Nauvoo to Nashville - Part One

I was scheduled to take the 1:55 bus from Keokuk, IA to Nashville, TN on June 16th, 2008. The Mississippi river was breaching levees and flooding towns along its banks in Iowa, Missouri and Illinois. The northernmost lanes of the road approaching the bridge to Keokuk were already partially under water. Trucks and tractors were working day and night piling rocks, sand and gravel on the southern lanes trying to keep ahead of the rising water and keep the road open. We left early expecting delays at the bridge. Keokuk is 12 miles from Nauvoo. We left with more than an hour to make the trip. As we arrived at the bridge we found that it had been reduced to one lane and traffic on the Illinois side was beginning to back up. We now had about 50 mins before the bus was scheduled to depart. We watched as car after car exited the bridge from Missouri. Waiting and watching intently for the flagger to turn the sign from ‘STOP’ to ‘SLOW.’ After 10 mins or so there was a break in the traffic. The flagger shifted his stance, crossed the lane and looked west toward the river. Then he returned to his post. Another 10 mins passed as the cars rolled off the bridge. Then another 10 mins, then another. We now had 10 mins to make it to the bus depot with no sign of movement. Just as I was preparing to spend another night in Nauvoo the flagger turned the sign around and the cars began to inch forward. As we made the ascent to the bridge a tractor pulled out and blocked the lane. We patiently waited as he moved back into the other lane and the line of cars proceeded forward. We made it across the bridge in record time. Now six more blocks to go. Wendy read the sign aloud: “bus depot (→).” I was sure the depot was on 8th St. so I went through the intersection. “That was it!” she said. I turned up on 7th St. and turned right in the first alley to go back to 6th. There was a garbage truck blocking the alley. I backed out and continued up. The next street was a one-way in the wrong direction. I finally circled the block and made it to the bus depot at 1:54pm. There was no sign of a bus – just two Amish brothers sitting on the bench out front. I ran into the office. “Has the 1:55 bus left?” I asked. “No… the bus is about 1 ½ hours late” she said. I hadn’t missed the bus, but I would surely miss my transfer in Saint Louis. “Will there be another bus headed to Nashville tonight? Can I get a partial refund and rent a car in St. Louis? Should I wait and leave tomorrow?” The travel agent advised: “There is a 10:00 bus that goes to Nashville via Indianapolis and Louisville, then there is a direct bus tomorrow morning at 7:00… whatever you do don’t spend the night in the Saint Louis bus depot.” Then she called to check on the bus. “It just left Burlington 20 minutes ago and will be in Keokuk in about 10 mins, but it won’t come here… you’ll have to meet it out on the highway. Pat will take you out there. She should be back any minute.” She picked up the phone to check on Pat.

Pat pulled up, I said goodbye to Wendy and the kids, loaded my bags in the minivan and headed out to the highway. On the way out of town Pat was telling me how she had just had surgery on her eyes that morning. A few months back she had cataracts removed and then a film had formed on her eyes. They had just removed the film with a laser. “I almost missed my turn before” she explained as she straddled the lanes. “Do you want the windows up?” she asked as she slowed down and searched for the power window button. She found it and then promptly resumed her speed – about 5 miles an hour under the speed limit. Now she’s talking on her cell phone to see where the bus is at. “Well he shouldn’t have to wait – we’re on our way over now.” She says to us “you might make your transfers if he can make up some time on the way down.” We reached the junction of 61 and 218 just as the bus was pulling off. The three of us (myself and the two Amish brothers) climbed out of Pat’s van as the driver stepped out of the bus. “I’m picking up three” said the driver “and you’re taking one back.” 3 more passengers stepped out of the bus for a quick smoke. As the driver checks our tickets he begins to ask pat for directions (the routes had been altered due to the flooding and he had already been lost once). “You should turn back around and head that way” Pat says as she opens her cell phone to call for verification. When the driver has his directions confirmed the 7 of us board the bus and we’re on our way.

We head down the rural highway toward the Quincy bridge. As we cross the river we can see to the south the old bridge is partially under water. The river front park is submerged. There are flags waving atop flag polls about 40 ft from shore. There is a fountain full of crystal clear water engulfed by the slow moving muddy river which is about to consume it entirely. The water treatment and waste-water treatment plants are surrounded by sand bags. The bus winds its way through narrow streets between century-old buildings in Quincy. We pick up 3 more… what looks to be a grandfather and his granddaughter and a single woman. I wish I could write the way these people talk – like Mark Twain did – it is a rural-Midwestern accent. Some words are mumbled and slurred while other sounds are over enunciated and piercing. It’s not slow and soft like a southern accent, not fast and harsh like a New York accent, but a strange combination of both… with bad grammar to boot.

Crossing back over the bridge everyone looks out over the river. It is magnificent… it appears so calm and peaceful, but the air is tense. It is, after all, the Mighty Mississippi and it winds its course heedless of the buildings, homes and roads that inhabit its shores. An old faded billboard to the north reads: “Jesus Christ Our Soon Coming King… Be Prepared!” with a reference to Romans. All the while Disney movies are playing on the 8” screens hanging below the luggage compartments.

Next we have a short stop in Hannibal, MO – Mark Twain’s ‘home town’ – and we’re off again. In Bowling Green, MO we stop at a convenience store for a short break. “Grab a bite to eat” says the bus driver. In the store one of the Amish brothers heats up his meal in the microwave while the woman across the aisle plays digital Yahtzee.

