The stretch of highway between Saint Petersburg and Palmetto is flanked by fat fisherman, pickup trucks, American flags, and aquatic birds dropping into an endless stretch of green ocean. Oncoming traffic exists as a steady current of SUV’s. We arrived early at the Marathon Gas Station via interstate 75, which begins in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan and ends in Miami. I only saw a small portion of the interstate. I wonder if it has its sexy moments, somewhere outside of Cincinnati perhaps.

On Saturday, I was on a Greyhound bus heading south from Tampa. I had my last cream cheese pastelito before leaving and was feeling queasy from sugar and puff pastry. The station was a sweaty, disorganized mess of an experience. I stood in the wrong line for Tallahassee along with everyone else while a handful of oversized and miserable employees reproached us.

When it was our turn, there was no longer a line, just a continuous stream of people hurrying to make sure they got a spot and to hopefully and forcefully push their luggage in the little space provided for overhead storage. I found a seat in the middle of the bus, an emergency exit it looked like, with enough room for my legs.

From the window, I watched the operator threaten a few passengers. It’s difficult to say what the reasons may have been as I was already in the middle of the bus and out of earshot. One of them had an alcohol and weather beaten face, matted blonde hair from sun and filth, a long grey and grease stained t-shirt, baggy black cargo shorts with black socks and sneakers. The two other passengers, neither of them traveling together, were eventually allowed on the bus but this poor, unfortunate soul (I just rewatched The Little Mermaid the other night) was left behind, crying and pleading to the operator to let him on the bus. We pulled away while he kicked and screamed at the air.

I don’t know that anyone else noticed. Across the aisle, a chubby girl ate Cheetos with her orange, cheddary index finger and thumb. She wore earphones and already intended to tune out the next five hours of the trip. The bus was operated by a Mr. McNeil, probably Bud or Henry to his friends but Operator McNeil to us as he announced.

I had it in my head that I was going to study, read, write, all that stuff on the bus but instead, I covered myself in every and any layer that I had and tucked my hands into my armpits for warmth and stared out the window. McNeil, possibly an impassioned man with anhidrosis, never drives without the air conditioning leveling off at a high of 55°. The vents above me were broken so instead of getting ahead in my studies, I created a Stevie Wonder playlist and thought of the miserable wretch we left behind.

Had he been allowed on the bus, maybe he would have become a nuisance and a headline: Inebriated Florida Man Enjoys Frigid Ride to Naples or something far worse. Maybe he would have sat next to me and I would have been forced into conversation. Despite the loneliness that comes with travel, there remains the limited interactions with baristas, bartenders, and Lyft drivers, all far preferable perhaps than a drunk.

When we arrived, I called a Lyft, sat on a yellow curb, and watched a Common Grackle pull meat out of a ball-and-socket joint, maybe a squirrel hip. The driver arrived after thirty minutes. We exchanged niceties, commented on the weather (it was warm like everyday and needs not be mentioned), and afterwards, we were quiet the remainder of the ride.