Three Days There, Three Days Back
Nonfiction by Malcolm Winton
In the Omnibus by Mary Cassatt, Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington
I was raised on a bus.
The seats are designed to be cheap and easy to install, digging into your back as if they know exactly where your specific pressure points are. The dim overhead lights struggle to illuminate the dank bus, smelling of B.O. and shit, which wafts out from the bathroom at the back. Did anyone on these buses shower?
I guess that’s a consequence of taking a Greyhound from Ontario to British Columbia. As if I had a choice. I was 3, and then 4, and then 5 years old each time we took the three-day trip. A journey that was only one way, with another three days lurking on the horizon when we inevitably returned to Ontario for whatever reason. So, let’s do the math: three days of living on a Greyhound on six separate occasions equals at least 18 days on a bus.
18 days that I remember.
I remember trying to pull an all-nighter at four years old, and succeeding. What four-year-old even comprehends what an all-nighter is? Don’t get me started on the sounds of people snoring. Or the sounds of people choking on their spit as they turned for the 33rd time in their seats, begging to get comfortable. Not pleasant for a child to hear.
I remember people setting up makeshift beds across multiple seats or in the aisle, daring you to walk around them every time you had to use the bathroom. A sleeping bag gently splayed down the aisle; seats stuffed with pillows. The ways people found comfort never ceased to amaze and irritate me. Other times, we’d be waiting for what seemed like an eternity at some random stop, in the middle of nowhere, in a town I’d never hear of again.
I remember the smell of each person’s dinner, eaten on their laps while they fought to hold it in place over the bumps. The smells of onion, garlic, coriander, tuna, and coffee mixing. Smelling of reluctant acceptance. Or, when I felt anxiety for the first time, worried about where we’d end up. I would stare out the window, watching the world go by and trying to guess where our next stop would be. Hoping this game would calm me.
It never did.
Memories have a funny way of playing tricks on us. They like to morph and decide the narrative despite your objections. They insist on being heard, or they insist on being forgotten, always in direct defiance of our wishes. My memory enjoys costume parties, always first to arrive and last to be understood. I guess that’s why the bad memories found their voice first.
Yet, memories aren’t always bad or negative. Oftentimes, the moments that embed themselves in the soil, place their roots and grow, are the ones that illustrate the brightest times. Despite the trauma and significance of these journeys, the good memories rooted.
I remember the bus driver letting me press buttons. I had no idea what they did, and I’m sure he risked his job, but I remember the smile on his face reflecting the excitement in me. Or the new foods my mom would force me to try. The butter chicken, the tuna salad, the coffee she bought me, and the donair that I still dream of to this day. The soft pita gently heldholding the spiced beef, onions and tomatoes mixed perfectly in a sweet and tangy white sauce. To this day, I will still choose donairs over most options. Trust me, you need to try one if you haven’t.
I remember Bear Lake and Old Man River taunting us to a race while we travelled to our respective destinations. Spoiler: the water always wins. Or the stars and how they were sparkling, illuminating the black of the sky with their conversations each night. I always tried to count them, never seemed to get above 1500 before falling asleep.
I remember the Rocky Mountains. How they broke the flat plains of Alberta, cutting the landscape, promising an adventure to those brave enough to cross. Oh! And the deer, glaring at our intrusion through their homes, raising their fawn to cross the road only when safe.
I remember the rain, the sun, the clouds, and the weather as it changed with the passing of the Rockies. How the land evolved from plains, to mountains, to giant redwoods, dominating the landscape with their reverence and history. Towering above the bus, which was already massive to me, the Redwoods felt like an alien world. Little did I know they were as lost as I was, rooted in time, forced to watch the world pass by without regard for the past that defined them.
Memory is a funny thing, they say (who ‘they’ is, still eludes me to this day). And while I can’t tell you who said this, ‘they’ are right. Our memories have a way of twisting, squirming and fighting, insistent in their subversion of peace.
Time and truth, perspective and circumstances, they alter the way we view the memories we have. Memories are fallible. But the impact they impart is morphological. Memories fade, they alter, and sometimes they’re wrong. But the lessons they pass on endure.
I was raised by a bus full of memories.
My name is Malcom Winton, I'm 27-years-old and I attend the University of Toronto Scarborough Campus, I am an English Major and hopeful Creative Writing major (the application for the major is in April).