When his demons caught up to him, it wasn't pretty, but then he had never expected it would be. That's why he had been putting it off as long as he had, postponing the inevitable; and when it did come, on a cross country bus trip, he had run out of money and medicine, and there was nothing to do but ride it out, literally.

The main issue was in having to face sobriety, which he hadn't in months, but it seemed to be more than that, too. Jones was confronting something else inside, questions about himself, what he was doing with his life at this time, at this age (thirty-eight), where he was going, and why he had ended up in this condition. These were serious questions that, it seemed, couldn't be ignored anymore, or put off, especially where his health was concerned. The state of his mental and physical condition had to be addressed immediately; his nerves wouldn't have it any other way, nor would the overall gloom that had settled on him (a weight that had to be dealt with). Throw in the nightmare hallucinations and you had a hell ride, without a doubt.

Jones had gotten on that bus because he had almost killed himself in the city he had been living in for the past six months. He had put himself in jeopardy, physically and legally, because of his binging, and when he got hit by a car, it decided him on looking for an alternative lifestyle. And that decision had led him to buy a bus ticket for the ride home to his parents' place on the east coast.

He knew it was going to be a long three-day ride, maybe more, for there always seemed to be delays somewhere on these bus trips. And this one proved to be no exception. A short delay in a small place outside of Denver , and then a longer one in the city itself. A bus had broken down somewhere, and it would be an hour and a half wait. There were also baggage searches to add to the confusion, for it had only been a year or so since 9-11, and the cops were everywhere around the stations, looking into bags, asking questions, sometimes walking onto the buses for spot checks. Jones had only a small plastic bag to look through, holding nothing but dirty clothes and a paperback book. In California , he had started out with a bottle in it, but that was gone after the first night.

With the delay in Denver , Jones had the chance to get one last drink, a bottle of cheap wine with the last of his money. From there on it would be cold turkey and the shakes were already getting bad. So were the sweats, and what little sleep he had gotten the first night had been troubled by unpleasant dreams that jerked him out of his rest.

While waiting for his Denver bus, Jones sat outside on the steps of a church, sipping on his purple wine. Two more days to go, he thought, as he listened to two drunks arguing in front of the store he had just been in. They were trying to get together enough change for a drink themselves, but couldn't agree on something. He'd seen similar scenes in other cities, especially around the all night convenience stores. One of the clerks already had his eye on them, and he would probably call the cops sooner or later. One of the drunks had yelled something angrily at Jones, as Jones sat down. He hadn't contributed to their drink fund.

Normally, he would have been angry, but not on this night. He felt sick, physically, and wounded, mentally. This last bottle might provide him with a little relief for his nerves - enough to help him to sleep on the bus, he hoped.

But the frightening thing - and he was afraid - was that he felt so helpless and at the mercy of circumstances, with too little inner strength to help him through this crisis (and it was fast becoming one, he realized now - as fast as his bus would move down the highway). Personal demons lurked in the shadows of the church building, it seemed, seeing their chance coming to prey on the vulnerable. If only he could have put form to those demons. For that was just it. There seemed to be so much against him, in his own head, not deciphered, that the struggle for any kind of positive strength looked to be overwhelmingly against him. He sat there, quite simply, befuddled, miserable, sick, without a clue as to how to truly make himself a better man, for all seemed lost anyway. He had blown it; had gotten too careless with his time and had lost too many years in the process. Now he was just trying desperately to stay afloat, never mind swim anywhere. His body and his mind had abandoned him, it seemed, in the cold and indifferent way fate could have, leaving him vulnerable and just about defenceless. Jones was losing this fight against himself. Finally to be beaten after all these years by his own madness, he thought, and he emptied the bottle.

In the bus station, people seemed to be looking at him: other passengers, young thugs hanging around, the security guards. He kept moving around the big building, for he couldn't sit still. He had just had a drink, but his nerves were still jumpy. Looking at a United States map on a wall, Jones realized just how far he had to go, and this did nothing to lift his spirits.

