south

Unimpeded stretches of yellow and brown scratch across the surface north and south of me. Up ahead the faint shadows of blue-grey mountains start to show. Southern land is rugged and would run wild if not for the crooked posts pinned along every section of land fencing off what belongs to whom. The desert is barbed and tamed. Telephone poles jut into the ground helping hold it in place. If these pins were undone, I’m sure the dust would roll up in waves like a sheet being shaken free of debris and blow in all direction. The landscape of the south itself could rebel and run rampant if only we unpinned it.

Something romantic about stretches of road cutting through the landscape creeps into the air filters of the bus. The man next to me inks a small pornographic sketch of a girl in military garb and gas mask. Biker couples whip into emergency side lanes around us. I imagine they are hooting and hollering, she gets wet holding onto her leathered hunk as he's glued to the throttle. There are inner-state tensions among the solidarity. Like a large jewish family – they all recognize their connections and nod at each others’ accomplishments while whispers and raised eyebrows draw distinctions between each one. Arizona, New Mexico, Texas wrangled and tangled in tough love.

This greyhound is more packed and desperate than others I have inhabited before. A surprise Cocaine bust led the blonde tattooed gentleman to skip out on his court date in Oregon. He sucks on a rolled cigarette and exhales his story – I can be your receptacle good sir, I can be your canyon. “ Yeah, fuck undercover cops,” I echo. His dad promises a job upon his return back south. Martin, the larger latino man with a brother in the military, loved California but hated the trucking industry. He thinks I should get into construction if I pass through McAllen – he swears to hook me up in the hypothetical. The small black girl is yanked up off the floor by her shirt collar – her braid whips up with her tiny frame. No one looks as her mother whispers angrily in her tearing eyes. Don’t be that kid girl. Nobody sides with the bus-crier… I know, I’ve been her. A 40-something white woman clad in Zumies gear screams explicatives at her scurrying children. Two rows behind her is the tail end of an alimony conversation. Pick your poison passengers. This southern bus is rugged and wild and full of tough love.

Still, when I ask, a pebble of pride beams back through. “It’s good to be back south,” they all smile and let their heads pan. "Home." they throw in at the last moment. "It's good to be back home." I allow for their moment of joyous reflection and wait for the inevitable launch into nostalgia. Describing country life and hard life and backwaters, po-dunk, killin rattle snakes and eating Whattaburger and hooting at women and driving real fast. It’s all part of the appeal, they explain. This is rugged and rolling and real. They are home, and ready to put their pins back. Things have been too shaken up the past couple of months.