Greyhound
Adams Perez
SCENE ONE
It’s the dead of winter in January of 2023. Two roommates of three years, Hudson and Robin, are sitting in the rearmost row of a rickety and cold Greyhound bus. The bus has been determinedly trudging along its path from Athens, Georgia to New Orleans, Louisiana for well over two hours now. After a long bathroom break that Hudson could hear every detail of from his seat, Robin is returning to his seat beside Hudson.
Robin, who invited Hudson to spend the holidays with him and his family in Athens, is dressed cozily in sweatpants and a hoodie, his golden hair and sun kissed skin antithetical to the dark hair and darker eyes of his travel companion. Nearly Hudson’s entire upper body is obscured by a sweatshirt whose sleeves go past his hands, leaving only the image of his fingers ending in chewed nails. He sits at the window seat with his earbuds in and a neck pillow hugging him tightly. Hudson has his arms tucked at his sides and his legs pressed tightly together, forcing himself to take up as little space as possible. Even with several nights of perfect sleep, his face screams exhaustion.
The sun is making its way down to the horizon, leaving darkness in its wake when Robin takes his seat. The pair sit in silence for less than a minute before he breaks it.
Robin [nudging Hudson to attention]: The sun sets differently in Georgia, don’t you think?
Hudson [removing his right earbud and turning to Robin]: What was that?
Robin: The sunset. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many colors in the sky before.
Hudson: It looks like any other sunset to me. The same one we’d see in Louisiana, or Georgia, or anywhere else.
Robin: One thing’s for sure. They don’t make food like that anywhere else. I filled myself up so much that I won’t have to eat again for weeks.
Hudson: Those of us on the bus with nostrils wish you hadn’t.
Robin: Oh, come on, it’s a bus restroom! It smelled worse before I got in there.
After a moment of laughter, the quiet returns save for the dependable hum of the bus’s internal mechanisms and the occasional signs of life from the rest of the bus’s occupants. The quiet always returns, as if life is silence with conversations in between. As Hudson is on the verge of returning his earbud to its place in his ear, Robin clears his throat to speak again.
Robin [scrambling to avoid the silence]: So, uh, what’d you think of my folks this time around? Not too insane, I don’t think.
Hudson: Not insane at all. Very hospitable. Your parents are great at telling embarrassing stories.
Robin: You should have told them some of yours. With how little you spoke my folks were beginning to think you might be deaf.
Hudson: Yea, well. I was just a guest. Much happier listening to you all talk, anyways.
(Pause)
Robin: It isn’t just this trip, you know. You barely speak much at all nowadays.
Hudson [looking away]: That’s not true. Don’t blow things out of proportion.
Robin: It is. You know it is. I didn’t want to pry, but lately you’ve been a zombie. You always have this tired look on your face –
Hudson: Because I am tired, Robin, that’s what working does to you.
Robin: – you only speak when you’re obligated to, and even then getting more than a few words out of you is like an olympic event.
Hudson [softly, still burning holes into the seat in front of him]: If being around me is that much work, no one’s asking you to do it.
Robin: No one’s saying that. What I’m saying is that you have to talk to me. Or talk to someone, anyone. Nothing gets better until you talk about it, so tell me something. Anything.
Hudson: For someone who doesn’t want to pry, you’re doing an awful lot of it. I don’t have to say anything to anyone if I don’t want to. Get off my case, Robin.
(Hudson reaches to put his earbud back in and Robin snatches it away.)
Hudson: Seriously? Are you 12?
Robin: I want to help you because I know how hard it’d be for you to ask for it yourself. You’re the type of person to get stuck in quicksand and not let anyone pull you out. I don’t know if you think it’s brave or selfless or whatever, but it’s not. It’s selfish.
Hudson [louder now, resuming eye contact]: You don’t know what you’re talking about. Give me my earbud back.
Robin: Not until you give me something to go on. For years it’s been like this shadow has been slowly swallowing you whole. Draining the life out of you and distancing you from everything. Eventually you’ll be consumed, and I won’t know how to reach you.
(Pause)
How long has it been since I heard you laugh? Like, really laugh, not just the robotic chuckle you give when you think you’re supposed to.
Hudson [even louder, attracting the attention of the other patrons]: I don’t know when you became a therapist but I didn’t ask for a session. Maybe you’re right, and there is something going on. Or there isn’t and you’re completely delusional. Whatever the case may be, this isn’t how you help someone. Talking about your feelings is as natural as breathing for you, and I understand that. I may envy it, even. But not everyone is that way. And you can’t force me to be.
Robin shrinks back in his seat, at a loss for words. Hudson takes back his earbuds, gathers his other belongings and launches up.
Hudson: I’m switching seats. I’ll see you in New Orleans.
Adams Perez was born in New Jersey and although he moved around a lot when he was younger, he was raised mainly in Garfield, New Jersey. Adams graduated this past May with a degree in computer engineering. His favorite things to do include cycling and reading as well as watching movies.
Adams wrote this piece in a creative writing class taught by Susan Miller. Miller selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.