Hey Greyhound, This is Why People Don't Take the Fucking Bus!!

Yes.  I use a lot of profanity.  I apologize if it makes you uneasy.  It is just a word like all the others, used to heighten the intensity of something, based upon the word's meaning.

If I could use some words to describe this past weekend, they'd be  WHAT THE MOTHER FUCK?!!?  Yes, I understand that is a harsh statement, and it may be offensive to some.  Forgive me, but emotions are meant to be released and I can't see why I should tame them with more pleasing locution.  I hope you'll bear with me.

On Sunday evening, I left Hamlet, in route to Raleigh, in order to catch the bus that would bring me back to DC.  First of all, I find it ridiculous that the online price for the ticket to DC in Raleigh is $32, while the same ticket from Hamlet (well, technically Laurinburg, since Hamlet no longer has a bus station), is like $106.  That means you have to do an extra 2 hrs worth of traveling, or you have to pay an extra 75 bucks.  But luckily, I secured a ride to Raleigh, and everything seemed to be good.

Arriving at the station, I paid the extra $10 fee to check two bags instead of one.  Yeah, I felt like it was ridiculous that they expect people to only travel with one checked bag and one carry on, but I was just ready to leave.  So I placed my bag in the line with the others waiting to be checked, and prepared to wait an hour for my bus to arrive.  Big mistake.

I'm not a person who likes to wait.  While I am one of the most patient people I know, waiting in public places makes me restless.  I build up a ton of energy during the wait, and have to find ways to displace it.  So I listened to a lot of music.  Checked out the terrible food in the overpriced vending machines.  Charged my cell phone at the little table designated for charging cell phones.  Took a cigarette break.  Went to the bathroom.  Anything to keep from just sitting and waiting.  Big mistake number two.

There was a bus, en route to DC, that should have arrived at around 10 p.m., but for some reason was running late.  This was not my bus, so I didn't think much about it.  However, shortly after this bus left, at around 11:30, I noticed my bags weren't in their place in the line.  In fact, most of the bags at the front of the line were gone.  I didn't want to panic.

I located the baggage handler and asked him if he had seen two bags that were waiting to be checked.

"No, I haven't seen them."

I described the bags to him, telling him where they were supposed to be going, and where I had left them.

"I'm not sure what happened to those.  Wait, let me check and see if somebody put them in the back."

After a short moment he comes back and tells me that no bags are back there.  So I stand in line, to talk to the agent behind the counter to try to find out where the hell my bags disappeared to.  He's still standing there.

"Describe those bags again."  I do.

"Oh, I ain't even gonna lie.  I put those on the last bus, because it was going to DC.  I was helping this lady and they were sitting next to her bags."

Hold the fuck up.  I ain't even gonna lie.  How do you say that to a person, after you specifically just got through lying?  That's the shit that makes people mad.  There were tags on my bags with my name, departure time, and boarding gate on them.  Did he bother to read them while checking them onto the wrong bus?  Or is check just a poorly chosen word for tossing the first shit you see into the baggage compartment?  And then he has the audacity to tell me that the bags should be in DC when I get there.  I don't give a fuck!!! It should be leaving with me and arriving with me.  Don't try to cheer me up.

But at least the shit isn't going to Miami.  So even though I'm pissed off, I relax and wait it out.  After all, what can I do?  Big mistake number three.

After an hour delay because the bus I was supposed to catch was overbooked, I finally board the bus to DC and settle in for the ride.  We go through Richmond (I'll say plenty about Richmond in a few) and finally arrive back here.  It's after 6 in the morning.  I couldn't get much sleep on the bus, thanks to the guy across from me who snored like he was playing a record.  His shit was loud, throaty, and had it's own rhythm.  Everybody else seemed to ignore it.  I tried, but it wasn't working.

But I managed to push this aside, because I had an agenda.  I walked into the Package Express portion of the DC Greyhound station, fully expecting my bags to be there.  Why not?  They only left a full 3 hours before me.  But surprise, surprise, no fucking bags.  At this point I'm pissed.  Not simply because the asshole working in the building is upset with me that I'm expecting my bags there.  (He had the nerve to say I'm adamant about my bags.  Adamant?!  No shit.  It's my stuff that one of Greyhound's employees now has traveling without me.)  I maintain calm, even though this guy is getting on my nerves.  Apparently not being able to read the names on ticketing information is a common Greyhound trend.  Why does this old guy keep calling me Mr. McNair?  He's trying to be funny and say I remind him of Steve McNair, the now deceased former NFL star.  Not only is this not funny, I'm not in the fucking mood, so I leave the building quickly, before my mood becomes even more ill.

