Down Memory Lane - Part 1

I'm on a Greyhound bus going from Los Angeles to New York City. The year is 1947. I'm 15 years old. This is my first giant solo step into the wide world. I'm going to spend the summer with my extended family, my cousins primarily.

If you weren't around in those years, you would have laughed at how puny and tiny those Greyhound buses looked. Narrow seats, narrow aisle, narrow windows, no restroom in the back, driver sees through a two-panel windshield, his hands and feet dealing with all kinds of levers and peddles. It was quite a bumpy ride. After four days and nights on this bus, my body felt much older.

The bus was full, but before we even pulled out of the LA terminal, six of us - teenagers ranging from 15 [me] to maybe about 20, all strangers - quickly discovered that we were going the whole distance to NYC together. So we immediately became a team. One was a sailor going home on leave. Two were a couple, who spent their time in the back seat smooching 3,000 miles. There was one black guy who claimed he was 16 but appeared to be more like in his 20's. The 6th guy is a blur in my memory banks.

Our first major stop was Las Vegas, early in the morning. The terminal was more a tiny hole in the wall with a door leading into a old fashioned greasy spoon. And this unsavory eatery sported another room decked out with a row of slot machines. and behind this room was a smallish gambling hall with roulette and poker tables.

Our sailor friend skipped eating and made a beeline for the gambling room. His pockets were bulging with cash. After six months at sea, he was ready for some excitement. I remember seeing him swagger into the gambling room the way sailors learn to walk, tipping his cap back on his head as if he were preparing to conquer the world.

The rest of our gang ate our breakfast complaining about our bones. Within ten minutes - can you believe it? - our sailor buddy was back...and broke, cleaned out, pockets empty. He had a funny look on his face, as if to say: "Well, that's life...ain't it always."

So, for the rest of our journey across the wide continent of USA, five of his friends chipped in from their meager pocketbooks the necessary for him to eat. No one complained about this. We all just naturally stepped up to the plate. It was a matter of sticking together. Six young ones facing the world in solidarity.

I don't actually remember all the talk that went between us. We chatted non-stop all the way. All our ideas about life, our plans for adventure when we got to NYC, our bragging beliefs in ourselves, and yes, our sex fantasies. But the couple in the back had no sex fantasies. They were making acting out every night under a blanket.

One other memory sticks out in my mind. We had gotten to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Another breakfast stop. It was 5 in the morning. We hadn't eaten since the evening before. I remember how cold and desolate the scene was, one tiny restaurant stading alone on a wide and windy plain. We stumbled out of the bus, bones creaking, and straggled up to the front door of the restaurant. And here, we were stopped cold. A sign was fastened to the door, crudely written.

It said "No Negroes Allowed."

We stared at the sign, dumbfounded. And without speaking a word, as if one body, we turned around and went back to our bus seats.

Suddenly, we had all become Negroes. For me, the civil rights movement began that summer in 1947.

Next time, I'll tell you about that wild summer in NYC.