Greyhound

And thats how I ended up in a Charlotte greyhound station filled with its own walks of life. I really mean it. Nodding Steve, walking around. Occasionally inspecting a small portion of the floor and dragging his damp mop over it. And nodding again, only to wander off. I suspect he's been mopping the toilet floor too and wonder if he actually has a bucket for the mop.

But the greyhound station brings into light another side of life. Far removed from the buisness seats and free win of the airways. Gone are even the little packets of water and the glamour of late night cattle class flights. This is the bus station, and it brings out your fears, insecurities and prejudice. I've gone from being the lowest class citizen in a white buisness world to the rich boy traveller in an urban bus station.
Hispanics, niggers, A skanky cheerleader of augmented proportions whose homegirls bring all the boys to the yard. A Trailer Trash family. Action man and his army friends, constantly moving around, shifting their bags from one place to another.

Now nodding Steve has a broom. An elderly male bodybuilder, with thinning blond hair and juiced muscles showing through leathery skin. And lastly, a refugee from a Denver business trip, with matched black luggage sporting an Orlando travel tag sits weary, staring at the Namco cabnet where the occasional child plays Ms Pac Man.

These are people too poor or too desperate to fly. Children too young, women too fat, men too old. People who arn't willing to put thier gun in checked baggage. Mexicans without ID who would never make it past airport security. Just around the corner is another datum and scale to measure your life, what you have. What you don't.