Already exhausted, Jim and I trudged over to the bus, climbed on and found a seat. Jim had bags under his eyes and I hoped he would be able to sleep all the way to Florida, but it was not to be. About twenty minutes into the trip, I noticed the bus was on fire and flames were shooting out from under the hood. Panic ensued. People started screaming and running up and down the aisle, but Jim and I just sat there with glazed eyes, unable to take it in.
The surreal scene had the feeling of a nightmare and we couldn't wake up. People were scrambling to get off the bus; some girls were crying. I remember noise and smoke and confusion. There must have been firetrucks; someone must have gotten all the luggage off the bus; I can't remember. Jim looked terrified. I tried to reassure him; God knows what I said. Eventually, another bus came out from the City and we all piled in. I prayed for peace and quiet and no more disasters.
Over the next two days Jim and I changed buses eleven times and I've never known why. There was no schedule. When the bus stopped, Jim and I would show our tickets to someone who would put us on a bus going south. Twice we walked alone at night, carrying our luggage, to another bus station. From Greyhound to Trailways and back to Greyhound. We never knew where we were or what time it was. We slept fitfully and I remember eating a meal only once. We kept going south. Jim told me much later that he never went to the bathroom once; the restrooms were too horrible. I went to the Ladies room constantly (peeing orange) but I tried not to touch anything.
At last, we arrived in Tampa and were told there was no bus to Sarasota until the next morning. I called our father who came and picked us up. Neither Jim nor I have ever gotten over that trip. All his life, I had tried to protect him and never could. Our family had fallen apart; even the small shelter our parents had provided was gone. It was many years before I began to feel safe. I am not sure Jim ever has.
