God it was hot. Even though he was wearing a linen suit, his shirt was already soaked through and he hadn’t even boarded the bus. He wished he could have worn a short sleeved shirt and pair of khaki pants, but the informality of such an outfit would have caused a stir and possibly doomed his chances before the meeting even began. Perhaps at full speed and with the windows open the Greyhound would reach a tolerable temperature and provide him some relief.  He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d turned thirty or Fort Stockton was getting hotter, but the heat bothered him more than it used to. He’d heard 1958 was on track to be the hottest in decades. 

He’d be sure he was the first one in line to get on the bus when it pulled into the station. Habit more than anything else. He liked being first. Graduated first in his class from Jim Bowie High, Class of ‘51. First in his class at UT in ‘53, and in three years, at that. He was never really sure where he finished in the Masters and Phd programs. By then it didn’t matter as much. But he figured his position on the totem pole probably hadn’t changed much. 

On the one hand, being first on the bus meant he’d be sitting on it in the heat with no circulation, while everyone behind him boarded. It didn’t even guarantee him his choice of seat since the bus was coming from New Mexico with a number of passengers already on it. But old habits are hard to break. Waiting inside the depot he contemplated the reasons he didn’t drive himself. The ‘49 Buick Roadmaster convertible he’d had since UT probably would have made the trip. But it needed a new set of tires, it wouldn’t have been any cooler, and letting someone else do the driving would give him a chance to review some journals that could be useful once he got to Houston. STILL, it would have enabled him to avoid people, almost worth risking a blowout in the Buick. 

Once in the depot, he saw big posters touting the air conditioned comfort of Greyhound’s Scenicruiser and an illustration of one driving through the snow capped mountains, every passenger inside smiling and admiring the views. Maybe the linen suit wasn’t a bad idea after all, considering the ride would be air conditioned. No regrets on leaving the Buick at home whatsoever. He looked around at those wandering around the depot, noting those who he wanted to be sure and not sit near. That included anyone with small children, anyone old that might be slow or possibly smell strange, or anyone who looked like they might be inclined to want to engage in conversation, particularly extended conversation. 

The small lobby of the Fort Stockton Greyhound Depot had swelled to near capacity. Someone said they saw the Scenicruiser round the corner of Alamo Avenue  headed that way. Dutton grabbed his worn leatherette American Tourister two-suiter and headed out the door under the canopy where the bus would come to a stop. It was like a blast furnace. From a half block away Dutton noticed every window on the bus seemed to be open. None of the passengers were smiling like the poster. As it came to a stop in front of him the driver opened the door, got out, and walked over to the long horizontal doors at the bottom of the bus for each passenger to stow his bag before getting on. The stubby moist cigar stick on the corner of his mouth never moved. 

The driver looked like he’d just driven through the apocalypse. A short round man, his shirt was  as soaked as the cigar stuck in his pie hole. “Might want to shed that coat,” he told Dutton. “A/C went out in Albuquerque. It’ll be a toasty trip all the way to Houston.”  Dutton could only hope he didn’t smell when he hit Houston like the driver did when he arrived in Fort Stockton. Dutton slid his bag into the cavern under the bus and noticed quite a few already inside while the driver took off wool Greyhound cap and wiped the sweat and Vitalis running down the sides of his neck and staining the formerly starched collar of his uniform shirt. “Welcome aboard. T’anks fer choosing Greyhound.”  Based on the level of sincerity, Dutton assumed he was required to say that at every stop or risk losing his position at the company. 

Walking up the steps and into the Scenicruiser, Dutton felt like a biscuit sliding into a preheated oven. The passengers already aboard looked like flowers that had wilted in a hot house. In the elevated back of the bus was a large family. Several of the younger hellions were crawling over passenger seats, tossing stuffed animals through the air and shouting at the top of their lungs. The oldest progeny was wearing a Davy Crockett faux coon skin cap and pointing a Red Ryder BB gun out the window at those attempting to load their bag in the luggage dungeon. Dutton would stay at the front of the Scenicruiser. 

To the left and three rows back was an open seat next an elderly woman whose perfume was fighting with the egg salad sandwich she was unwrapping from its covering of limp waxed paper. To the right, just behind the driver sat a nun. She appeared to be middle aged, maybe a little younger, a prayer book in one hand, rosary in the other. She was wearing the full regalia of a sister of faith, black and white head to toe.   Dutton had a decision to make and only a second or two to make it in. In the end, the prayer book and rosary won out over the egg sales and perfume. Hopefully she would be in prayer for most of the hot nine hour trip to Houston. 

“Is this seat taken?” He asked the sister. 

“No,” she replied. “Please feel free.”  She slid closer to the window to make more room, though there was plenty, then returned to her book and beads. 

Good enough, Dutton thought. Doesn’t look like she’s going to attempt a conversation. Not ever actually had close contact with a nun before, he wasn’t sure if that was even what they did. They were a mystery. The one sitting right next to him did nothing to dispel the mystery, appearing to not be sweating at all, despite the fact he was melting in his linen suit. He unfolded the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch folded and wedged under his arm and perused the front page while a steady stream of moist solemn passengers stepped up into the bus and past him looking for a seat. 

A businessman followed by a mother and young son, a soldier, two middle aged women who were siblings were the last of the line, most all of which he recognized from inside the depot. The driver followed along a minute or two later, having gone inside to relieve himself before getting back behind the wheel of the huge General Motors produced bus. 

Scenicruisers had been traveling the highways and byways of America for four years  and were thought to be the most modern modes of modern transportation available. They were huge. Forty feet long and eleven feet tall, Greyhound actually had to convince several states to change their laws to allow them on the road in 1954 when they debuted. “Seems like it should take longer than four years for the air conditioner to shit the bed,” Dutton mumbled under his breath as he looked around the huge bus. The nun sitting next to him glanced up and smiled, though he was sure she couldn’t have heard him. She’d have had to have super human ears, he thought. 

The driver fell into his seat, pulled the lever closing the door and cranked up the Detroit Diesel 8V-71N engine and slid the four speed transmission into gear. All twenty-nine thousand pounds of aluminum, steel, glass, and vinyl pulled away from the covered area of the depot and out onto Alamo Avenue. Most every passenger was hoping he’d reach full speed as quickly as possible to maximize the breeze blowing through the horizontal windows, each slid fully open. Somehow, despite the fact that the air blowing in was still ninety degrees and tended to blow the various aromas being produced by the driver back in his face, Dutton was thankful for the slight relief. He was equally thankful the nun had plenty to pray for and had not said a word. 

The Telegram-Dispatch offered little of interest. Mayor Goodman announced a program starting in the fall to make the streets of Fort Stockton safer by installing street lights in areas that had been plagued with vandalism. He took credit for the initiative, though he’d had almost nothing to do with its planning, promotion, or funding. Hal Jacobson on the city council and Sister Thelma doing most of the leg work were really responsible. Folks didn’t know where she got her energy. Just one more of those nun mysteries. Frontier Ford was having a summer blowout on the ‘58 models. The one featured in the ad was a Skyliner with the hardtop photographed folding halfway down into the trunk. The whole concept appealed to the engineer in Dutton. If things worked out in Houston, he may even swing by the dealership when he got back and take a look. Thank goodness she didn’t try to bother him while he was reading the paper. 

The weekly Piggly Wiggly ad and a handful of classifieds finished up informing the masses of everything going on in Fort Stockton. That only left eight and a half hours. 

Part II of China Moon tomorrow.