So now, I'm pissed off.  I leave the station, walk over to Union Station, and try to figure out what I'm going to do.  I remember that I transferred buses in Richmond.  Suddenly there is a possibility that I might know where my bags are.  So I call the DC station, and speak to asshole man again.  More Mr. McNair talks.  He tries to assure me that he spoke with the Richmond station, and they told him my bags aren't there.  So I ask him for the number.  He pretty much gets the feeling that I think he's incompetent and I nearly tell him that he's absolutely right.  But I remember my good home training, thank him, and attempt to contact the station in Richmond.

Let's rewind right quick.  I arrived at the Richmond station sometime after 3 a.m.  It was full of people.  Staffed with 3 agents.  Even had folks working in the restaurant.  Fast forward a short number of hours later and these motherfuckers act like they suddenly took a holiday.  Yes, I'm aware that it was July 4th.  But nowhere on Greyhound's website does it say proper customer service has been suspended due to Independence Day.  Trust me, I checked.  Not only was the Richmond station supposed to be open, but it's operating hours were listed as 12:00 a.m. - 11:59 p.m.  So where was my assistance?

Hell, I would have taken poor customer service.  I would have taken one of those representatives who acts like they're at home on their personal phone, doing you a fucking favor.  I would have taken one of those representatives who only know how to say "Hold please" in perfect English, and everything else comes out in GuesswhatI'mspeakingnese.  I would have taken the rude lady from my 2002 AT&T days, who tried to make  ME feel bad because THEY charged me $600 for a phone that I never had.

"You should have said something earlier."  she told me, the day after I got the bill.

I would have been happy to get a jackass like this on the line from the Richmond Greyhound station.  The only problem was that on July 4th, every jackass at Richmond's station decided to go on sabbatical.  I have never dialed a supposed 24hr establishment so often in my lifetime, and not only never get to speak to a soul, but also find out that ALL of the voicemail services were either full or not activated.  Out of roughly 25 calls between 8 and 10 a.m., I never talked to a human.  Just the same two automated voices each time.  And this was from calling three different station numbers.

I called back the DC station at this point, and asked the old guy who kept calling me Mr. McNair if I was dialing the right number.  He confirmed the number I had and told me he had spoken to them shortly after 7.

"I got lucky and they answered."

Got lucky?  Is this a business establishment or a dice game?  Do they pull numbers from a hat to see how many rings it'll take the customers they're ignoring to hang up?  So at this point I was pissed.  Mind you, I'm still sitting outside Union Station, having wasted most of my morning.  Still no sleep and I've already smoked cigarette number 5 of the morning.  I made a couple of calls letting family and friends know I'd arrived back in DC safely, even though I was experiencing some bullshit with my bags.  At this point, I managed to secure a ride home.  Cool, I thought.  Maybe this is the silver lining on the rain cloud I've been enduring.  I definitely didn't want to deal with the shenanigans of the Red Line on a day when I was already frustrated.  So I decide I'll just call the stations some more after I get home.

I move to the front of Union Station.  For a long time, I just stand out front and wait.  Finally the fatigue of waiting and stressing takes over, and I go to sit down.  Big mistake number four.

It wasn't until after I got the call from my secured ride home, informing me that the car had broke down and I'd need to take the Red Line instead, that I stood up, angry as fuck, and felt the back of my shirt.  It was wet.  The back right pocket of my pants are wet.  Of all the places for me to sit in out there, why did the one I choose have to be soaked in some type of disgusting liquid?  It spelled like spit, old tobacco juice, and lemons, all put together.  At this point I was done.  I didn't care who saw me.  I didn't care what they thought or said. I made my way to the subway and boarded the first departing train.

When I finally arrived home, I only wanted a shower and a place to lie down.  I didn't care anymore.  I simply hoped my bags were safe.  The next morning I woke up and noticed that I had a voicemail.

"Mr. Steve McNair, this is a message to let you know that your bags have arrived in DC.  Please come down to the station and claim your bags."

I had never been so happy to hear that old asshole's voice in my life.

Even though my trip back to the DC Greyhound station included an incident where I walked 2 miles in the wrong direction down First Street, I was still happy to get my bags.  Everything was accounted for.  The walk (yes walk) to Union Station with two 40 to 50 lb bags didn't even feel all that bad.

Plus, all of my big mistakes taught me one big valuable lesson:

Next time, I'm taking the fucking train.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

It's Been a Long Time

I haven't posted as frequently as usual.  I was on vacation in my hometown, Hamlet, NC.  It seems funny calling going to Hamlet a vacation.  Not just because of the irony in how little there is to the small town, but also because, for so long, Hamlet was the only place there was.  Sure, I've traveled outside of the town before.  Been to extravagant places like New York and the Bahamas.  But Hamlet was always what I came back to.  Even when I was living in Chapel Hill, NC or in Laurinburg, a part of me felt like it was only a matter of time.  But while going to visit my family and friends, I realized something.  These last two and a half months have gone by quickly but they feel like a very long time.  Hamlet didn't feel the same anymore.  Less home, more nuisance.  I guess that means DC is changing me.

I'm hoping it's for the  better.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet