The world looks quite unique when viewed through the tinted glass windows of Greyhound bus; the long stretches of open country and cool green forests are drawn into long, thin yarns as the bus snakes its way along the pale gray asphalt. It seems almost as if the universe is nothing more than an endless thread snaking its way through the stitches of time. Every once in a while, a giant cosmic kitten comes along and plays with the loose strand, shocking all the poor denizens of the thread.
But the ride along the yarn was, for the most part, quite smooth for Malcolm Achebe. The Greyhound bus was his ticket to Harlem, his home and the place of his birth. Mother would be waiting for him when he stepped off the bus. It would be the first time in almost five years that he’d seen his mother. But that was the price of winning a scholarship at the prestigious Stanford University.
As he sat on the soft cushioned seat of the bus, his mind was mostly at ease. Sure, he was a bit anxious, returning home to his impoverished neighborhood. He hoped his old friends wouldn’t think any less of him for leaving home to study at Stanford. That was part of the anxiety, sure, but there was much more to it. Nameless little fears swirled around in his head, and no matter how hard he tried to rationalize them, he couldn’t find their source.
The biggest difficulty, though, was simply keeping his mind occupied on the long trip. The sun was already midway through its descent back to the horizon on this cool spring afternoon, so Malcolm decided to take advantage of the remaining natural light and catch up on some reading. He pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his vest pocket, and put them on. He gingerly unzipped his backpack at his feet, taking care to not wake the snoring woman who sat next to him. He started fishing around amongst the many books in his pack, and finally selected The Other America by Michael Harrington.
“I’ve been meaning to read this for a while…I guess there’s no time like the present,” he whispered to himself. He opened the old, world-weary hardcover book and started reading the introduction. He propped the book up on his knee, holding it with his left hand while ran the long fingers of his right hand through his close-cut, kinky black hair.
Periodically, he’d look over to the young woman who sat next to him. She was still asleep; her modest bosom rose and fell in slow rhythm. Every few breaths were punctuated with a light snore. Her shoulder length ruddy brown hair was tied in pig-tails, each curling around the milky white skin of her neck.
Soon, Malcolm found himself paying more attention to her then the book. Sure, Michael Harrington’s account of poverty in the 1960s was interesting, but the longer he observed the young woman, the more intriguing she became. She wore a blue t-shirt with the words “Julliard School” proudly emblazoned in white lettering on the front. Her well-made leather handbag was tucked under her arm as she slept.
“She must be coming home from vacation,” Malcolm said to himself. Something about her just screamed “Yuppie larva.” It might have been the designer handbag, or the Julliard School t-shirt, or her tight, one-step-ahead-of-the-fashion-trends jeans, but something just said “money” about her. For all of his disdain of Yuppies, though, Malcolm did find her oddly alluring. “White women…” he whispered.
Malcolm thought of himself as a proud African, so it was hard for him to say those two little words without just a hint of disdain. He’d read Huey P. Newton and admired some of what he saw in the Black Panthers, but he wasn’t too zealous about it. He may have been a proud African, but pride only goes so far to cover the chip on his shoulder that had been forged by poverty. His slightly disheveled cotton shirt and wrinkled slacks screamed “poor, ramen noodle eating college student.”
Soon, the young Julliard woman next to him started to stir. She slowly stretched, and yawned deeply, politely covering her mouth. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and slowly oriented herself. Soon, she turned to Malcolm, his nose now buried in his book as he pretended to not notice her.
Refreshed from her nap, she decided to start a conversation. “So, whatcha reading,” she asked, half groggily, half cheerily.
“The Other America,” he replied curtly.
“Ah. What’s it about?”
“Poverty in 1960s America.”
“That was over forty years ago,” she said in confusion, “what would you be reading it for?”
He put the book down, and turned to her, staring her down over his reading glasses. “Well, I was thinking about writing a retrospective piece for any of the local newspapers or magazines in New York,” he replied matter-of-factly, “it probably won’t get published, but if it does, I’ll be able to get my foot in the door.”
“I see. A journalist,” she droned.
He nodded curtly. She giggled at him softly.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing,” she chuckled, “Just another campus liberal out to save the world.”
“Can you think of anything better that I should do with my time?” he replied, indignant.
“Yeah, I can,” she snorted, “why don’t you do something fun instead. Live a little. You know, go clubbing, see a play, or pick up a musical instrument. Something other than giving us a perpetual guilt trip.”
“I don’t even know your name, and you’re already making me out to be the scourge of the earth…”
“Ann.”
“What?”
“My name is Ann.” She smiled a feral grin at Malcolm.
“Oh. I’m Malcolm,” he replied, temporarily disarmed.
“So, you headed home too?” she asked.
“Yeah, I just graduated from Stanford, so I’m heading back home to Harlem. Haven’t been back home for about five years now.”
“Well, I guess it’s always good to be going home. I was visiting a friend in Ohio for about a week to celebrate graduating from Julliard. She’s an old friend from back home. Couldn’t convince her to stay in New York for college, unfortunately. She’s getting married to her live-in boyfriend, so she won’t be coming home this summer.”
“So you went to visit her before her fiancé snatched her away?”
“Yeah. I helped her pick out her wedding dress and all that other girly stuff. It was a lot of fun.”
“Hmm. I wonder if any of my friends back home got hitched while I was gone.” While he pondered this, he turned to stare out the tinted window, taking in the wonderful sight of the green country side of eastern Pennsylvania. One thing was certain: nothing would ever be the same.