“Bus driver my purse is gone! And that special guy was looking around everybody's seat and now he's locked himself in the bathroom.” I could hear the panic in her voice. The kind of panic that only comes from a truly desperate situation. The woman was out of breath but she continued to plead her case. "I know he stole my purse because he was looking around everybody's seat, and didn't nobody else get on this bus.” Well, not only was her grammar horrible, but she wasn't very observant either, because this nobody got on the bus, right there in Davenport, Iowa, (admittedly with little fanfare), but I was there nonetheless. Of course, I didn't volunteer that information, because I was afraid I would be added to the list of suspects. The bus was overcrowded so I took the first pair of empty seats directly behind the bus driver. After all, I was the newcomer to this fucked up yet completely intriguing situation. No sense rocking the boat.
The woman was almost in hysterics, but she managed to drive her point home. “I know it was the special guy because he was looking around all the seats and when I got back my purse was gone.” This was exciting. A serious allegation had been made. Plus, there were still a few unanswered questions. What did she mean when she referred to him as “the special guy”? My initial feeling was that he had to be retarded because why else would you lock yourself in the bathroom of a Greyhound bus? He was in there for a reason.
Every possible scenario went through my brain. Maybe he fell down and hit his head and now he was slumped on the floor inches away from a very unsanitary unisex toilet. Perhaps he was tearing her purse apart, stuffing handfuls of gum and money into his pockets laughing wildly, without the slightest hint of remorse. It was pretty obvious that I wasn't the only person concerned about “the special guy” because every few minutes somebody from the back of the bus would knock on the door and offer him an “are you o.k. in there” or “do you need some help”? There was no response.
Finally the bus driver, a robust six-foot-three inch black man named Claxton, decided to address the situation. His voice boomed over the intercom. “Did anyone actually see the special guy take this girl’s purse into the bathroom?” Total silence.
It sounded like Claxton had dealt with this type of situation before. I repositioned myself so that I was sitting sideways, my eyes fixed on the bathroom waiting for the special guy to come out. I wasn't about to miss one minute of the excitement. I remember thinking that this was the closest I would ever come to a hostage situation.
Time was standing still. Five minutes went by, then ten. Why wouldn't this madman reveal his identity? Then, after an agonizing twenty-five minute wait, he finally came out. Shaking and twitching, he appeared to have some kind of palsy-type disorder. He struggled to get out of the bathroom, took one step, then collapsed into the back seat and vanished from sight. Immediately there was a buzz that spread through the bus; starting in the back, but quickly making its way to the front. Passengers were starting to voice their concern. “Is he o.k. back there?” “What is he doing?” The situation was elevated to an emergency level when a guy in the second to last row yelled out, “He's having a seizure back here!” This was unbelievable. First, the stolen purse; now this. How did I get placed in the middle of a real life human drama? Even though he was having a seizure, I don't think anyone was forgetting about the allegations of theft. There was still kind of a bloodthirsty attitude among the passengers. O.k., sure, we can wait for the seizure to pass, but then we'll put the retarded guy on trial for stealing the purse. I honestly feel like that was the mood of the entire bus.
Claxton came back on the intercom, calmly putting in his two-cents. “Listen, if the man is having a seizure its my experience that there is nothing you can do about it. You just have to let them have it.” He said this with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever. And I don't know if that's true or not, but I'm pretty sure that's why he said it; nobody here is going to be educated enough to dispute that statement. On a Greyhound bus it isn't like there is going to be a doctor in the house. I was a little surprised because it appeared as though Claxton was just going to ignore the problem but after ten minutes he pulled the bus over to the side of the highway and slowly made his way to the back. He stood over the special guy and began to ask him a series of simple questions. Each question was answered with guttural gibberish and moans. Totally incoherent.
