarded the bus as boys, and 12 hours later sitting in that New Orleans bar, Nick and I were men.