Keeping the Tarnished (2 page)

Chapter Two

The Ticket

And where are you needing to go?” the girl behind the ticket booth asked.

Johnny found the blue-eyed girl attractive, but he was so overwhelmed by all the smells, sounds, and sights of the bus station that her looks alone weren’t enough to corral his attention entirely. He felt incapable of controlling his gaze from dancing about the scene, unable to completely connect with the young woman attempting to assist him. The details were surreal to him. The only time he had been to Shreveport was when his grandmother passed away. The change in scenery was oppressively stimulating.

“Louisiana,” Johnny replied.

The girl lightly bit her bottom lip, glancing at Johnny from the corner of her eye in a curious manner. She was probably five or six years older than Johnny, but her body language gave the boy the impression that she was uncomfortable assisting him. “You are in Louisiana,” she said, with a slightly condescending smile, “Shreveport, Louisiana.”

Johnny broke his gaze from her and looked toward a map of the state, next to a national map on the counter of the booth. “Here,” he said, pointing to a small dot on the map. As the girl looked at where he was pointing, she developed a scowl and appeared completely put-off.

As his curiosity calmed, his frustration presented. He didn’t appreciate the manner which the young woman spoke to him. She was stern, yet he felt as though she addressed him like a twelve-year-old. Johnny, however, was far from the age of twelve. In fact, he could have very well been the newest legal adult at the bus station. This was his birthday, the big eighteen.

Most eighteen-year-old boys celebrated the monumental milestone with family or friends offering wisdom and gifts. Johnny would celebrate the day with the greatest gift his father could have given him, a ticket to a new scene. Of course, Thomas Tregalis more than likely hadn’t even realized his booze stash was gone yet, but he was paying for the ticket just the same.

An elderly black man standing behind Johnny was growing obviously impatient. Leaning on his cane, the gray-bearded man continuously took deep breaths and exhaled loudly in an irritated manner.

“Sir, we don’t provide trav—”

“Okay, then here.” Johnny cut her off and pointed hastily to a bigger dot labelled Lake Charles.

“One way to Lake Charles. Cash or credit today, sir?”

Johnny reached in the book bag and pulled out the wad of cash. The bills were of various amounts, and they were literally presented to the girl in a crumpled ball. He placed the wad on the counter and turned his attention to one of the buses parked near the booth.

A sudden rush of euphoria raced over him.
This was actually going to happen
. He began to think he might actually pull it off.

“Sir,” the girl said sternly.

Johnny was a bit startled as her tone snapped him back to the situation at hand.

“Sir, you really need to take better care of your money. This is much more than you need for your ticket,” she said as she began to unfold the remaining bills, putting them in order from least to most value. “This is a good way to lose your cash, man.”

Johnny heard the girl’s words, yet didn’t understand why she would concern herself with his welfare. He looked once again at the parked bus as he felt his euphoria slightly give way to anxiety.

“I’m going to put this in an envelope so you can keep better track of it,” the girl said politely. “Here is your ticket, and here is your change in this envelope.” She handed him the neatly arranged cash and his ticket as he broke gaze from the bus long enough to grab the items and shove them in his book bag’s side pocket. “Unless, of course, you have a wallet. Do you not have a wallet?”

“Do I just get on? The door isn’t even open,” Johnny asked, pointing toward the parked bus.

“No. You don’t get on that bus, it’s not even operational,” snapped the girl in an abrasive tone. “This ticket number correlates to the departure time and bus you will be taking, which is that way. You will present it when asked. Anything else, sir?”

“No,” Johnny replied, and he headed in the direction the girl pointed him in.

Chapter Three

The Ride

“What exactly is it you’re needin’?” asked the obese, hateful clerk behind the quick-stop counter. Her short, red hair and acne-scarred face both looked as if they hadn’t been thoroughly washed in days. She had sweat stains under either armpit, and she was probably the largest woman Johnny had ever seen. “You just ain’t making sense right now,” she continued as she rolled her eyes and chewed her gum loudly.

Johnny hated the woman and her unpleasant demeanor, she was hideous, and gratuitously hateful to him every time he walked to the store. He was having difficulty seeing from his right eye as it was nearly swollen shut. His jacket and sweatpants were dirty, but not dingy, just dirty like he had fallen down and rolled around in the dirt. His John Deere ball cap had dirt and muck all over it as well. He wasn’t there asking for handouts or even to complain, yet she was still mean to him.

