Everything Begins in Bakersfield

a short essay

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I’m afraid of flying. I have to force myself to board even the largest jets and I refuse to fly on anything with less than 50 seats. I’m also an insomniac who has willingingly and often journeyed late at night to get from one writer gig to another. My logic: I’d rather be awake on the road than awake in a hotel room.

Therefore, at least 20 years ago, after a reading at Cal State Bakersfield (or was it Cal State Fresno?), I ended up traveling overnight, south down Interstate 5, on a Greyhound bus so that I’d make a morning flight out of Los Angeles International Airport to whichever city was my next destination. I think I might’ve been flying home to my wife and sons.

For most of my professional career, I’ve made transportation decisions that would’ve been unwise and unhealthy for anybody, let alone for a bipolar person who was neither properly medicated nor regularly engaged in cognitive behavior therapy.

So, yes, I was the award-winning, best-selling, maniac-depressive Indian boy writer sharing a graveyard shift bus ride with an extremely diverse cast of characters. In searching for a way to fairly and accurately describe my fellow passengers, I’ve come to this: I’m 100% sure that I was the only one who didn’t pay for my ticket with cash.

But, apart from having to breathe through the miasma of bad breath, body odor, and flatuence, the ride was uneventful.

I didn’t want to be the asshole on the bus using an overhead reading light so I just sat in the dark and watched the landscape pass by. I probably wrote poems in my head but I don’t remember the words. And we must’ve stopped in cities along the way but I have no memory of them.

We were approximately thirty minutes from Los Angeles when I saw a young white woman stand at the front row of the bus and walk toward the back. I assumed that she was going to use the restroom but she walked directly to me and said, “Hello, my name is Hannah. When we get to Los Angeles, will you wait with me for the bus?”

I realized that she was playing self-defense. During our journey, she must have scanned the faces, wardrobes, and general demeanor of the male passengers and decided that I was the safest one. I wanted to tell her that she’d chosen well but I knew that would sound weird. So I just said, “Yes, my name is Sherman. I’ll wait with you.”

I was going to take a taxi to my airport hotel to sleep for a few hours before my flight but I was willing to keep her company until her bus arrived. I also noticed that she had a European accent. I thought that she might be German—a German student on a solo backpack trip in the United States. She was probably going to catch a bus to a youth hostel.

At approximately 3 a.m., we arrived at Union Station in Los Angeles. All the passengers disembarked, grabbed their luggage, and either walked away or jumped into cars with waiting family or friends.

Hannah and I were the only passengers left in the parking lot. The station was closed.

“Excuse me, sir,” she asked the bus driver. “Where do I get the bus to the airport?”

“And where can I get a taxi?” I asked.

“The bus stop is over there,” the driver said. “And the taxi stand is over there right by it. But there ain’t no bus to the airport for a good while and ain’t no taxis waiting this time of night. You gotta call them.”

The bus driver shook his head, muttered a few things to himself, and walked away.

I felt stupid. Why had I assumed there’d be taxis waiting at that time of day? I don’t remember if I owned a cell phone at that point or if I used a payphone, but I did call for a taxi. They told me it would be at least an hour before a cab arrived.

Hannah was carrying an enormous backpack. I don’t think “backpack” is even the right word to describe it. She looked like a Sherpa carrying the equipment of twelve Everest climbers.

“Can I help you with that?” I said.

“It is very heavy,” she said. “I will carry it.”

She was short and slender, but I also noticed that her arms and legs were ropy with muscle. She could’ve been the one whom I’d chosen to protect me.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll wait with you until my taxi gets here.”

She carried her enormous bag. I toted my suitcase and small backpack. And we stood at the bus stop at approximately 3:30 a.m. in downtown Los Angeles.

It was fucking scary. If anybody had been looking to create mayhem then we would’ve been ideal targets. I wondered what other travel options were available. I looked at Hannah. I could see that she was nervous, too.

“Are you from Germany?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Ich habe sieben Oktober Geburtstag,” I said.

“Was that German?” she said.

“Well,” I said. “I know a little bit of German—of Deutsch.”

“Ah,” she said. “You speak it terribly.”

I didn’t tell her that I took two semesters of German in high school and two semesters in college.

“How long have you been in the States?” I asked.

“I worked on a farm for a year,” she said. “But I have to go home now.”

I wanted to ask her why her bag was so heavy. But it was a question that felt too personal. It also felt cinematic and I didn’t want to solve the mystery. After all, it was probably just an ordinary shitload of clothes, souvenirs, books, and her favorite American snacks.

Surprisingly, my taxi arrived only a few minutes later. I turned to Hannah. I couldn’t leave her there.

“Come on,” I said. “I’m going to the airport, too.”

The driver was Sikh. It took all three of us to stuff Hannah’s bag into the trunk.

“Two stops,” I said to him. “We’ll drop her at the International Terminal. And then me at the Hyatt by the airport.”

I don’t remember any conversation. I only know that Hannah said, “This ride is very expensive.”

And I said, “It’s okay. I’m paying for it.”

“Danke,” she said.

“Bitte,” I said.

At the airport, she and I pulled her bag out of the trunk and set it on the sidewalk.

“Okay,” I said. “Travel safe, Hannah.”

We shook hands.

She said, “You are kind.”

And I said, “I try.”

Then we said goodbye.

I couldn’t sleep when I finally made it into my hotel room. I was worried that I might snore through the alarm and miss my flight. I was also still buzzing with the fear of standing exposed in downtown L.A.

A few hours later, I ate room service breakfast, showered, and caught my plane.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered about Hannah and I’ve pondered writing a fictionalized version of our brief time together. Perhaps there is a novel to be written about a Native American guy and a German woman, nomadic strangers, who get off a bus at 3 a.m. and accidentally step into a dangerous hardboiled adventure in Los Angeles.

I like the thought of publishing that novel in Germany. Perhaps Hannah would read a review of my novel in a newspaper or magazine and would remember me. Maybe she’d travel to my event in a German bookstore.

Standing before me with her husband and two children, she’d say, “It is me. Hannah.”

I’d say, “Ich habe sieben Oktober Geburtstag.”

And she’d laugh and say, “Your German is still terrible.”