That Bus--Not So Scary West of Denver

The face tattoos are plentiful and friendly.
 What happens when all we think of people changes. I became the  bigoted product of my environment. I found the single man that makes me feel like the worst person. The smells in Kansas and the fowl treatment of passengers had little to no effect on me and now the truth of my character slaps me in the face.  I forgot the one rule....Be  nice.
 His name is Mark and I first saw him in Merced, CA.  He must have gotten on the bus at that stop because he seemed to evolve out of the fog in the night.

I was starving as the Grey Hound did not stop for food for 9 hours on my way to Portland from LA.  I got to my transfer spot in Sacramento, CA and headed straight to the grill man.  He informed me with his large mustache and balding head that the grill was down for the night and he was only willing to make deep fried chicken strips and french fries.  I did choose honey mustard and ranch as my dipping choices.
The grill man with no grill.  I could have committed murder for a hamburger but a little chicken would do.

There was a long line behind me so after dropping my large bag in line for the bus I found a seat at a table that held a pile of papers and someone's ID card that had an American flag on it.  I guessed that I would shortly be joined by someone at my table of thick blue wire.  They came in hot and loud.  Mark was professing his battles and shrapnel stories while accepting God all at once.  "God loves infantry men" He was speaking to his buddy that was also once a military man or a follower of God. It was hard to tell.  Mark's face tattoo and loudness I had miss judged immediately.

I avoided eye contact, as any well train Midwesterner that has spent any time in any city would do.  It is funny when a person is rude from conditioning of a hard past.  I did not grow up in the west of Denver, CO climate. I am judgmental  and thus miss out on the good stories in life.  I sat there for a time trying not to seem too eager to leave though my fight or flight instinct was running high.  I wanted to seem cool and collected while starving inside a Greyhound terminal waiting for my flavorless fried grease sticks.  The grill man motioned to me as he had gotten no one's name for their orders.  His motioning happened amongst a line of other hungry passengers; he was a fabulous one man machine.
I happily sat at a new table with a older African American man. I guess I could not handle the idea of Mark asking me about either presented subject, God or War.  My chicken and fries tasted just of hot grease and as I ate I slowly realized that the man I was sitting with might not have eaten in days.  When he told me my food looked good I quickly realized the situation.  I wish I had realized sooner I could have given him more food.  If someone tells you food looks good, that is clearly nasty, they are even hungrier than you.  He was a grandpa traveling to Oregon for the first time to see his grand child.  Times are tough and this country does not take care of the elderly.