We verify our printed-out reservation numbers (no tickets) with the driver and board exactly 15 minutes before departure time—ourselves, the two backpacking hippies, the Asian businessman and the Native-American pastry chef filing into the 52-seat Megabus. Our transport is a blue-and-gold behemoth splashed with text shrieking “Megabus.com!” “Express Bus Service!” “From $1!” “Plus 50 cents reservation fee!”
The blue-eyed mascot on the rear resembles a fiercely sunburned Weeble.
We ask the driver—Marshawn—how come this thing is so cheap. He laughs. We ask if we’re going to end up pushing it halfway or something. He laughs. We press him: “When did this whole suspiciously-cheap-express-bus-to-LA thing start?”
“Yesterday.”
The upholstery is blue and brand new. There are tinted windows and additional pull-down shades, adjustable foot rests, adjustable head rests, reclining seats, overhead TV consoles, reading lights, air vents and speakers. The tires do not appear bald. It does not appear that we will be listening to a five-hour sales pitch involving condos.
Departing on time from the Gray Line bus terminal at East Tropicana and Swenson, Marshawn encourages, “If it’s too cold, too hot, just come tell me.”
We were somewhere near Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the paranoia began to take hold: This is nice. Too nice. And too cheap. Just what is going on here?
•••••
We pull into Barstow Station, a transportation/tourist hub resembling a train depot. A decommissioned railroad car houses a McDonald’s; the building also includes Panda Express, Quiznos, drinks, snacks, knickknacks, bric-a-brac, gimcracks and more overpriced, absurd souvenirs than one can shake a black-velvet painting of a coyote howling in silhouette at.
The Station’s also an Amtrak/Greyhound connection; the passing charter buses pull around back, as well. As we heave out of our parking spot, the crowds do double takes, point to our shrieking script. Once we’re back on the interstate, a motorcyclist passes us on the right, glances over and nearly swerves off the road.
We’re not quite so enviable when the carbonated beverages kick in. Though the bathroom is spotless, our Megabus has yet to remove the factory plastic and install a sink or soap dispenser. No paper towels, but an individual roll of toilet paper rests on the sink-to-be.
We miss LA traffic, arriving a half-hour early.
•••••
Seventeen of us will depart in 15 minutes. Our return carriage idles on a seemingly random curb, which Megabus.com describes as “Los Angeles, California, Union Station.”
At 3:45, driver W. Richardson says he’s going to San Diego. We scoff at his attempt to punk us. But no, he’s serious. He’s going to San Diego. We’re going to Vegas?
That’s a head-scratcher. He fires up the engine and disappears around the corner. Five minutes later our Megabus appears. But no, just W again. He rounds the corner a second time. Another five tick away. He appears a third time and parks. All the buses are GPSed, he informs us, and traffic’s been a bitch. Our bus will materialize within 10-15 minutes. One woman boards his bus for San Diego. Forty minutes later, he repeats it; our bus will arrive within 10-15 minutes.
Ahh. Now this is more like it. Good old public transportation, so reliably unreliable.
We’re scheduled to depart at 4. Driver Billy appears at 4:52. “Such is life,” we laugh, shaking our heads knowingly. “You certainly do get what you pay for.”
Once settled, Billy recites an airline-style safety speech. Do we wanna stop 15 or 30 minutes in Barstow? “15!” thunders the unanimous reply. “All righty then, leave the drivin’ to me and I’ll make sure you get there safely.” Billy turns on the overhead radio—“Midnight Train to Georgia”—and we promptly hurtle our asses up 15 like Keanu Reeves and a bomb are aboard.
We’re quiet. Spent. Loopy as all get-out. Some of us have foolishly decided to ride Megabuses since dawn. We doze, only to awaken when the guy behind us whisper-screams along to something violent inside his headphones. Oh, you delightful bus crazies. We’ve missed you dearly.
The radio’s still on. Or is it that guy who wouldn’t stop dicking around with his ringtones earlier? Or are those melodies just in our heads? The wheels on the bus go round and round ...
Finally, we debus at Trop and Swenson at 9:34 p.m.
So, how do they do it? The buses don’t stop often; the company has, um, curbs instead of terminals; no paper tickets, either. Only a certain number of $1 tickets are available. Through such cost-saving measures, much is possible.
A final tally:
One-way ticket to Los Angeles: $1.
One-way ticket to Las Vegas: $1.
Reservation fee: 50 (cents).
Trail mix purchased in Barstow that was like 75 percent peanuts: $4 goddamn 99.
Returning home sleep-deprived and with a renewed comfort in crushing, unrelenting reality ... priceless.