Dirt Road (31 page)

Not only were buses expensive the actual prices changed. He heard people talking, they went online and saw daily deals and special offers. One day it was $40 the next it was $70, and that was the same journey. How come? Even walking from one town
to the next would save money. Then if ye hitched a lift for one clear stretch of the journey, that would save a good few dollars and that would be great, that would buy ye a meal. Then if yer luck was in and the driver was going farther on, and didnt mind taking ye.

How come he hadnt taken a lift off the guy in Allentown? How come? How come he didnt take the lift! Jeesoh!

Probably nothing. Or else what? Ye just had to be careful. Things ye pick up about people. Ye dont know them and ye meet them and think to yerself, I'm getting out of here. That was it with traveling, like buses or whatever, hitching, ye were never sure and had to be so so wary. Murdo turned to the woman on the bench. No eh I was just wondering, he said, about something like about traveling, just about hitching.

She gazed at him.

About hitching a lift, he said, I mean do ye ever hitch a lift or like people ye know I mean do they ever hitch a lift?

What? She frowned but with a kind of a smile.

No eh

What did you say?

No eh I just eh I was wondering about hitching… He could not speak further; his face was red again, and his throat felt like it had seized up. She was glaring at him. You making a joke? she said and she was so angry.

Murdo stared at her.

You making a joke at me? she cried. Dont you dare make a joke at me. Dont you dare!

But I'm not, I'm not. I only mean like if ye dont have money, if people dont have money and have to like hitch I mean if ye dont have money, that's all I'm saying.

I got money! What you think I'm trying to steal your money? I aint stealing no goddam money, your money not nobody else's money. I aint no thief! What are you saying to me?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

You think I'm stealing your money?

No! Not at all, I'm not saying anything at all.

The woman lifted her bag and got up from the bench.

I'm not saying anything, said Murdo.

She walked off to a bench on the other side of the bus station entrance. Murdo stared at the ground. Just horrible and stupid. He raised his head. An older woman was watching him. Just so stupid. How did it happen? Total misunderstandings. That was voices, people saying the same words but their voices different, so different.

When it came time for the bus the woman was still sitting on the other bench, she held her phone in her hand but wasnt looking at it. Murdo gathered his rucksack and accordeon-case. She hardly moved. She must have been staying there, probably waiting for another bus. Murdo was glad she was not going on his. It was selfish but that is what he felt. He hoped she had money and was not just sitting there because she had no place to go. Although if she didnt, what if she didnt? This bus was the last of the night through Lafayette.

It was full by the time Murdo climbed aboard. The driver had jammed the accordeon-case into the side of the luggage compartment; it wouldnt budge an inch. He kept hold of his rucksack. Some people preferred aisle seats. This man was one of them. Murdo squeezed past him into the window seat. He was wearing a denim jacket, jeans and a greasy-looking baseball cap, just sitting there staring to the front.

It had begun raining again, pattering the bus windows, making people peer out. Murdo was glad to be inside. He hoped she was too. Could she have been homeless? Ye werent sure with people at bus stations. She was young. What age was she?

People's lives and the things that happen. If ye are a girl and dont have money or a place to go. Maybe she didnt. So if she was a prostitute. She could have been. Whatever lives people have. Girls especially. For being a prostitute too, they had to be something;
good-looking, good shapes, if ye think of shapes. They had to be something.

The lights were off now and he was glad the guy on the aisle seat wasnt reading. It was good in the dark just to be sitting, just sitting there; beyond relaxing. He was tired. More than tired.

How come? What had he done? Nothing. Taking buses and walking places. But if he went to sleep, imagine sleeping, then ye wake up! Whereabouts? Miles away. Miles and miles. Three thousand miles divided by whatever, that was days.

The man in the aisle was talking to him. Going to Galveston. You know Galveston?

The man hadnt changed his position a fraction, except maybe his eyes moved. Smelling of tobacco and whatever else. He spoke again: Job down there. Nephew's doing the hiring and firing. Brother's boy.

Aw. Murdo nodded.

Brother dont like me none. The man's eyes moved again. He maybe waited for Murdo to say something. Got that song, “Galveston”. Galveston Galveston. You know that song?

I'm not sure.