He got a window seat, and a pretty young woman sat next to him. She was barely a woman - eighteen at the most - and she wore headphones. Besides music, she had a paperback with her, which she opened now and then for short distances. Jones had glanced at the book cover and saw that it was something he wasn't familiar with - and something literary of all things! He was used to seeing the colourful covers of bestsellers, with eye-catching lettering, on these trips, something picked up at station newsstands.

Jones wished he could concentrate on his book, but he was too fidgety and his mind kept jumping here and there (any little thing - the sight of something, or a little of the woman's music, say - set it off in some direction). He'd read a paragraph or two, and then have to stop and collect himself.

Of all things to contend with now, he felt a sudden rock hard erection in his pants (oh boy, were those nerves really playing games with him now) and it probably had something to do with the close proximity of the woman and whatever perfume it was that he detected. Or was it the long, clean, finely combed hair that was so close he could lean over and put his nose in it, or just the overall clean and healthy look about her: the clear, smooth complexion, the thin, manicured fingers, the little black watchband on the delicate wrist, and the freshly washed, unwrinkled shirt and jeans; everything just right and in place, a stunning (for Jones) picture of youth and good health. Stunning when he realized what he himself must look like, what he felt like, sweaty, dirty (minded?), scraped up from the car accident, on edge and frazzled, weary, a little drunk and stinking of booze, food in his teeth from two days before, without a wash in three, hair feeling as if it was plastered to his itchy scalp (what had happened to his baseball cap?), clothes (second-hand as it was) unchanged in days and looking like they never had and never would fit him right. For a few moments, he had a fantasy of jumping into a shower and washing the sweat and the stink off him, and putting some clean duds on. At least the socks, which were embarrassingly ripe.

Jones had smiled at the woman when she first sat down, but then he had turned back to the window. He preferred to look at scenery rather than people, and he was relieved that he had gotten the window seat. He felt like curling up in his seat as much as possible, away from everything, but alas, he couldn't, not in that small space. He would have to rely on his mind to take him somewhere else, but how could he rely on his mind for anything? Look where it took him.

Jones wondered if he should step into the bathroom and relieve himself of the erection. It wouldn't be the first time he had done something like it on one of these long bus trips, and he was pretty sure it wouldn't take much effort. Still, the thought of staggering to the rear of the bus, while the vehicle swayed and bumped over the road, and then holding onto the metal safety bar inside the small bathroom (you always got bounced around back there), while at the same time attending . No, the picture was humorous and absurd - too much so for him to consider that plan at the moment. Besides, he really didn't want to leave his seat for anything.

At the next stop, Jones didn't bother to get off the bus to stretch his legs. He may never have gotten off the bus at all in the next two days if he hadn't been forced to for bus cleanings. He had no money for food, but he didn't want to look at food anyway. When he was asked to get off the bus at certain stops, he went to the restroom to wash his face and used the terminal drinking fountains. He didn't strike up conversations with anybody, though he could easily have done so. He ignored people as much as possible and hoped they would do the same.

In a couple of places, shady looking characters looked boldly at him in the john, as if sizing him up, but Jones was careful not to answer any of the challenging looks. The last thing he needed now was to be involved in a fight. He just wanted to be left alone. On the bus, he did manage to smile at the young woman, and he offered her a chance at the window seat, which she accepted. He mentioned the book she was reading and she said a few things about it, and he did the same about his book, and that was it. Jones was relieved that she wasn't the talkative type.

When she did feel like talking, the next day, she started a conversation with a young man of about her age who had a set of headphones and a CD player too. They discussed certain new music that appealed to them both, and Jones remembered how, years before, he used to be just as enthusiastic about music and new bands. Now, he was out of it; he couldn't join the conversation if he wanted to. He couldn't remember the last time he had listened to the radio. When was the last time he had been to a concert? Years.