Somehow Claxton was able to communicate with him. He would ask the guy if he was o.k. and would only receive a grunt as a response. After a few minutes he was able to determine that the special guy was all right; a little dazed from the seizure, but alive. This was followed by a group sigh of relief. But there was still the matter of the purse. Claxton continued to ask questions but this time they were of the much tougher variety. The man continued to twitch and shake throughout the questioning. With his accuser standing near the back row the bus driver asked the man point blank, “Did you take this woman's purse?” Nothing. With each allegation the man’s spasms intensified. It started to get very uncomfortable for everyone involved.
Claxton made his way into the bathroom and in less than a minute came out with a small leather purse. He asked the special guy why he found the woman's purse in the trash of the bathroom. Immediately the woman tells the bus driver that $140 is missing. Claxton again asked him of if he took the purse into the bathroom. The special guy fended off the accusations by grunting out the word no. Claxton was becoming impatient. He calmly informed the lady that he could not legally search him but at her request he can have the police meet them at the next stop where he will be searched by a member of local law enforcement, adding, “Just because he's retarded doesn't mean he's not a thief.”
Well it was about time. I think this situation called for a little tough love. Or was it bloodlust. I don't know that it mattered at this point, but it was agreed that the special guy would be searched at the next stop. We got back on the road and awaited the inevitable. It didn't take Claxton long to break the silence with a p.a. announcement. You could hear the frustration in his voice.
“People, if you are traveling on public transportation, be it airplane, train, whatever, when you get off the bus you do not leave your personal effects such as purses and backpacks behind. You don't know who's sitting next to you. You could have a serial killer sitting next to you. You don't know. If you leave the bus or get up to go to the bathroom be sure to take your purse or bag witch-you. It’s my job to get you from point A to point B. A lot of things can happen in between point A and point B. There might be a tornado and we might have to protect one-nuther.” I looked out at a cloudless sky but he continued. “So be observant of the people who are sitting around you. Be careful who you decide to talk to. You could be sitting next to the biggest thief. You don't know. I have some relatives I don't trust. Seriously. You have to be careful.”
Inside I remember thinking that this was some real common sense stuff, but I think it needed to be said. I hoped these dregs of society would take the time to get something out of it. This bus driver really had his shit together. And no sooner did I complete that thought, when Claxton put the finishing touches on his nearly three minute sermon, “Because Satan has a lot of power”. Oh come on. Really? That's where he was going with all this? A religious message? I found it to be a little curious that the bus driver would bring religion into this because every time I get on a Greyhound bus I feel like there is no God.
So we all sat there stunned by the news that we were making an unscheduled stop so police could search a guy who had just had a seizure, to see if he had another passenger’s $140. Fucking unbelievable. Claxton was quick to apologize and he informed us that because of the recent events we could be delayed for an hour or possibly longer. This meant that anyone who had a connecting bus to catch would miss it and be stuck in whatever shitty bus terminal they were connecting out of. At first I was angry; angry at the retarded guy, angry at the lady who left her purse out, angry at everything. But as I sat there, I started to realize that this was a pretty good story, and I was right in the middle of it.
And the story was getting more complex by the minute. The special guy was moving around the bus trying to find a new seat. He was abrasive and grunting at people, and it really wasn't working out for him. He moved four rows up and sat next to someone who immediately gave up the two seats so he could relocate. It was just that with the stolen purse and the seizure and everything, people were getting the feel that this guy wouldn't be the ideal travel companion. But I soon realized that people were moving away from him because of the incredibly pungent b.o. smell. And it wasn't like a regular b.o. smell; it was that weird intense kind of b.o. that is almost painful to be around. The closer he got to the front of the bus the more obvious it was to everyone that a true “situation” was developing here. I don't know if the special guy could sense that he was in trouble but he started to behave very erratically. He was grunting at one of the passengers across the aisle from him. Completely at random I think. It was so weird. As his grunts got louder he moved closer and closer until he was practically in the guy's face. The passenger did a decent job ignoring him, but there was no way he could have predicted what would happen next.
