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Near the end of my 44-hour journey from Austin, TX to Allentown, PA back in 1992, I chanced to find myself wedged between the window and a man named John who was large enough to occupy the whole double-seat all by himself. Not to disparage the overweight--I'm simply stating a fact of physical dimensions. He was a car salesman from NJ and was returning home after delivering a car to his daughter in Ohio somewhere. We were sitting about 3/4 of the way to the rear of the bus, on the right side.
About ten minutes out of Harrisburg, a guy at about the bus' midpoint struggled to his feet and wobbled down the aisle to speak with the driver. Even from behind, he seemed disoriented, and suddenly the driver barked "This bus is going to Allentown. Allentown!"
So the guy wandered about halfway back to his original seat and flopped into a different unoccupied one. People near me speculated that he might be illiterate, or impaired, or not a native speaker of English and thus unable to read a schedule or the like...
Twenty minutes later he let loose this high-pitched gurgling sound, and he reached across the aisle, grabbed the passenger seated there, and rasped "Kill me! Please kill me!" Then he sprang to his feet and started flailing about, shrieking and sobbing. Everyone immediately freaked out, not least the driver. By this time we were on some interstate or other major route, I believe, with no exit very nearby.
This was long before 9/11, of course, but pretty much everyone assumed that the guy was a crazed murderer itching to gun us all down. Alternatively, we expected an alien larva to burst from his chest.
No one had cellphones back then, either.
Anyway, John leapt from his seat, charged down the aisle, and bear-hugged the guy; John was big enough to restrain him, force him back into a seat, and attempt to calm him down. John then returned to the seat beside me, and we all tried to relax a little.
Meanwhile, we passed a State Police Barracks.
Twenty minutes later the guy jumped up once more, howling and wailing and swinging wildly. John again grabbed him, and this time the driver was able to make it to an exit and find a gas station. "No cops! No cops!" the guy kept begging.
John wrestled him out of the bus and held him immobile in the parking lot while the driver ran into the gas station to call for an ambulance and the police. Fully 45 minutes later the ambulance arrived, and ten minutes after that a State Trooper showed up. They strapped the guy to a gurney and whisked him away to god knows where.
Eventually we determined that he was in heroin withdrawal and basically fucked out of his head. I have to say that John's performance was pretty darned impressive, and he's welcome to crowd me out of a double-wide Greyhound seat any time he wants to.
I learned two things in all of this:
1. Greyhound buses at the time didn't have radios. That's right--a downtown Loop bus maintains radio contact with home base, but a Greyhound travels the country with no way of reporting in until it reaches the next station. This may have changed in the 15 years since then, though.
2. Heroin is bad, but nicotine is worse. I judge this from the fact that, as soon as the heroin-freaked guy was dragged from the bus, a dozen smokers filed out behind him to satisfy their nic-fits.
Go Greyhound, And Leave The High-Speed Forcible Heroin Detox To Us.
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