Of course, he had to admit that it just wasn't as important to him as it once was, and it was the same with a lot of his old interests. He didn't get that passionate about anything these days. He was tired and felt his years (and it didn't get any better, he'd been told by older people). For the first time in his life, Jones felt that he had completely crossed over a boundary of some sort, and there was no going back to what was. Things had changed for him and he had to live with it. He could see this as the miles went by (he had given up on sleep now) but it didn't make him feel any better at the moment. Yet perhaps he had to go through this bad time for the real knowledge to sink in. He was paying his dues, or that was one way of looking at it; and he had the time to look at things in different ways, yes, he had days of time. Even when he got to his parents' house, he would have time to think, days to reflect and brood (though he would have to make an effort at becoming part of the family again). He just hoped his face would heal up a little when his parents saw him. The swelling had gone down since the accident had happened a few days before, but the scabs made it look worse than it was. It was no wonder people stared at him.

Thinking about that drunken day in the city, Jones again realized how fortunate he was that he was still alive, or not laid up in some hospital bed. He had been drunkenly oblivious when the car hit him, and luckily it occurred on a side street, where the driver wasn't going too fast. Still, the car had gone over him, and Jones still felt that terrible pressure from the car days later, curled up in his seat. He was lucky the vehicle hadn't crushed his ribs.

Son, how you have fallen, he said to himself, half-joking, remembering the worried face of the young Hispanic man looking down at him in the street. He remembered the young man crossing himself and muttering what were no doubt prayers, for with all the blood, it did look bad. Yet Jones had had head wounds before, and he knew that they always looked bad with plenty of bleeding from the scalp. He had been a spectacle for the residents on that street in that Hispanic neighbourhood, a drunken white man bleeding on the street, with fast Spanish being passed back and forth over him, and him asking for his bottle. It had been that evening's show for those people, and he smiled now as some of the details came back.

The driver of the car had asked Jones if he wanted the police called, but Jones had said no. He didn't want to have anything to do with the police. He'd already had enough encounters with them in the preceding months, and a few unpaid tickets to show for it.

The driver and his family had taken Jones into their house and let him rest on some blankets on the floor. They gave him a towel to wrap his head in, and a beer when he asked for it. Someone had found his glasses, his whisky bottle and his wallet in the street. He spent the night on the floor, feeling pretty good actually, despite all the bleeding. The next morning, the young Hispanic man slipped him five dollars - the last of his money - as Jones stepped out the door. He had assured the man that he was all right, though he didn't know that at all.

Jones smiled now as he recalled the stares he got as he walked through the neighbourhood that morning. He hadn't looked in a mirror, so he wasn't aware of how awful he looked with dried blood caked over one half of his face, on his arm, and stains all over his t-shirt. He would be picking sand out of his elbow and back for the next couple days. The sight of him stopped people in whatever they were doing, and it made him think that he was some kind of monster. Fortunately, he was still a little drunk and found it amusing.

Jones remembered a few different people telling him that he should have gotten a lawyer, but Jones just laughed this off. He hadn't been hit by one of the city's affluent citizens. Jones wished he felt as good as he did the day after the accident right now on the bus. All he could do was shut his eyes and curl up with his head against the arm rest, covered by an extra shirt from his bag, for the air conditioning worked too well.

One of the worst things about being sick (and not being able to sleep) on one of these long bus rides was that you had to listen to other passengers chattering away, as they slurped soft drinks and munched on fast food, excited by the trip, opening up with strangers. People who found a sympathetic ear went into parts of their lives they normally would have kept to themselves. But what did it matter with a stranger who they wouldn't see again after the ride? Some, who had been nipping on drinks, got loud and boisterous. Jones heard some young people popping open cans of beer; he could hear their music - rap with the big beat - coming through their headsets. He really was paying for his excess now, he thought. He was being punished by fate, having to endure this dreadful ride of three thousand miles, feeling that he was going out of his mind and in physical distress. No rest for the wicked, he thought.

