JANUARY 19, 2024 – In the same letter to Cynde I continued the saga of . . . my quitting.
At 3:45 p.m. my landlady gave me a ride into the city to the bus station. The day was hot and the air heavy with humidity. And I was headed south. We drove past the ghettos and past the neighborhoods that I had explored extensively. Those miserable people had no escape. They didn’t have to face Joe Martin, but they had to face poverty and misery till their dying days.
I fished $38 out of my pocket and placed it before the ticket agent. In exchange I received a white slip which entitled me to a ride from Gate 11 to Music City. A large crowd of other passengers gathered on the platform, but I was among the first to board.
I found a window seat, and didn’t have to wait long for someone to take the place next to me. I’d wished no one would—I’d wanted to be alone and think. By and by an old lady sat down. I tried to be nice, but no way could I be sincere about it. The lady was not too bright and kept asking stupid questions such as, “What do all them grape farmers do with all them grapes?” (in the region southwest of Buffalo are endless acres of vineyards), and “Why are you going to Nashville to get to Minneapolis?” which actually wasn’t such a dumb question, and one that was painful for me to try to answer.
By 7:30 or so that evening we reached Cleveland. We had to wait 45 minutes for the bus to Columbus, Louisville, and Nashville. I walked over to a phone booth and called home. The line was busy. For 15 minutes I wandered around, observing the many people walking in and out of the terminall. I wondered who they were, where they were from, and where they were destined to travel. I wondered about their homes, their opinions, their likes and dislikes. People are fascinating, Cynde, and I love them.
At about 7:45 I called home again, collect. My mom answered.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll accept the charges.”
“Hi, Mom. Is Dad around too? I’d like to talk to him as well.” Soon both were on the line, and then I broke the news. “Mom, Dad . . . I’ve decided to leave Buffalo. I’m in Cleveland now, headed for Nashville. I’ll see you sometime later. I hope you’re not disappointed that I’m quitting.”
“No, no, not in the least,” said my Dad. “You’re probably smart to get out of Buffalo.”
“Thanks, Dad. You know, quitting takes guts. I’m learning as much from this process as I would from sticking it out. My friends Rodger and Robbi said that even though they want to quit, they are scared to face the regional sales manager, this guy named Joe Martin. Tomorrow I have to face him, and I’m a bit nervous.
“Just remember, Eric,” my religious mother added, “that every man stands the same before the eyes of God.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be standing before your eyes before you know it.”
At 8:15 I boarded my next bus. This time a rather large man sat down beside me. He carried an overstuffed haversack, and the sweat on his face soaked his thick beard. But though his burden was heavy, his spirit was light. I introduced myself and struck up a conversation.
“Where’s home, and where are you coming from?” I asked.
“Mansfield, Ohio, and I’m coming from Newport, Rhode Island.”
“Travel much?”
“Sure do,” said the man. “Been in nearly every state and been to Europe seven times.”
I was tired, and my brain pleaded with me to close my eyes and sleep, but this guy was so interesting, I forced myself to keep the conversation rolling. We discussed history, politics, and traveling. The guy’s poor grammar betrayed lack of a formal education. Although he hadn’t gotten beyond ninth grade, which he’d flunked twice, this dude had absorbed a wealth of knowledge, and in many ways I considered him better educated than I.
At Mansfield he disembarked for his home, and I traveled off to the land of nod.
I slept most of the way to Nashville, which we reached at 7:30 the next morning. Finally I was back where I’d started this incredible job. Now to the company “at the Moore’s Lane exit off I65, 23 miles southwest of the city,” I was told. But how would I get there? There were no buses, the cost of a taxi would be too much. So I walked six miles through the city until I reached the Interstate. I then held out my thumb . . .
My draft letter to Cynde came to an end, but my journey still had miles and hurdles to go. I remember them vividly.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
