I haven’t been this deep into Virginia since I was in college at University of Virginia, which I would say with pride except I screwed up royally there, left after three and a half semesters, and didn’t finish my BA for 37 years.
I remember my time at U. Va. with much sadness. I squandered my youth there – I’m not sure I’ve recovered yet. I don’t think I’ll ever want to go back to Charlottesville; I was so painfully lost there. It was one of the worst periods of my life.
The girl in her 20s who sat next to me in DC answers questions but doesn’t volunteer anything. Her voice sounds like Ursula the Witch.
“You have a dramatic voice. Are you a singer?”
“No.”
After many awkward silences, many attempts to ignite the conversation, I learned she was “a picture and runway model,” in her words. She was on her way from the Bronx, where she lived, to Charlotte, North Carolina for a fashion show. I asked if she had an agent, or did she have to dig for work?
“It’s not that serious,” she said.
I told her I had long debated moving into New York City, but I was afraid of moving into a place and having someone move in below me who smoked marijuana day and night.
“You’d be high all the time,” I said.
“That’s New York,” she said.
We passed the Pentagon.
“The ten-year anniversary is coming up in six months,” I say. “What were you doing when 9/11 happened?”
“”Sleeping.” She closes her eyes a few minutes later and keeps them closed until Richmond.
I did find out that her dream for herself is to be a psychologist. She doesn’t volunteer ANYTHING to strangers on the bus, but she got at least twelve phone calls the first half hour of our trip, so she offers some people something.
What is her dream for America?
“Love and peace,” she said, just like the DC cab driver.
As she walked off the bus in Richmond, I saw that her belt was threaded through half her pant loops, and half the belt dangled down her butt to her knees. She was six feet tall, wore a black do-rag over her hair, and thin silver and gold etched bangle bracelets.
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