MysteryShrink Short

Broke and Stupid in the Houston Bus Terminal

The first time I was in a bus station was on a hot Houston morning that marked the end of a months-long ridiculous marriage. All I could think about was how badly I’d messed up. And messed up in a way that left me without anyone to sympathize. Every family member and friend had likened my post-high school marriage to volunteering for a plane crash.

I stood in the middle of the terminal with a suitcase and a ten-dollar bill. Along with the self-torture, I felt out of place.

Bus stations in Texas are not like the large, clean, and well-serviced facilities in Mexico where ‘autobus’ is the main means of domestic travel. Travelers in Mexico reflect the population. Not so in Texas. For example, when I worked at the State Hospital, the usual follow-up treatment plan–for even the least stable patients—consisted of a bus ticket home and a prescription. People released from prison were given a similar sendoff. I’d thought that bus travel was for people who couldn’t afford to fly or who didn’t want to present identification.

People who rode the bus were ‘shadow’ figures, people unlike myself, or so I thought. I stepped up to buy a one- way ticket to Dallas. The ticket was fourteen dollars and forty-five cents.

That’s when the weirdest thing happened. Quite suddenly, and for the first time in months, I knew exactly what to do. I introduced myself to strangers and explained I needed a little help, that I was leaving my husband and I didn’t have quite enough to get me to Dallas where my sister lived—the one person who’d breakdown after a few hours and forgive me.

Each person I asked was generous and kind and each had a story.

Over the miles we held a ‘who’s done the stupidest thing’ contest. I heard about smart grandchildren, sons visited in jail, blisters on bare feet crossing the Arizona desert. I was romanced by tales of how Texas was ‘in the old days.’  Most importantly, my heart rose to wish them well. The litany of self-criticism and poor-me-ism faded with the miles. A bit of hope took root.

That day I learned lessons that later in graduate school I’d have fancier terms and theories—such as ‘mindfulness’ to describe. There are good people everywhere once you drop your pretenses, the ‘me firsts’ you think you’ve earned and speak from your heart. Bigger still is the reality that when we listen to others with our hearts, without judgment, the ‘inner torturer’ inside us, goes quiet.

If I hadn’t had to ask for help, I’d likely have found a seat in a back corner and cried off and on for the four hours of the trip. My thoughts—what I was paying attention to—would have been rehashes of my poor choices, obsessive vigilance on restroom smells, and a growing sense of panic. Me. Me. Me. A prison of me.