Without warning, the special guy brought his arm back and landed a solid right hand punch squarely on the unsuspecting passenger's jaw. A skirmish ensued, and the special guy had to be pulled off the frightened passenger. People in the back started yelling things like, “That's assault” and “Bus driver he just punched that man!” Claxton pulled the bus over immediately and walked with purpose to the back of the bus. Almost everyone was a witness to the punch, and people were angry. There were several people who wanted to kick him off the bus. It was pretty obvious that something had to be done. Claxton decided the special guy should be moved to the front of the bus where he could keep an eye on him, which seemed like a pretty good idea until I realized that it would be the seat directly behind me. One minute he's punching a guy in the face and now the guy is my next door neighbor? How does that happen? He walked up carrying a wrinkled up brown paper sack and sat down behind me. I immediately sat up sideways in my seat ready to deflect any would-be attack. There was no way I was going to let myself get sucker-punched by a retarded guy. No way! I watched his every move out of the corner of my eye preparing for the worst.
Claxton began to walk down the aisle and explained that everyone on the bus had to fill out a c-4 form, a greyhound incident report. I wasted no time filling mine out. I got into it, trying to inject some comedy into the thing. I figured who the fuck is going to read this thing anyway. It was like, “….so the smelly, angry retard stole a woman's purse, then went completely shithouse and hit a guy in the face for not acknowledging his grunts. Now he's in the seat behind me and I'm starting to understand why this bus ticket was only $34.99…”.
I was starting to enjoy myself a little bit when I looked up and noticed that the special guy was staring at me. He was peeking around my seat and our eyes met making me feel extremely awkward. For a split-second, I saw the human side of this story. There was obviously something wrong with this guy. I put my pen down and stared straight ahead so as not to provoke him. I remember seeing a sign that said “Iowa City 17 miles”, and I had a strange feeling that this was far from over. The special guy kept moving around in his seat. He wouldn't sit still and he continued to twitch and gyrate. I watched him and he looked kind of nervous. After about five well-behaved minutes he resumed the grunting at random passengers. Across the aisle and forward, a frightened elderly couple held onto each other for dear life, no doubt wondering if this was a normal occurrence for a three-hour bus trip. And the grunting got louder. It was now directed at a specific passenger directly across the aisle from him.
When you purchase a bus ticket to travel across the country, I don't think anyone EXPECTS to get hit in the face by an angry retard, but if it has happened once already, I feel personally feel like there should be a heightened sense of awareness. You gotta be heads up. But the passenger just sat there, staring straight ahead, pretending to ignore the loud grunts. They were loud but the guy just ignored him as best he could. It was a strategy he would soon come to regret. In an instant the grunting stopped and the special guy lunged at the passenger and delivered a roundhouse right to his jaw. The punch landed so solidly that Claxton took his eyes off the road and turned around for a better look. Almost immediately, the passenger turned the tables and had the special guy in a headlock. Before he could snap this guy’s neck (and it appeared as though he wanted to), Claxton pulled the bus over yet again and he was headed toward the melee. In one motion he grabbed the assailant, lifted him off the ground and threw him against the side of the bus. The retarded guy hit the window with a spectacular thud. The force was so great the brown sandwich bag he was carrying tore open and scattered an assortment of toiletries all over the bus; toothpaste, deodorant, and a trial-sized bottle of shampoo flew three rows back and hit a guy in the head. It was chaos. Claxton had reached his boiling point. He was inches away from the face of the retarded guy, yelling at him. “I told you not to act a fool! Do you hear me?" He tightened his grip on the guy's shirt. “You are going to ride this bus for the next seven miles without an incident. You got that? When we get to Iowa City there will be a police officer waiting to take you into custody. Now do you understand me?” Claxton was shaking the guy pretty good and he started to punctuate the end of his sentences by smacking the guy against the window.
