Page 5 of Before We Say Goodbye
“Ah, listen to that accent. Sweet music to my ears. You’re part of the British Invasion. The Stones, the Beatles. You are welcome here, man.”
That particular guy now wielded an acoustic guitar and played another song that Otis didn’t know. He knew Guthrie and Bob Dylan because his American mother and aunt loved them. Mostly, though, Otis’s taste had been formed by his British father, who had raised him on classical music and jazz, the likes of Bach and Bix Beiderbecke. The Beatles and Stones were okay too. That other side of him, the part he’d hidden, could dig what they were about.Dig. Wasn’t that a funny word?
“All aboard!” Sally yelled as he shut the door. Otis felt a sigh of relief. He’d at least enjoy this first leg sitting by himself. Sally turned back tothe passengers and pulled the fag from his mouth. “Okay, brothers and sisters, you gotta sit down. At least while I get out of the city.”
No one listened to him.
Sally raised his voice. “Who’s ready to go to New York?”
A tepid cheer rose from the passengers.
“Isaid, who is ready to go to NewfuckingYork?”
All but Otis yelled and clapped their hands and beat the backs of the seats. “Woodstock, Woodstock!” they chanted, firing up joints and ceramic pipes and grinning like there was no war going on, like all was right in the world.
Without moving his head, Otis peered left and right and up and down through the cloud of marijuana and cigarette smoke. What in God’s name had he gotten himself into? He wanted to be this free, but something deep within held him back. He might explore some drugs and crack a smile or two, but he would not be taking his shirt off during this trip. He would not be dancing with abandon. He would not become one with everyone. He’d linger on the outside, watching like a journalist would, studying these people to find what made them tick. Then he’d put his findings into an article that he could turn into his first published piece. His dad would flip, and likely even forgive him for sneaking off to the festival.
Once the commotion died down, Sally gave them the rules of the road, and then everybody returned to their conversations. The guitarist started playing again. Otis pulled out his notebook and scribbled a few observations. He’dalmosttold his parents about this trip. Phrased correctly, his fathermightsupport the idea of Otis writing a piece about the biggest music festival this country had ever known. More likely, his father would tell him that if he climbed on this bus, he’d be in the biggest heap of shite of his life. The only way Otis would tell his parents about the trip wasifhe could get the piece published.
The bus pulled away, and Otis slipped into his own world, wondering what angle might interest readers. Would they care to readabout a young British man’s journey east? Or would they prefer a drier form of reporting, ticking off the facts?
The bus stopped abruptly, and Otis’s head snapped forward. Looking back, that moment changed everything, the shift in the universe, the sudden stop with the squeaky brakes, the door swinging open. Otis tensed, knowing what it meant: Whoever had paid for the seat next to him was about to get on the bus.
Not that he didn’t like people. He enjoyed a good conversation, but these strange beings were from another planet. Otis peered through the smoke and past the braided hair and handmade jewelry and bare breasts and big smiles and eyed the door, waiting to see who would climb the steps.Whoever it is,he thought,may they have showered recently.
The sight of the boarding passenger made his head fall back. A petite and curvaceous blonde in cutoff jeans and a white crop top apologized to Sally for her tardiness.
“Nah, man, don’t worry about it. You made it just in time.”
Travel bag in hand, the woman, if she could be called a woman, a girl maybe, looked down the aisle. Her sandy-blond hair fell into a mess of curls. Her necklace was even longer, a collection of feathers and copper beads dangling from a leather strand. A variety of bracelets wrapped around her wrist. Her eyes were the color of the sagebrush back in Bozeman. She stood a foot shorter than Otis, but she didn’t carry herself small. She looked like the kind of person who could hustle people with her size, fooling them into thinking she couldn’t fend for herself. Those eyes, however, told a different story.I might appear innocent,they said,but I know how to defend myself. There was a lot to like about her, but he was instantly drawn to her wild hair and those don’t-mess-with-me eyes.
She got about halfway down the aisle before she noticed him. With her ballerina legs imprinted on his mind, Otis turned away faster than if he’d come across a bear back home. Shoving his book into his satchel, he peered through the window, looking out over the city, his heartthumping so hard it could break his ribs if he didn’t figure out a way to settle down.
“Anyone sitting here?” she asked.
Her voice wasn’t petite either. It was an exotic silk that hit his bare skin and raised goose pimples.
Otis looked down, acting as if he hadn’t noticed the empty seat. “Oh, yes, I do believe it’s available, to my knowledge.”
She smiled and shoved her bag onto the rack above them, then eased into her seat, giving off scents of sandalwood and herbs.
Otis escaped with another look out the window. He wasn’t trying to be rude, but his body betrayed him. His legs tensed up, and he tapped a foot, pretending to be purely focused on a terribly important affair right outside.
He was relieved when the bus kicked into gear, and he was still holding his breath when she asked, “Do I scare you?”
As if he were prying open a door with a crowbar, Otis forced himself to turn to her. She was simply a young woman. A skeleton covered in flesh. A human with the same flaws and issues as all the rest. And exquisite braless breasts with nipples poking through the thin cotton of a top better suited as a napkin. “Of course you don’t scare me.”
She pulled her hair from her eyes. “You look afraid.” She had soft-looking skin sprinkled with a few freckles. Her mouth, shaped like a flower, puckered into a blooming smile.
By God, had she seen herself? Of course he was afraid. She was enough to rupture time, to alter the course of history! So much for playing it cool. Considering the spell she’d put on him, there was no fooling her, no way of pulling a fast one.
Instead, he let out the air in his tires and said with the most authenticity he could muster, “Okay. I’m petrified.”
That got a smile out of her. It did something to Otis too. He puffed out his chest.So she likes honesty and perhaps a pinch of self-deprecation. It might not be such a long drive to New York after all.
“Why would you bepetrifiedof me?” she asked, mimicking his accent.
Otis looked at her like,Why wouldn’t I be petrified of you?He examined her up and down, and she let him, smiling the whole time and then breaking into a laugh.
