“Go simple, Go easy”
My brother Brian took his own life in 2011 after struggling valiantly with depression and anxiety. He had successful career as a college administrator, but at heart, he was a writer. I often go back and read the stories he sent me. But more often lately. A poor substitute for being able to talk to him, but one I am grateful for.
This one is from his first year in college, around 1992 maybe. 18 years old. The bold text is the note on the title page.
Go simple, Go Easy
By: Brian McKee
Caution to those close to the author:
This is a fictional piece of writing! The author wishes to stress the fact that neither he, nor any of his relatives are included in this story. THIS IS NOT AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL! It is true that the author met a crazy woman on a bus once, and it is also true that the author lives in Gainsville and Melbourne. The author’s girlfriend is also named Maria, but this is positively where the similarities stop. Having said that, the author wishes the reader an enjoyable time while reading this piece. The author hopes the reader is not offended by anything in the piece, but if the reader is offended, the author wishes to say “TOUGH CRAP”.
Thirty-nine dollars for a simple, easy bus ride home. It will be a simplistic and quite easy mode of transportation; no effort need be taken on my part. The commercial assured me of such a circumstance. I’ll just simply leave the driving to them. It’s as easy as that.
I arrive at the station after a long exhausting walk of a few miles with my friend Diana. I tell Diana I’ll see her in a few days. She speaks, with an inflection of foreboding. “Good luck, Sport !”. I respond with what in certain parts of the country could be deadly naivete, “Hey man, with Greyhound it’s all easy, and I can leave the driving to them, of all things.”. With that we part, and I am left at this ominous piece of real estate that is the Greyhound Station.
About 40 feet across the concrete horizon I can see an elderly man with chew spit on his knappy beard, protecting what seems to be a grand display of various types of hubcaps. This intrigues me, so I head off to chat with the old man. As I get closer to the old gent it becomes apparent that the combination of year after year of unabated facial hair growth and what could only be a ridiculously chronic runny nose has left him with a mustache that is partially stained yellow right below the nostrils, and to my horror I also observe this same yellow stain slightly below his lower lip. As I get within speaking distance, I ask if he cannot afford tissues. He then spits a modest portion of his chew in my general direction. I then, figuring it my moral duty to inform the hapless, advise him to set up his hub cap business in a location that is frequented by people that actually own automobiles, rather than here at the bus station. He spits the remainder of his tobacco, the size of a silver dollar and the consistency of a rich homemade beef stew, squarely on my foot. My brutally honest business sense has apparently hit too close to home. The mood of my Greyhound experience seems to have been set, yet I press on.
Acknowledging my wit to be the sharpest thing with which I could defend myself from a physical attack, and satisfied that I no longer want to make friends with Mr. Enterpreneur, I begin to make my way to the inside of the station. I am, however, accosted before I can get inside by a fellow who informs me that he has just recently been laid off. He’s a hard working man who has come across hard times, and he just can’t seem to catch a break in this dog-eat-dog world. He has three, four, or five mouths to feed, depending on which day of the week one runs into him. He is Willy and he’s just recently unemployed every time I see him.
“How’s it goin Willy?”
“Oh, you know me, huh?”
“Sure do Willy. Look man, all I have is fifty cents.”
“Well, it’s much appreciated sir.”
“Yeah man, I’ll put it on your tab, so that when you win $10,000 off the cap of one of your Schlitz quarts you can pay me back, aye?”
“You have a fantastic day now.”
“Absolutely, I’m going simple and easy today. I’m very excited”
Now if I hadn’t cut Willy’s schpiel short, he would have gone on to tell me he needed the money to make copies of his resume and that if I could spare any kind of change I would be thought of as a hero by his family, his neighborhood, and by the world at large. At which point he would ask me if I believed in God. I would then respond yes. He would stare at me blankly with a hint of “surely you sympathize” eyes until I remembered “Do Unto Others and Love Thy Neighbor”. I’d then give him what change I had. “Thank ya kindly, sure do appreciate it, or G’ bless ya son.” would be his response, depending on how long it took him to separate me from my change.
As Willy turns to head to the liquor store with his newly acquired wealth, I finally manage to get inside the station. The station welcomes vagabonds like no other place in the world. Seats line the left, right, and middle of the station. After surveying the accommodations, I turn to my right and am greeted by a beautiful Greyhound employee. She informs me that a round trip ticket to Melbourne will set me back only $39.
“I can go simple and easy for only $39?!”
The stunning young lady with an Indonesian accent giggles at my response with a “bless your heart, you silly young man” tone of voice. I sum up our short-lived conversation by exchanging my cash for her ticket. I am now extremely motivated. I leave this pretty, young Greyhound employee with a wink, a nod, and a smile. I then turn to familiarize myself with the seating facilities once again.
