Leaving Richfield

Richfield, Utah, is about 200 miles from the southwest corner of the state, where I-15 cuts across the edge of Arizona before dipping down into Nevada and on to Las Vegas.

We left the car in Richfield, mostly because it was demolished, and trying to take it anywhere after that would have been pointless. Besides, if I needed a reminder, I still had the gash on my forehead, the wrenched back and the seatbelt bruises that saved my new bride's life all over her stomach.

As we waited to board the Greyhound to Vegas, I snuck furtive glances at the other riders, which included some Mexicans, a crack whore who smelled like cheese that had been steeping in sweat for a week, a young, heavy blonde girl with two young children who didn't appear to have any shoes, and an elderly Indian couple. I paid little mind to these people, as I fixed my gaze on a group of men who kicked some dirt and stretched while waiting for the crack whore to finish whatever it was she was doing in the bathroom. One of them was an angry looking bi-racial 20-something with a strong build and piercing blue eyes. He talked to a white kid about the same age, but a little bigger in the chest, and an older, leaner black man who wore a Kangol and was picking his teeth. Yep, they were the ones I'd have to look out for.

The Greyhound that rumbles through Richfield, Utah twice a day is the long hauler from New York City to Los Angeles. Most of these folks had been riding this bus for several days, now. It was a weary group of dusty travelers, and not a grin among the lot.

As Amy and I boarded, I looked around for a seat close to the driver, because the fellas I'd seen looking so motley before were seated in back. There wasn't one, and in fact, we ended up in the second to last row on the left side of the bus, right in front of the black guy and the bi-racial guy. The bigger white guy was on our right, seated next to a pretty blonde I hadn't seen before.