Aimless Grand Theft Bus (A Dream of Mundane Symbolism)
"Paradise" is a small town in Northern California
-Dad comes to pick me up in Berkeley. He decides to come along with me and see the sights. For some reason we wind up at the bus garage (in Alameda). We see the big gate open for some reason, and we slip in. Dad steals a bus and we drive away unnoticed. All the way to Paradise.
-I'm wandering around in my front yard back in Paradise. It's a hot summer day. Mom drives up, gets out of the car. Her hair is combed from left to right, like the elderly cashier at the Thai restaurant at the Durant Avenue Food Court in Berkeley. She gets out, asks me how I am doing, and goes inside. A few minutes later, she and dad come out of the house, (they've been divorced for fifteen years), and explain to me that we're taking a family trip back to Berkeley. Inwardly I shudder. Also, we're taking our ill-gotten bus.
-We drive around Paradise for a while first. As we pass the AM/PM, I wonder how dad will ever pay for diesel fuel for this behemoth. We drive past Paradise High School. Some preening, baseball playing redneck kid roars past in the opposite direction in a '69 Chevy Camaro with the "SS" badge on the hood. I can tell that the car is not actually a "Super Sport" by the amateurish, imprecise placement of the logos, and chuckle to myself. I fiddle with the radio, which plays only Jimi Hendrix. We are held up momentarily by students in the crosswalk. I fear that dad is going to run one of them down, being unfamiliar with the massive dimensions of the bus. He doesn't, of course, and I am surprised by the failure of a brightly-painted Alameda County Transit bus to draw any attention from people in Paradise, California. Mom turns to me, and over the reversed guitar licks says, "I got a shirt just like yours-look!" I turn, and she is wearing a plain v-neck undershirt. She has stretched the neck out a bit excessively, and her left shoulder is exposed. Somewhat disturbed by this, I look down at my own clothing, to find that I am wearing a blue pilot's shirt. I say, "Um.yeah," and we drop the subject.
-Arriving back in Berkeley, we are now touring the campus. In fact, we are up a great flight of stairs. They look very old, and are made either of stone or cement. They are sizeable steps, and I am more adept at navigating them than are my rather elderly parents. I keep waiting up for them, but when they finally catch up, mom waves me away, almost irritated, saying, "Go on ahead!" I move along, down the curving staircase, until they are out of sight. Now come the uncertainties. I wonder what we are doing back here in the summer. I wonder why my father hasn't painted out the numbers or emblems on the our stolen bus. I begin to think that maybe he is not well versed in the necessary procedure for getting away with Grand Theft Motor Coach. Pondering this, I notice a balcony or a ledge, and walk out into the open air. I am, indeed, high off the ground. I sit down on the ancient, mossy bricks and look down at the tiny perfect green lawn. It seems some maintenance man has left off his duties here. There is a white crowbar and other metal tools lying here, presumably for the removal of these bricks. I pick up the crowbar and hold it in my hands. It is hollow and shoddily made-like the tubular structural components of a child's swingset. Underneath it I see a couple of notepad pages, torn out and folded up. I pick them up. They seem to be from this man's diary, and are dated from the previous winter.
"Jesus died for our sins,
Buddha did, too.
Now we've come so far, I ask:
What about you?"
It goes on for several country-music influenced stanzas before lapsing into prose linking loneliness to the cold winds of winter. I am suddenly overtaken by the vivid memory of a time of terrifying, endless desolation which I never actually had. I wonder how I will ever get down the rest of the stairs now.
-I'm wandering around in my front yard back in Paradise. It's a hot summer day. Mom drives up, gets out of the car. Her hair is combed from left to right, like the elderly cashier at the Thai restaurant at the Durant Avenue Food Court in Berkeley. She gets out, asks me how I am doing, and goes inside. A few minutes later, she and dad come out of the house, (they've been divorced for fifteen years), and explain to me that we're taking a family trip back to Berkeley. Inwardly I shudder. Also, we're taking our ill-gotten bus.
-We drive around Paradise for a while first. As we pass the AM/PM, I wonder how dad will ever pay for diesel fuel for this behemoth. We drive past Paradise High School. Some preening, baseball playing redneck kid roars past in the opposite direction in a '69 Chevy Camaro with the "SS" badge on the hood. I can tell that the car is not actually a "Super Sport" by the amateurish, imprecise placement of the logos, and chuckle to myself. I fiddle with the radio, which plays only Jimi Hendrix. We are held up momentarily by students in the crosswalk. I fear that dad is going to run one of them down, being unfamiliar with the massive dimensions of the bus. He doesn't, of course, and I am surprised by the failure of a brightly-painted Alameda County Transit bus to draw any attention from people in Paradise, California. Mom turns to me, and over the reversed guitar licks says, "I got a shirt just like yours-look!" I turn, and she is wearing a plain v-neck undershirt. She has stretched the neck out a bit excessively, and her left shoulder is exposed. Somewhat disturbed by this, I look down at my own clothing, to find that I am wearing a blue pilot's shirt. I say, "Um.yeah," and we drop the subject.
-Arriving back in Berkeley, we are now touring the campus. In fact, we are up a great flight of stairs. They look very old, and are made either of stone or cement. They are sizeable steps, and I am more adept at navigating them than are my rather elderly parents. I keep waiting up for them, but when they finally catch up, mom waves me away, almost irritated, saying, "Go on ahead!" I move along, down the curving staircase, until they are out of sight. Now come the uncertainties. I wonder what we are doing back here in the summer. I wonder why my father hasn't painted out the numbers or emblems on the our stolen bus. I begin to think that maybe he is not well versed in the necessary procedure for getting away with Grand Theft Motor Coach. Pondering this, I notice a balcony or a ledge, and walk out into the open air. I am, indeed, high off the ground. I sit down on the ancient, mossy bricks and look down at the tiny perfect green lawn. It seems some maintenance man has left off his duties here. There is a white crowbar and other metal tools lying here, presumably for the removal of these bricks. I pick up the crowbar and hold it in my hands. It is hollow and shoddily made-like the tubular structural components of a child's swingset. Underneath it I see a couple of notepad pages, torn out and folded up. I pick them up. They seem to be from this man's diary, and are dated from the previous winter.
"Jesus died for our sins,
Buddha did, too.
Now we've come so far, I ask:
What about you?"
It goes on for several country-music influenced stanzas before lapsing into prose linking loneliness to the cold winds of winter. I am suddenly overtaken by the vivid memory of a time of terrifying, endless desolation which I never actually had. I wonder how I will ever get down the rest of the stairs now.