The man nodded, staring at the seat in front. Kinda nice.

I'm going to Lafayette, said Murdo.

Oh yeah…

Murdo might have said about the gig but he didnt. People were people and had their own lives. You have something and they have something. Everybody ye meet. He shouldnt even have said that, Lafayette, who cares.

Guys in front were loud and sounded drunk. Murdo saw the tops of their heads shifting about, speaking about poker. Somebody won a lot of money and somebody else lost too much for a game that was supposed to be with friends. How could ye be friends if ye took all their money? Working offshore.

So that was oil workers same as Declan Pike, going back to work. Maybe they knew him. Imagine they did. Ye met guys on a
bus in a foreign country with millions and millions of people, and when ye said somebody's name they knew him. Murdo was gazing out the bus window. Then a large neon sign, and he turned his head following it, swivelling on his seat:

L
AFAYETTE
I
NTERNATIONAL
F
ESTIVAL
B
IENVENUE
F
ESTIVAL
I
NTERNATIONAL DE
L
OUISIANE

Ahead were the lights of the town itself. Murdo settled back on the seat and was about to say something to the man next to him but didnt. Soon the bus arrived in Lafayette. Murdo lifted the rucksack and moved out. Cheerio, he said.

So long, said the man.

*

He had expected most of the passengers to be leaving the bus but only six of them did. The driver dragged out the accordeon-case. Murdo checked inside: the accordeon was fine. He set off walking from the bus station into the festival area. It was quite a distance. Along the way he lifted leaflets, flyers and a free map of the festival site. He stopped under a street light to read through the stuff, searching for the Queen Monzee-ay gig and there she was in the main festival programme, but listed as one of the guests in “Lancey's Cajun All-Stars”, a lunchtime gig. That didnt sound right. According to Sarah's message the venue was the Jay Cee Lounge and the gig was late evening. Queen Monzee-ay was supposed to be opening for a band called the Zadik Strollers. He couldnt find the Jay Cee Lounge even listed as a festival venue. Then he found its address in the index to the map but there was no proper information. He shoved the stuff into his rucksack, lifted the accordeon-case.

People were gobbling takeaways and drinking beer. Everywhere ye looked. Hamburgers and stuff. He needed to eat. When did he last eat? Ages ago. Baton Rouge, an apple. He ate his last sandwich
on the bus, the last one. That was past the Mississippi River; he couldnt even remember eating it, he just ate it. He had money. If ye were starving, ye had to spend it. He was starving. Even an actual restaurant, he could spend money for that except he wasnt going to. Plenty foodstalls were here. At one the menu was brilliant how it was written for the song: Jambalay, Crawfish pie, Fillet gumbo. Hot Sos to Taste. Po-boy, what was Po Boy? I am just a po boy.

That was the trouble, not knowing what stuff was. In one place a girl was serving hamburgers, hotdogs and VGBugs. VGBugs. Maybe veggie. Murdo would eat it. Same as Dad. Dad ate anything. Murdo was the same. He waited by the counter. The girl served somebody to the side of him. Maybe she didnt notice him. He stood another couple of minutes. The girl served two other women. That was that, deliberate, because she had seen him, she was just ignoring him. He left the stall and continued walking. He was enjoying the sights and sounds anyway. Although it would have been nice to sit down. He was quite tired. He was used to lugging about the accordeon but at the same time a seat would have been good.

People were dancing going along the street, brightly lit in the dark. A real mix. Guys wore cowboy hats, waistcoats and jeans. Women wore everything, shorts and short skirts; sandals, fancy-coloured cowboy boots, high heels, long skirts, jeans, whatever. Plenty young folk.

He found a public payphone near a grass square and had enough change to try it but there wasnt enough light to decipher the instructions. He sat the accordeon-case by his feet, lifted the receiver and dialed the number. Nothing. Put in the money and dialed the number. Nothing. Dialed the number and put in the money. Nothing. He tried to speak to an operator, but nobody. Ye couldnt speak to anybody and ye couldnt read any damn thing. No wonder Dad had got angry trying to phone Uncle John. This was a nightmare. If ye couldnay read the damn instructions it was just stupid.