“I need something to cover up this shiner! Why can’t you understand that? I got school pictures on Monday,” Johnny snapped at the clerk.

“Young man, I can refuse to serve you if you wanna be hateful.” She placed her pudgy hands on either side of her extreme waistline. Her dress was atrocious as well. It reminded Johnny of the white and orange curtains his mother once threw in the burn barrel due to their unattractive nature.

“I need some make-up like ladies use to cover up their spots,” he replied.

The woman finally seemed to relax and leaned in closer to the boy so the people behind him couldn’t hear what she was saying. “We don’t got that, either. What you need to do is call child protective services, young man.”

This was probably the kindest tone the woman had ever taken with him, yet he had no idea what this child place was, or why he needed to call. His glance momentarily fell upon his pathetic reflection in the store widow.

“Well, can I use your phone?”

“Use my phone? Hell no. I’m roaming and this prepaid bullshit don’t come cheap,” said the same elderly black man who was behind him in the line earlier. The cantankerous old man ended up sitting next to Johnny on the bus. “Kids are ungrateful shits these days, think the world owes them something,” the old man crankily continued.

Johnny turned and looked at the man with his mouth open and eyes widened. He knew he wasn’t in the store near his father’s house, he was on the bus. He was on the moving bus, sitting by the window near the back. He then realized he must have been talking out loud. He did that sometimes, but the teen had been staring out the bus window the entire time.

After his mother left two years prior, Johnny approached a mental breaking point, as a child’s mentality can only bear so much adversity. Once Johnny’s one source of security was gone, he began to lose his sense of clarity little by little, though it was never depleted to the point of clinical dysfunction. Johnny began to confuse his dreams and memories with present reality, and would often experience painful flashbacks of childhood trauma, as well as vivid nightmares of more recent atrocities.

When Johnny became lost deep in thought, he often found it difficult to distinguish past from present, and even delusion from reality. He was a prisoner of the chaotic scrambling often associated with people that experience horrific traumatic events. The result was the occasional inability to understand what was really there to hurt him from what was no longer a viable threat. There were even times when he found it difficult to determine if a situation had occurred, if it were occurring, or if it were some wild, anxiety-driven delusion. Maintaining the ability to assure, and reassure, himself was the boy’s saving grace.

Johnny may have angered the man with his question, but he paid little attention to the man’s harsh comments as they were mild in comparison to the harassments he had frequently endured. He looked at the old man briefly, and then returned his gaze toward the window.

The bus was filthy, but so were the majority of the passengers, and the old man smelled awfully of body odor and pipe tobacco. The bus window was covered in greasy fingerprints, and what appeared to be smeared, dried ketchup along the bottom of the glass. By this time, Johnny’s excitement had somewhat faded, and he was slightly fearful. The reality of being without a viable plan was finally setting in to the extent that he was now wondering where he was going to go once he got off of the bus in Lake Charles. Perhaps he would simply buy another ticket and ride the bus indefinitely. The idea was, of course, beyond impractical, but it made more sense than anything else at this point.

He knew something would work out in his favor. With every second, every minute, Johnny was further from his past, and this thought made it all worth it. He could sleep on the streets for years, and it would still be worth it. Leaving it all behind had seemed like a whimsical idea until his mother left. He understood there had to be more out there, and nothing in the world could hurt him anymore than he’d been hurt already. At the same time, he was only teetering on the fence of hope and complete numbness. He felt that with time and distance, part of him could heal. He had not a clue, however, what healing looked like. He only knew that something inside him told him to run, to exist, and to live.

The old man had closed his eyes and leaned his head back as if he was going to attempt to sleep. Johnny took the opportunity to examine the man more closely. He was obviously extremely thin, and his facial stubble was completely gray. His thin, red, plaid, pearl-snap shirt appeared to be freshly pressed, and his jeans were extremely skinny. He appeared to be poor, yet made an effort to be presentable. He had the wasted look that Johnny was quite familiar with.

