– • david ross macdonald • extras and journal

took the greyhound from nashville to memphis. i was by far the skinniest and whitest plank on this old dog of a carriage which, by the sheen of the frayed leather-look bench seating had done some serious southern state miles. jammed in there amongst the restless, low coined and no doubt hard done by folks, a rasping voice over my left shoulder was eager to “get the f. out of nashville” this was met by hallelujah’d agreement all round.  the bus was so grim and bloated that i distracted myself by composing fictional biographies and epitaphs for each and every seemingly miserable, bewildered and misplaced soul aboard, mine included.

jackson station is the halfway stop. out the window i see a white 13 seater van pull up with  darkened windows. this is the type of van that bands often rent and i have more than once spent time at a greyhound station picking up merch too pricey to fedex. i took an interest. waited for a tour manager to step out of that van and stroll into the receiving office to pick up 300 disks and a couple boxes of merch while the drummer and bass player have a smoke. instead, out strode a ‘correctional facility’ officer who unlocked the van doors. out filed 9 young skinny black kids with matching tracksuit pants and t-shirts with a small plastic bag of belongings in one hand.

instead of a pick up, this was a drop off.

released at the closest greyhound station. your first taste of freedom is at a place where at best you will make your way back to a friend or family down in mobile with the provided travel pass or at worst get a taste for the old life down by that abandoned platform.