Road Notes: Boston, NYC, Newark, Cleveland, the Outskirts of Hell, Ellen.

8AM-11:59PM

The minute you step on a Greyhound you have a choice to let the capillary-sized aisle close in on you like a comfy womb, or feel like the seats stretching back along the bus are rows of teeth along a lamprey throat. This time, after a pause and a breath, I decided something down the middle: The aisle was a staircase, the seats dominoes, and I was the potential flick of a thumb. This got me through 16 hours, three buses rowed with lamprey teeth, and countless annoyances that escalated in scale as the day, the evening, and the black night wore along at a pace closer to that of death than Eastern Standard Time. Verily, I was coasting like the great decadrate of the tires themselves – until the Amish came along.

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