The special guy was frothing at the mouth and managed to grunt back but it was different this time. It wasn't as aggressive or loud. It was almost like he knew it was all over. It was the grunt of a beaten man. Claxton stood his ground in one of the most impressive physical confrontations I have ever seen in my life. And I had the best seat in the house. It was totally thrilling, and in that precise moment I think I actually wanted to be on that bus. I was watching a hulking bus driver choke a retarded purse thief into submission. This was the greatest thing ever. And who knows, it may not be over yet. Seven miles is a long way. It's entirely possible that the special guy still had some fight left in him. Claxton tried to make sure that wasn't going to happen. He wanted to see to it that he made his point. “Now I expect you to sit there and behave for the duration of this bus ride, you got that? There ain’t no reason to make this any worse than it already is.” And with that he lowered the special guy back into his seat and let him go. The retarded guy, seemingly drained from the experience, leaned his head back, turned away from the bus driver, and stared out the window at nothing.
We got back on the road like nothing ever happened. The special guy seemed to finally be at peace but I wasn't taking any chances. I was going to keep a close eye on this guy for the duration of the trip. The special guy shifted gears from violent to bizarre. I watched him as he gathered his toiletries and put them back in what was left of his brown paper bag. But then something happened. I turned around to get a better look, and noticed that he had taken the cap off the shampoo bottle and he was attempting to drink it. His hand was shaking badly but he still managed to get the bottle to his lips. Some of the shampoo ran down his face and into his beard. Small bubbles started to form on his lips. It was weird but captivating. I looked around at the faces of everyone in our immediate area and these people were stunned. He just sat there opening and closing his mouth while bubbles formed and then disappeared. Was this some kind of desperate cry for help? Maybe this was his way of protesting the unfair treatment he had received after stealing a purse and punching two people in the face. Either way he was putting on quite a show with his foaming-at-the-mouth routine. It was beautifully ironic because now the guy actually looked rabid. It was the perfect ending to this already unusual series of events.
Time was running out on the retarded guy and not a minute too soon. He had shampoo in his beard and all over his shirt. We finally arrived at the Iowa City bus station and I was stunned that there were no police cars waiting. Shouldn't we have phoned ahead on this one? I was having a hard time accepting that this was the end of the line. Claxton explained that he had to go in to call the police and that nobody was to move. He was extremely specific: “Absolutely nobody is to get off this bus. I need everybody to stay put for the next five or ten minutes.” With that he shut the door and walked into the bus station. I don't know if people are just stupid, or if some people just feel the need to go against the grain, but it wasn't two minutes after Claxton left that some idiot came walking up to the front of the bus trying to figure out how to open the door. It took a minute, but the door eventually swung open. The oblivious woman in her mid-thirties jumped off the bus and headed for the terminal. I was completely irritated by the lack of common sense. Doesn't anybody listen anymore?
It didn't take the special guy long to realize that this might be his only way out. He gathered his toiletries and very awkwardly made his way off the bus. He had a terrible limp but you could tell that he was determined to get away, hitting full speed the second he got off the bus. He was about fifty yards up the sidewalk when two police cars converged on him. He was put in handcuffs and brought back to the bus terminal for the official search. It was time to put this ugliness behind us. It only took a few minutes to come up with the $140, and the money was promptly given back to the woman with the missing purse. Sweet closure. Once the money was returned, it was time for all of us to get on with our lives. At some point the special guy must have realized that he was going to jail because he started yelling at the bus driver again while he was saying goodbye to the police. It was the first time I saw Claxton smile all day. The special guy was yelling at the top of his lungs and Claxton took the high road and ignored him, climbing back into the bus. As we pulled out of the terminal Claxton honked and waved goodbye just as the police were helping the special guy into the squad car. When he heard the honk the special guy looked up in the direction of the bus. He looked in the direction of the bus and spit as far as he could. I will never forget that last ditch effort to make a statement. It was a foamy mix of shampoo and saliva.
