The highway shot past from the bus window, a streak of grey and black set against green undeveloped land and sudden short spurts of aluminum. We’d just crossed state lines into Georgia, and we had about an hour to go until Atlanta. I sighed, and glanced around the bus. On Greyhounds, everyone keeps to themselves. There is no talking, there is no chatter, there’s no friendly Southern hospitality, because you only ride Greyhounds if you’re desperate or cheap.
I turned my head to Mark, watching him sleep. His head lolled to the side like a baby’s, except his face was expressionless, like his mind was still churning while his body rested. A wrinkled backpack strap snaked out from under his leg, the only part of his hiking backpack visible under his buttocks. I thought about my ten thousand dollars being squished by a lawyer’s ass, and both internally vomited and giggled like a Girl Scout at the same time. No one raised their heads. I sighed, and shook Mark.
“Mark. Mark. We’re in Georgia,” I said in a low voice. He jerked to life, startled.
“Whazzat?”
“We’re in Georgia.”
“Oh. Thanks,” he said, kneading his eyeballs with the knuckles of his index fingers. “You’re a nice guy, you know that?”
“Thanks,” I parroted, then turned back to face the window. We watched the landscape change into concrete and freeways, taking the place of pine trees. Silence filled the air for several minutes as we covered another ten miles. I’d never asked why we were going to Atlanta – I supposed that it really didn’t concern me. Maybe Mark was just going to hand out another five hundred dollars on another street corner in another city. He could certainly afford to.
The skyline of the city punctuated the clouds through the bus window. We were only about twenty minutes from the city, and I was ready to get off. Finally, we rolled to a stop at the station. We walked off. Mark started whistling the Andy Griffith tune, the shrill off-key notes ricocheting off of brick.
“Mark?” I sniffed. “Why Atlanta?”
“Some people here need to see some money,” he shrugged, turning his backpack around so that the pockets were on his torso and the straps looped backwards around his shoulders. He didn’t say anything for the rest of the stroll.
It was typical Atlanta weather. The air cooked me from the inside out, a pale white chicken inside of a Southern microwave. We passed the usual stock of homeless men, Mark hurling ten dollar bills into their collection cups like they were radioactive. At a Marta city transit stop, he wrestled a pass from the depths of his backpack, and leaned back on the bus stop’s cool metal seat. After being in the sun for so long, the shade felt like a winter Arctic swim. Seeing that we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, I kicked back, feet extended so if any joggers came by I could trip them and laugh. The sun scorched the asphalt outside of the bus stop, withering the souls of pedestrians with hellish heat. Mark spoke.
“We’re going to Buckhead,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder and then handing me a stack of hundred dollar bills. “Here’s your first thousand.” I let out a low whistle and removed my shoe’s insole, tucking the money in its place.
“Buckhead?” I frowned.
“Yeah, Buckhead,” he said, and shot me a glance like I was a young retarded child on the short bus. “You know. One of Atlanta’s finance districts.”
“Finance district. You’re handing out money in the richest freaking section of Atlanta.”
“S’not the richest. One of the richest,” he snorted. “I gotta piss someone off.” The Metro bus screeched to a halt in front of our stop, wafting diesel exhaust and cleaning supplies as the driver opened the door. Mark paid our fares, and plopped down next to the window. I sat on the window seat behind him, watching Atlanta crawl past in pavement and street salesmen, hawking everything from bottled water to bootleg t-shirts of the current band that was playing at the Staples Center. “Here’s us,” he said, leaning back and tapping me on the shoulder. I nodded and faced the window.
