Author: Doug McCaughan

The clans agreed to meet. A tentative truce had been worked out via couriers. The plan was to allow the Lowers shared time in an Uppers seat for light and tech withdrawal therapy while the Upper was granted time in the bathroom. All looked well until the tribal councils attempted a meeting on the stairs only to find a drunkard had declared himself a lone state and would not allow anyone to pass without correctly answering three questions to which he promised a wrong answer would have you ejected from the roaming realm. With the degrading conditions physically and politically, the patron saint of steering elected to pray to his deity Dispatch for guidance and a holy grail glowed thusly betwix a sacred McDonald’s and, for those read a similar albeit somewhat but not quite different book, a 7 Eleven (now open 24 hrs). The Patron Saint of Steering declared the respite for air, bio breaks, and cooling down to be exactly 30 minutes and not a minute longer. The Uppers, forgetting the patron saint had previously been the leading dictator of the Lowers, enthusiastically rushed into their respective churches of convenience. And promptly 15 minutes later, the bus left.

Passengers have begun to realize that dinner is not being served on this flight. I cannot recall the last time the stewardess walked down the aisle. Rations are running low. The poker players in the back of the upper deck now wager with pretzels, potato chip crumbs, half empty water bottles, and those hard candies granny brought but no one wants. The upper faction has elected leaders who now sit in the front seats with the great view. Congress is in session debating war. The lower faction, now a dictatorship led by the bus driver with the really accurate watch, has realized that they control the bathroom. The poker players are pleased knowing the intrinsic value of their half empty chits increases with every passing minute and every sip. Tension is high. Stomachs empty. Bladders full.

The problem with voicing the question, “Good God what’s that smell?!” Is that you may not want to hear the answer.

Hipster water bottle

Our new driver made it known that the downstairs passengers have comfortable climate control while the upstairs passengers sweat. As night befalls us, the downstairs passengers will lose light and electronics while the upstairs parties on. Ignorance is bliss. The bus grumbles. We have become fractured into the haves and the have nots. A battle for limited resources looms.

“Mom, I’m crowded.”

We’ve gone down a deadend road and now sit in the back parking lot of a run down motel. Insert obligatory hooker joke here.

A passenger from London thinks she can drive the bus since it’s a doubledecker. We pull out with cheers all around. The oncoming traffic is quick to get out of the way.

A mutiny has occurred and the driver has been ejected from the bus.

To contend with the ordeal, children have been subdued with movies and video games. Passengers hide from the misery by trying to awkwardly sleep double-overed upon one another in odd pretzel formations using the other body as a contrived mattress or simply leaning back and accepting the reclined seat in front of them as some peculiar top sheet.

We seem to be making great progress. We’ve only got another…6 hours?! Forget Guantanamo. They should have just driven the detainees around the country on the Megabus. Shoot, I’ll talk!

30 minute lunch break complete. Now the bus smells like warm sweaty bodies AND grease.