Author: Nic Olson

Humans bond in tragedy. Or near tragedy. Or in the tragedy they create for themselves.

To many, the Greyhound is a tragedy. A disaster. A punishment or prison sentence. To some it is a sore-assed haven of travel. For most it is the only means they can afford. But when the Greyhound breaks down twenty miles from Pittsburgh, PA, no matter what the Greyhound means to the traveller, it is discouraging. The amount of discouragement caused, however, does differ from passenger to passenger based on how they deem the bus itself. Those who view it as a tragedy on wheels are far more discouraged by a four hour delay than one that considers the bus a privilege.

Everyone fears for their lives when the bus driver is raving. It is no better when the already irritable passengers accept conclusions that the bus driver has fallen asleep while driving, created by the mother being summoned to a court out of state. Then there is the woman who complained to her husband while standing in line at Penn Station, grumbled to her husband when she smelled the toilet, whined to her husband when the person was talking to loud on the phone, and screamed out loud to her husband that she valued her life when the bus broke down. She was obviously having a more difficult time than I was, as I chuckled and emailed the first contact I saw so that someone knew how I died. So that someone could rate this tragedy.

Humans bond in tragedy and my journey has been characterized by the disagreeable itch of tragedy. Missing university students, feared buried in a construction site or dismembered in the river. Driving through towns stripped completely by high speed tornado winds as if they were humans that had decayed to only skeleton. Greyhounds breaking down with passengers crying and calling the police and their families, locked in the bus because of a faulty computer and a incompetent and inhuman driver. Each tragedy has its own weight which depends on the one being traumatized.

But through the tragedy, I have bonded. With one friend and his friends, then two friends and their other friends, and one more friend and his friends. Because just like natural disaster movies or killer animal movies or horror movies, humans bond in tragedy, no matter what kind of human or what level of tragedy.

You make your best friends by living in the disasters you have in common.

I’m coming to terms that I’m not concerned With planting my feet but looking onward I’m growing older but I cant get over The need of colder skin when I know that home is warmer It’s just that I have this problem Where I want to be everywhere I’m not I’m thankful for what I’ve got A room in a house where my bed may stay But the feel of another’s sheets help keep my demons away It’s become clear that what keeps me here Is the sense of failure and other nightmares I’ve become jaded and I can’t escape it The thought of settling when I know it’s what I’ve hated It’s just I have this problem Where I want to be everywhere I’m not It’s just I know myself and I’ll sacrifice everything I’ve got Though I can’t afford to eat as much as I should be And my bills won’t pay themselves so I’ll come up with another scheme This place looks better from a passenger window Or stared at from above But when you’re chasing brightness You lose concern with the damage done It’s not my fault I’ll try to call No ties no roots I’m fine.

– Touche Amore, Home Away from Here, Parting the Sea

I have a rash. It looks like my skin is melting in certain spots and that the high temperature melted skin is dripping melting spots on my feet. It is found nowhere above the knee, and no I am not referencing the timeless childhood joke about having three knees (left knee, right knee, weenie). Rash talk is usually only done on WebMD or in the dark cold lighting of a doctor’s office. Open rash conversation isn’t usually acceptable because rashes often indicate sexual promiscuity. However, my leg was not sexually promiscuous, although a dog might have had his way with it it last weekend.

My mother called me a hypochondriac once. I was hurt. Not physically, because I was undoubtedly making it up, but emotionally. I was ten. I was complaining about a stomach ache and she asked me if I had eaten anything that might’ve caused it. I meekly said no, concealing the fact that I had just eaten maybe ten ‘Eat the Middle First’s, President’s Choice’s answer to the Oreo. Now in ‘adulthood’ I still ask my mom about ailments and she still likely thinks I am making them up. Since my mom made fun of me about my eggplant finger for expecting a diagnosis without proper photographic analysis, I took some macro rash shots of my right calf and sent them in an email. Dad thinks that it is ‘Stinging Nettle’, a plant that incites equally as much fear in childhood as poison ivy and venomous spiders. I think it is flesh eating disease. Or possibly scabies. Scabies, my brothers told me as a child, are contracted by putting your hands on the hand rail of an escalator. Or maybe that was a made up disease called sucrumb. Most likely entered my body through my finger and eating my legs off while I travel. According to the BallsofRiceMD.com, scabies, sucrumb and flesh eating disease are caused by long periods of sitting around. Like bedsores. Stagnancy. My skin melts and my brain is eaten alive. And when things get stagnant, my body and mind start to eat themselves.

It has been too long since you last traveled when you can’t find your passport number on the one identification page of your passport. If you travel enough, this number should be an involuntary reaction to Customs forms and Visa information. Ask Mel. After an hour on the train, just before border patrol and after my first granola bar, that specific and overwhelming feeling hit me in the gut. The same feeling that followed me for months in India and the one that accompanied me a year and a half ago when I left home. When you breath in and feel your stomach flop and wheeze, as it is the first part of your body to realize yourself as completely vulnerable. Heavy fear. The fear of opportunity and the unknown. The feeling of not knowing what to say to the Border Patrol Officer when he asks how long you plan on staying in ‘his’ country. The feeling of fear. I thrive in this setting.

But goddamn is it itchy.

The only cure to my leg rash, hopefully, is not changing my clothes and walking around sweaty in new places. Because that is all I plan on doing for the next three months. If this is indeed not the cure, then I can at least travel in comfort knowing that in body and spirt, I am not alone. I’ve got scabies with me.