As we head towards Saint Louis I over hear the conversation behind me. One man is heading from Omaha to Atlanta to visit family. The other is on his way to or from a meeting with his parole officer. As they discuss various neighborhoods in Omaha and Atlanta and the murder rates they discover they have a common friend – Menard. “I was locked up with him back in ’86 and he could sing back in the day… he was a good singer… (bus noises and inaudible discussions followed by whispers about going to the park to find substances not easily found other places)… ‘I’m not into that anymore’ Menard said, ‘but I can tell you where to get it.’”
(More mumbling and talking)
“Man, those guards hit hard!”
“Is this the Mississippi River?” One asks.
“It’s the Missouri” I say.

We got into the Saint Louis bus depot about 1 ½ hours late and the place was buzzing. A busload of people who were anxious to know if they had missed their connections grab their bags and head for the door. The people up front weren’t moving too quickly.
“Are the doors open?” Someone shouts from the back (one of Menard’s friends) “Well how come we’re not moving?”
“Just go! If you’re not going to move then get out the way so I can get out… just sit back down… is the door open?!?”
“OK now we’re going.”
Most busses were still at the terminal – everything was running late. I went to the counter to ask about the bus to Nashville. “It’s outside at gate two” the woman said. I opened the doors to go outside and there was a line of onry people trying to get to their busses. The narrow lane leading to the busses was packed. It was wide enough for 2 – 3 people max – and it was packed with 4 people across holding luggage. There I stood looking out to the busses beyond the mob of disgruntled passengers while over the loud speakers I heard: “Final call for Nashville – via Carbondale, IL and Paducah, KY. This is the final boarding call for Nashville, TN… This is the last call for Nashville – leaving from gate number 2.” The line didn’t budge.

Nauvoo to Nashville - Part Two

I looked for an alternate approach to the busses. The security guards lined the perimeter of the terminal directing newcomers through the side doors to the inside and keeping everyone else in the lines. There was no other way to get to the bus. “Whatever you do don’t spend the night in the Saint Louis bus depot” the words echoed. Actually it didn’t seem that bad, but I wasn’t going to give up after getting this close. I pulled my bags close to my body and weaved a way through the line. “You cuttin’ in front of us?!?” asks a displeased traveler. I looked around to see if any security guards would intervene. Nobody budged, so I pressed on – “They just called final call for my bus” I said as I moved forward. “That’s all you need to say buddy” said a nice man as he moved aside to let me through. “We’re all waitin’ for our busses!” Shouted the lady. Her voice faded behind me. I was intent on getting to my bus.

The bus parked in gate 2 had MEMPHIS displayed across the front. “Which bus goes to Nashville?” I asked. The driver pointed to that one. I gave him my ticket, set down my bag and climbed aboard. This time I take a seat toward the front of the bus. “Perhaps the crowed is different up here” I say to myself. Wasting little time the driver climbs into his seat, honks his horn and backs out from the gate.

As it turns out the kid sitting across from me just got out after 4 years in prison. “4 years? How old are you?” I asked.
“22” he said.
“What’d they pick you up for?”
“Residential burglary.”
“4years!”
“It could have been 9”
“Now what are you going to do? (meaning school, work, etc.)”
“Two years parole.”
“Do you have plans for school or anything? Do they have any programs set up for school or work or anything?”
“I have all of my math and English requirement for a associates degree… or a bachelors. I live in a college town… so I’ll take classes at the community college and then transfer.” He gazed off. He had a cardboard box on the seat next to him. At 18 years old he gets 4 years in prison. After he’s done they give him a cardboard box and bus ticket home to Carbondale, IL.

The sign on the highway says “Nashville, IL” next exit. The bus takes the exit and heads south. I double-check my ticket.

There is a retired couple in the front seats… I’m aware of at least 3 ex-cons – maybe they’re not ‘ex’ cons if they’re still on parole. My guess is there are a few more who’ve spent time behind bars… then there is a woman with two young children who appears to be very out of place. I’m probably out of place, but I feel right at home.

The sun is setting over the vast farmlands as we roll past a rural graveyard, cinderblock buildings, modular homes, and a manmade lake. “Good Ole Home Cooking. 7 blocks south of square” reads the sign.

I wonder what he’s got in his box. The bus pulls into the Carbondale depot. Another short stop for a smoke break. The kid takes his cardboard box and heads off the bus. “I’m going to sleep under the stars tonight” he says.

After that I doze off as the bus rolls over the Kentucky border and continues down Interstate 24. I feel the bus slow down. I look out through hazy eyes and see the Bellsouth building towering over Nashville as the bus pulls into the depot on 8th Avenue South. From 6th St. North in Keokuk to 8th Ave. South in Nashville – in just over 11 hours. It’s 12:45am and I have to find a way home to Franklin.

Nauvoo to Nashville - Part Three

There is a taxi sitting in front of the bus terminal. “How much to go out to Franklin?” I ask.
“Do you want flat rate or meter?”
“I guess it depends on which would be less.”
“$40 flat rate”
“That’s fine. Do you take visa?”
“Yes, sure. I take visa… climb in… you can ride in front… Maybe we can stop and you can use ATM and pay cash”
“That’s fine… you can stop at the bank at the Cool Springs exit.”
“OK”
After we stop at the bank I direct to driver to the house. I explain to him how to get back to the freeway. The poor guy’s got to drive all the way back to Nashville with no passenger. I tip him 10 bucks and head into the house. I have to unlock my van and use the garage door opener. I don’t have a key to this house. I get in, take a look around and head to bed.