by Alena Deerwater
I am a tense traveller. Especially with that first step that starts every journey. My most resent foray into flying began in a ParkSFO shuttle bus whizzing to the American Airlines terminal. Terminal. Terrible word choice. Bringing to mind a long, slow, incurable death.
Sandwiched on the bus between my partner and my nineteen year-old daughter, I clutch my black bag of essentials that will soon be shoved under the seat in front of me, barring me from stretching my legs for the six hour trip from San Francisco to the Big Apple.
Apples are in the bag. And pretzels, rice chips, sunflower seeds (protein), baby carrots, graham crackers and one tortilla filled with tahini and fruit spread. Who knows when we will see real food again. I limit myself to a journal, pen and one book, Teachings of the Jewish Mystics. Usually I bring three books, unable to decide how my brain will be best entertained while trapped in a winged metal cylinder large enough to hold thirty some-odd rows of people lined up six across with all their carry-ons stored precariously above their heads. My Mary Poppins bag also contains a medicine chest. I am ready for any illness that may strike – terminal or otherwise. I have earplugs and eye mask. A brimming jar of Advil and a tiny dropper-filled bottle of Bach Rescue Remedy. New for this trip are audio books on my iphone (hence the ability to pack only one real book) and a refillable water bottle with a built-in filter.
Whew.
It took me days to pack.
Seats line the inner walls of the small bus so we all face the narrow center aisle. A young father, grandmother, and a child strapped into a stroller sit caddy-corner from us. We jostle together with every bump and turn. I notice I’m clenching my teeth and wonder if I can procure my Bach remedy without spilling the entire contents of my bag. The grandmother coos at her little one.
Our bus driver pulls onto the expressway and speaks into his two-way radio.
“We’ll be arriving at Terminal Two in ten minutes. Ask them to wait.”
“Brwaaa brwa-brwaa brwaa brwaaaaaaaaaa,” a loud gravelly voice suddenly brays from the inner-com, startling us out of our travel-mode stupor.
The passengers all look at each other.
“What?”
There is no way in hell the driver can decipher intelligible words out of the insistent gobbledygook spewing into our ears.
“Brwa! Brwa-brwaa brwaa brwaa, brwaaaaaaaaaa!”
I press my lips together as the corners of my mouth turn upward.
“Brwaaaaa. Brwaa, Brwaa.”
A giggle escapes from my chest out through my nose. A monster has taken over the inner-com and is commanding our bus driver to highjack us to his lair. His monster-speak is a rough dialect whose linguistic roots are derived from the adults in Charlie Brown cartoons.
“BRWAAA, BRWA-BRWA-BRWA-BRWA-BRWA-BRWA.”
The young father and I catch each other’s eye and exchange a sparkle of shared amusement.
“LA! LA! LA!” The monster is singing.
“Cookie Monster!” The child swings her legs excitedly. “Cookie Monster drives the bus!”
“C is for cookie. Is good enough for me,” grandma warbles in an airy old voice.
“C is for cookie. Is good enough for me,” her dad joins in with his bass notes.
“Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C.” We conclude en masse and burst out laughing.
My teenage daughter rolls her eyes, but I can hear her singing under her breath.
I cannot stop laughing. Tears gallop down my face. My whole body jiggles up and down as my will to control my laughter and the laughter itself compete within my belly. Waves of jolliness eclipse my fears and I smile.
Now, I am ready for the trip.
