A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [166]
I smile.
How you doing, Old-timer?
Good. How you doing?
I’m in a hurry.
Where you going?
To find a friend.
Jump in and get warm for a minute.
I don’t mind the cold.
Jump in.
No thanks.
Lincoln speaks.
Get in.
I stop walking and Hank stops the Van. I stare at Lincoln and he stares at me.
I’m not going back.
Get in the Van.
Fuck you.
You want to find her?
Yeah.
Then get in the goddamn Van.
I stare at him and he stares at me. His eyes are cold and dark and dull, but there is truth in them. I step toward the door and he reaches over his shoulder and he unlocks it. I open it and I step inside the Van and I close the door behind me. The heaters are blowing and it is warm. Hank tosses me his jacket and I put it on. He speaks.
Where we headed?
Bus Station in Minneapolis.
We in a hurry?
I look at Lincoln. He stares straight ahead.
What time did she leave?
He speaks monotone.
About four.
I look at Hank.
Yeah, we’re in a hurry.
He smiles and the Van jumps as he drops his foot. The Cornfields become a dull ugly blur, the wind becomes a shriek, the road a cylinder of moving light and yellow lines leading toward finding Lilly. I sit and I stare out the window and I smoke cigarettes. Lincoln stares straight ahead, taking deep breaths through his nose and occasionally cracking his knuckles. Hank finds a country-western station on the radio and he sings along with every song. If he doesn’t know the words, he makes up his own, usually having to do with hockey or fishing. There is no conversation.
The glow of the City rises. We pull off the Highway and down an Exit Ramp into a crowded center of towering steel and glass. People hurry through the streets, the Restaurants and Bars are crowded and busy. Cars honk and Trucks sit waiting on Loading Docks, Cabs search for Passengers. Hank makes a turn and we pass a huge Sports Arena with a flashing sign announcing Game Night. We pull around a jammed Parking Lot, and the far side of it, next to a boarded Building and run-down Motel, is the Bus Station.
The last quarter mile takes an hour, a week, a year, a lifetime. I know we’re moving quickly, but quickly isn’t good enough. My legs are bouncing up and down and I am anxious and nervous and scared. I feel the way I felt when I was ten and I borrowed my Father’s watch without asking him. I lost it on a Beach. I discovered the loss on my bike ride home and I returned to the Beach and searched the sand for hours and hours. I searched on my hands and knees. I feel the way I felt when an ounce of cocaine disappeared in my Room. I tore the Room apart flipped the bed emptied drawers went through all my clothes. I went through everything. I never found the watch. I found the cocaine.
As we pull up to the Entrance I open the Van door before it stops. I hit the ground running. I push past the men standing outside with cups begging change. I ignore the smell of piss and smoke. I push open the doors they are old and heavy and I’m inside the Station.
It is a typical inner-city Bus Station. There is one giant Room with dull fluorescent lights hanging from wires, Ticket Windows built into three walls, multiple Exits leading to the buses, Aisles of worn wooden benches bolted to the floor. It is not crowded, but it is not empty. There are drug Dealers, pimps, homeless men and women sleeping on benches, drifters, runaways. I am at ease among them.
I start scanning the benches. I want to find her, I don’t care how or where, I just want to find her. I walk up and down the Aisles. I pull blankets off bodies. I roll people over so I can see their faces. I look in sleeping bags, I offer smokes for information. I can’t find her. I get nothing, nobody knows a thing. I can’t find her.
I go to the Ticket Windows. I go to all three of them. The Clerks are bored and annoyed, busy watching black-and-white televisions with poor reception. I describe her to them and I ask if they have seen her. They say they have not. I ask again, but the game shows and the soap operas are too important for them to care. They say they