I rolled up to the Greyhound station in such a hurry that I scarcely noticed my rush until I had crushed my own thumb in a car door. What a mess. With finger bloodied, I made my way to the ticket office and bought the last remaining ticket and THEN staggered to the nearest food vendor in Barstow Station (a local tourism phenomenon) for ice.
|On break that day with (left to right) Lev, Stephen, and Bryan|
Nursing my wound, I watched idly as the bus rolled up a mere ten to fifteen minutes later only to have the indignant driver address me in a confrontational manner with mock certainty of things I would soon discover to be untrue.