Miles to Nowhere: Chronicles of an Impulsive Bastard Looking for Love

  • Round: Books: Page 1 Challenge

  • Genre:
    Non-Fiction: Memoir/Narrative Non-fiction, Humor
  • Submitted: June 07, 2011


Status: Elevated to Round 2

  • Want it elevated: 46%
  • Publishing Pro Rating: Under review.
  • 5%


  • 17%


  • 32%


  • 39%


  • 7%


% want it elevated


Page 1 Challenge


I'd rather you not read this story, honestly, but for some reason people love this jumbled, neurotic stream of thought and action called my life. I guess that's what happens when you hitchhike 538 miles to surprise a promiscuous girl on vacation. That's one story. Each girl has one. I am an idiot.

Page 1

Waiting at any bus station is comparable to being in jail. Prison, I can't say, but the striking similarity of an overnight stay at county to a ten hour layover in a dingy little Greyhound terminal in Mobile, Alabama is impossible for me not to notice. Both will inevitably end the next morning, but the wait is brutal - hard chairs, shitty food, socializing with sheisty but friendly barely literates, trying to catch a wink of sleep under the eternal glare of fluorescent lights, the kind that make your eyes hurt if you look at them for too long. There's no desire to pass the time with anything meaningful in this kind of place. It's purgatory, just a place to store yourself beneath the cogs of society until you're slingshotted back out into the workings of the world.

Like jail, you have your smart folks too. One dreadlocked guy who initially spoke so funny I assumed he was dumb is currently taking a break from college before getting his PHD, after doing his Master's dissertation in criminal justice at San Quentin. They don't fuck around at San Quentin - that's nothing like a bus station, more like an airport. Another older guy, fifty-two, told me all about Southern history, New Orleans, racial tension, and life in general - a really knowledgeable and normal-speaking black dude, a real “cool cat” of the seventies soul movement - and he works on a goddamn oil rig. He called Greyhound “the dog” - like an old, mean Rottweiler that's too old to be tamed but too young to be shot.

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