He would have to ask somebody how to do it but that was
tricky late at night. What time was it anyway? He returned to the main festival area where there was more light. He needed a sit-down; a proper rest. He was starving too, jeesoh. Nowhere to go either.

Cops. Funny how ye see cops; ye always seem to.

That was a thought, nowhere to go.

He didnt have any place. If he had expected to meet Sarah walking about, that was so so unlikely. Not now anyway. Places were closing for the night. Some already had. Sarah had offered about staying the night with family friends but it could only happen if he made contact, and he didnt have any contact number, no address, no nothing. That was just silly, not thinking about that. But so what if he had? It was Sarah should have done it.

Foodsmells. A foodstall with good lighting. Nobody queued. The guy working there wore an apron and a baseball cap. He stood behind the high counter phone in hand. Murdo walked over, laid down the accordeon-case. A sign said “Traditional cuisine de louisiane”. The menu was in Spanish, English and French; hand-written and scrawled, and difficult to read. Murdo studied it, trying to find something easy.

The guy was waiting and watching. Eventually he turned to read the menu himself. He said something to Murdo in Spanish, then in English, You want something?

Eh like a hamburger? a hot dog?

The guy shrugged, pointed at the menu.

Murdo tried to read it again but he couldnt. He just could not decipher the actual writing. Have you got any hamburgers or hot dogs? he asked.

Hot dog is cat fish, said the guy.

Murdo looked at him.

No hot dog, cat fish. The guy smiled and pointed to a place on the menu. Catfish. Is cheap and drink goes for the deal.

Murdo saw the price. Please, yeah, thanks.

You want catfish?

Please yeah.

Sure.

Murdo watched him scoop the food from the containers and dish it onto the paper plate: rice, onions, relish and lettuce too, and bits of tomato; thin strips of onion; plenty lettuce, rice. The guy smiled. Hungry eh?

Yeah.

What drink you want?

Do ye have orange juice?

The guy sighed. No orange juice. He gestured at the glass-fronted, chilled drinks cabinet. You want coke? We got 7 Up, orange fizzy.

You got tea?

No tea. Fizzy. Coke, Doctor Pepper. We got 7 Up.

Have ye got water?

Sure, water. The guy got him a bottle of water. He pointed at the accordeon-case: Hey man you play?

Yeah.

Good, good. The guy smiled, and hesitated, then added: Me too.

You too?

Si, I uh…

What the accordeon? you play the accordeon?

Si, I play.

Murdo grinned. The guy stood the bottle of water on the counter next to the paper plate. He straightened his baseball cap, waved round the foodstall. I got kids man you know, I earn money: got to earn money. He made a mournful face, but chuckled. He wagged his finger at Murdo. One day!

Murdo chuckled. Me too. He paid a $10 bill over the high counter, lifted napkins then collected the change; three single dollars and coins. A tips jar was there. Murdo dropped in the coins, stuck the dollars into his jeans pocket.

The foodstall guy frowned at him. Hey man!

Yeah? Murdo smiled.

The guy gestured sharply with his hand. How much you put in there?

Pardon?

How much? You put in there, how much?

Eh?

The guy wagged his finger at Murdo. You put in thirty-five cents! Is change I give you, thirty-five cents. No, is not good. The guy pointed at the tips jar: Put in a dollar man put in a dollar.

A dollar? Murdo looked at him.

One dollar. The guy shook his head. A dollar man, you know.

Murdo sniffed and took out a dollar, he shoved it into the tips jar.

The guy shrugged. Is what you do man.

Murdo nodded, he put the bottle of water in his rucksack, lifted the paper plate and the plastic fork. The guy said, Salsa?

No thanks. Murdo turned to leave.

The guy raised his hand to stop him. Hey you will be glad I tell you. You gotta tip a guy man.

Okay.

Yeah. Adiós.

Okay. Murdo walked on, and continued where the pavement led out of the lighted area and farther along where there was grass, like a little park, and two old-fashioned benches about twenty yards apart which were both empty. He chose the first, laid down the accordeon-case, swung off the rucksack and plonked down on the bench, utterly knackered. His first seat since whenever, the bus!

Then he opened the food, used the fork to break up the fish. It was tough and the fork was made of soft plastic.