The seats are packed together rather tightly and are all connected to one another by a long welded beam underneath the seats. I think long and hard on this observation and decide that if not connected to one another one might find it feasible to leave the station with a Greyhound chair to furnish his or her home. This theft appears all the more tempting when I spy the seats that have T.V.’s attached to them. A warming sensation inhibits me. Greyhound is spoiling me with these bus station amenities. My warmth turns to room temperature indifference as I see a lady assaulting one of these majestic “Chair/T.V.”’s.
“I’m missing my Goddamn Ricky Lake!” she exclaims. “I fed this piece of shit four mother fuckin’ quarters and it’s not comin’ on; my two-timing bum of a brother is on today and I’m gonna miss it.” she shouts with much vigor to no one in particular. I approach the lady and agree to give her the four quarters to put into another Chair/T.V. if she allows me to watch with her as she gives me a running commentary on what her brother is saying. The next hour passes with unexpected enjoyment as I become intoxicated with watching the way these people live. The entire Ricki Lake episode is dedicated to the brother and his cheating heart. Rows of women flank the man to either side to comprise the panel that is the “Likes Mother, Likes Daughter” episode of the Ricki Lake show. As the plot unravels it becomes apparent that this lady’s brother engages in relationships with younger ladies, only to end up romantically involved with those ladies’ mothers. The pinnacle of the show comes when a couple of the mothers and one of the daughters announce that they are pregnant with this mans child, which causes the man’s sister, who is within whispering distance to me, to jubilantly scream “Sow those family oats, baby!”
After watching the Lake episode and chatting with the television slapping sister of the main character on the show, I am sufficiently satisfied that I am not morally corrupt. Overjoyed by my enlightenment, I walk briskly outside to greet my late arriving bus. Just prior to boarding I am told I will have to stand until Ocala. Although the attractive Indonesian woman at the counter had not foreseen such a circumstance, I feel it a small price to pay. I am not discouraged. So, I board the bus and proceed to the end of the aisle. To my right sits a fantastically obese woman who is taking up the majority of two seats, through no fault of her own. To my left sits, or rather lays, a woman who appears to be snoozing. My instincts tell me these women have obviously each purchased two tickets side by side, as to accommodate their traveling habits. The driver/warden informs me otherwise and orders me to choose “the lesser of two evils”.
Thinking quickly under intense pressure I choose the sleeping lady, for while this woman can wake up and make room, the obese woman has no such alternative. I had no choice; the popularity contest had been decided. I feel I have enough room to sit without disturbing the sleeping woman. I am, however, wrong again. As I sit back thighs swallow her feet from view. The woman erupts from her slumber hoarsely crying out, “CUT OFF MY LEGS? YOU CUT OFF MY LEGS! I SAID NO!”. My jaw drops and I feel my arms go numb as I look deep into her eyes to see nothing by abysmal insanity.
Approximately an hour passes; an hour chock full of “I said no”, “I can drink what I want to” and the worst of all the unsolicited quotes, “Whhhhaaaaat!”. My brooding lunatic of a traveling companion has discussions at length with her imaginary friend. Unfortunately, more often than not, she cannot hear nor can she comprehend her delusion, so she calls out in a grotesquely shrill voice, “Whhhhaaaat?”; the formation of the word taking three to four seconds. Three to four seconds of sustained wincing occurs for me simultaneously. Empathy now surrounds me. People from all over the bus glance back at me to give me nods of reassurance. An occasional thumbs up is directed my way. I am embraced by the well wishes of my fellow passengers. I make a mental note on how insanity can break down socioeconomic and racial barriers. One passenger breaks the bus-wide effort to console me. It is the obese lady and she is visibly upset over my choice to sit next to insanity rather than obesity.
After six hours in this hostile environment, my trip finally ends in Melbourne where my girlfriend waits to pick me up. Maria inquires about the trip and I tell her I am very glad I had met such a diverse group of people , but I am also delighted I am not similar to them in the slightest. We reacquaint ourselves with each other until we reach my house. We greet my parents with hugs, kisses, and the like. Around six the dinner table roars with conversation as it had done in the past. Uncle Luke brags about his latest female conquest, consisting of a younger woman and her sister. Uncle Don, who is sitting right next to me screams out “That’s my brother!”. Mom begins updating me on the latest condition of my eccentric, alcoholic, crazy grandmother when I grow bored of the conversation.
I ask my mom if she can spare a few bucks. She gives me a five and I say “G’Bless ya mom”. I’m hit with a certain feeling of deja vu, but I shake it. Maria and I then head off to the seven eleven with our newly acquired wealth and purchase a six pack of Icehouse. We take off to the beach to sit and chat. My nose starts to run as the cold wind churns and bites, but I am unaware. Maria and I sit and discuss the prospects of getting a job, while we drink and gloat about how dissimilar we are to those people I met on my bus trip. “It’s simple and easy, “ I tell her with sincerity.
