A boozy Megabus ride traveling from our Nation’s Capitol to the Big Apple where sex, drugs, and armed robbery consumed conversation.
“Is this seat taken?” He asked while standing over me draped in a black sweat suit circa 1990. My mother once said never talk to strangers. As a grown man, asking “Mother may I” was as foreign as the game I used to play during childhood.
One hour into our conversation, I learned that Terence was a generous Uncle, who robbed banks in Florida, during the height of his crime spree.
12 banks, six years of jail time, and $114,000 in restitution later—I wondered if I should have listened to my mother’s advice.
Terence was a changed man. He no longer abused crack cocaine, a potent mix of coke and baking soda and placed on a hot stove. “I used to eat it,” he said as he stretched out his legs. It sounded like a few french fries short of a happy meal. He opened up a 16 oz can of Bud Light and took a swig.
“You drink?” He asked.
“Yes, I drank a half a bottle of wine before boarding the bus,” I said.
I did not want to drink out of a can, which he whipped off with the black bag it came with. The conversation transitioned to his love life. “I would pay my 50 or 60 dollars to get me some sex,” he said. “It could be a girl or a guy. It didn’t matter.”
I hoped that was not an invitation because that was not on the itinerary. “I hooked up with a guy recently that was on that stuff,” Terence said. “He was always eye-hustling my shit. Nah man, fuck that.”
The guy is now hooking up with his roommate.
“He mad thirsty for that shit but it’s cool,” he said. “He bet not bring him in my house while I’m not there.”
We finally entered the city. We exchanged numbers and went our separate ways. He called a few times looking for me to take $50 rides. I eventually stop answering.