Many of the fishermen near Johnny’s home that brought up fresh catch from the south had the same appearance. Maybe this man used to be a fisherman. Perhaps that was why he was so cranky. All the fishermen seemed cranky. He probably drank a lot when he was younger, maybe he still drank now. Johnny felt sad for the skinny old man. Regardless of how desperate his own situation was, he was still able to feel some form of compassion for a complete stranger.

Many of the passengers were now either sleeping or reading papers, books, or having very quiet conversations among themselves or with themselves. Some were vagrant, some were disgustingly filthy, but they all had one thing in common, they were all leaving something behind. This too brought about a sense of comfort. This escape was his only option. He had no resources, but no other choice, so he had no reason to feel regretful. He thought perhaps he should try to sleep too. Maybe when he woke, things would make sense. The bus had left at seven, and it was only noon now. The night at the station was restless at best, and he still had several hours to go. If the man next to him could sleep, then Johnny thought he would be able to as well. He rested his head on the countless greasy fingerprints and closed his eyes.

***

“Good afternoon, people!” the male driver announced over the loud speakers. “We’re coming up on a stop, you got twenty minutes to grab some grub, use the facilities, and get back on.”

The bus exited the highway and the station was just off the exit. It slowly began to crawl as it pulled into a fuel station, which had a sign that advertised a Taco Bell and A&W within the store.

Johnny stretched as much as he could in the cramped quarters, and let out a big sleepy yawn.

“Yea, I hear ya. I’m dog-tired too,” the old man proclaimed.

Johnny had never heard someone say
dog-tired
before, but he got the point. He simply gave the old man a nod and turned his attention to the store outside his window. He thought a hamburger sounded appetizing as he reached for his book bag.

“Hey, son, you don’t have an extra dollar or two you could spare an old man, do you?” asked the elderly man.

Johnny looked at the man, and was half tempted to tell him no simply because he had been so grouchy. But he knew all too well the pain of hunger, and the man was very thin.

“Yes, sir. I got a little,” Johnny replied. He reached into his envelope and pulled out a five-dollar bill folded long ways. “Here you go. My name is Johnny, by the way.” As the man looked at the five-dollar bill, an expression of guilt fell about his face.

“Why, thank ya kindly, Johnny; my name is Bo.” The man reached out to grab the five. His fingers were dark, long, and skinny, and his fingernails had a yellowish discoloration, probably from nicotine. The majority of the passengers had already exited the bus. The two stood from their seats, Bo with his cane, and made their way down the aisle toward the front of the bus.

Chapter Four

Rest

“This is a damn good burger for a fast food joint,” Bo said, ravaging the burger and fries the five dollars had bought him.

“Yea, it is pretty good. So, where are you from, Bo?” Johnny asked curiously as he dipped his fries in a pile of ketchup comprised of about thirty ketchup packets. The booth they sat at was one of about twenty inside the large store. There were two rows of booths running parallel with the large windows in the front of the store.

“I was born and raised in Biloxi. I been in treatment upstate for my drinkin’, and now I’m going to stay with my baby sister and my nephew in Lake Charles, and I thank the good Lord every day I wake up sober.” The old man had a mouth full of food, and it was obvious his teeth were not real.

“The treatment was just for drinkin’?” Johnny enquired with obvious curiosity in his voice.

“Yes, sir. It certainly was, but I imagine they got a treatment or therapy for just about everything. You just gotta want it,” Bo replied.

“So, you wanted the treatment to stop drinkin’?” Johnny asked. “Did they give you medicine for it? How did it work?”

Bo set his burger down and looked at Johnny with a stone cold gaze, and after a long pause, he answered the curious boy. “I spent over forty years in the bottle. I did things I ain’t proud of. They don’t give alcoholics no damn pills. They talk to ’em. Get to the bottom of the reason they drink in the first place. Of course I wanted to quit. I went there on my own account.”

“Do you think they can actually fix a lot of problems with talkin’?” Johnny asked in a serious tone.

“I do, I do, I do, my young friend. And those people that do the talkin’ make the big bucks,” Bo said in a friendly voice with a French fry smile.

Just then, the driver came over the loud speakers in the store. “Attention, passengers. Scarf it down, let’s get back out there.”

Like a prisoner that had just learned of the possibility of a pardon, Johnny rose from the A&W carnage with an extended sense of hope. Perhaps someday he would be free of his past’s prison completely, not only in body, but in mind as well.