The absolute worst was the crying of babies throughout the night, and the smell of soiled diapers. It brought to mind a long bus ride he had taken years ago in Mexico, a thousand mile journey in an old vehicle long past its best days, with so many people, and even animals, on the thing that it was all you could do to breathe. And going through hundreds of miles of desert on top of that, so that he didn't even think about jumping off and waiting for the next bus.

Jones had never been on a long bus ride when someone didn't get on with little kids or infants at one point. You couldn't say you had gotten the full experience of going cross country without that happening. And when it happened on this trip, Jones wished he had a set of headphones himself. Three seats back, the baby, which was sick, according to the mother, bawled and screamed, and Jones heard a screaming in his own head. A long silent howl of misery.

By the time he had gotten to Chicago , he was visibly shaking as he killed time in the large terminal, which wasn't easy to do. An hour seemed like three as he fidgeted on a hard plastic seat and tried to concentrate on his book. The main character in the novel was having a difficult time of things, but not nearly as bad as Jones' own situation, so it was hard for him to sympathize. He began to skip sections, and then finally he got up and walked from one end of the room to the other, glancing in the stores and the restaurants, looking around the floor for money. He went into the restroom and splashed himself with hot water, as he was shivering. A man obviously from the streets asked him if he had a dollar to spare. Jones shook his head no, but the man asked again. Jones looked up, and when the man saw the one side of his face, he backed off. Looking in the mirror, Jones could see why. Greasy hair, scabs on his face and one ear, tired red eyes, and a dirty looking t-shirt all spoke against his having any money to spare. He looked just exactly like what he was, a sot coming off a bad bender, beat up by life and with his tail between his legs. What happened to the roaring boy of just last week, he asked the sad face in the glass. He thought of a Kinks's song: Where Have All the Good Times Gone?

Where in the hell had they gone? This was the first time Jones had really confronted himself about his age and how much time had past, and not thought about it and then skipped on past to something more pleasant. He was good at doing that. But this time, his mind couldn't get to that easier place; it was stopped; something blocked that escape. There was no getting around it now.

Jones imagined that every man went through this at least once in his life; his case wasn't special. It was just that his time had come a little later, perhaps, than with most men. Most men had taken "stock" of their lives by the time the big three oh came and had committed themselves to some way of life, some pattern that they would pretty much carry out for a number of years, or until they were forced into a "career change". Yet the word career seemed laughable to Jones at that point in his life. His first concern would be in keeping some kind of job for any length of time; and before that even, to try and keep his health up so that he could get up in the morning, whether his bed was a piece of cardboard, a park bench, or a mattress.

Why, you must be kidding, a biting voice inside him said. This man's the picture of health here, practically melting into his seat with sweat, shaking like someone stricken with palsy. A man in his prime and ready to go. If his heart doesn't give out on him. Yes, his pulse raced; it always did when he went through a nasty withdrawal. And again, in the dark after they left Chicago , when most of the other passengers slept, Jones's mind raced as well as his pulse; the sexual thoughts came back, and did they hit him hard. A bombardment, it seemed like, and his heart went right on racing.

The only thing to take his mind away from that, briefly, was the sound of someone's music a few seats back: rap played loud enough that he could hear it through a set of headphones, a constant, hard beat going with his thumping pulse, along with the sex movie that continued again in his head. It all amounted to a silent scream building inside; there had to be some release before this trip was finished; there was too far to go.

Summoning all his concentration for one abrupt, initial movement, Jones raised himself from his seat (he was back at the window) and sent his unsteady frame down the aisle toward the restroom, noticing a group of young black faces (the music) looking up at him, serious, inscrutable. Young people travelling in a group from the Windy City . They had been having a good time, laughing and gabbing loudly for a while, but had settled down some now. A couple of the faces stared at him (His damaged face?), while Jones noticed one young man with long dreadlocks talking to a smiling woman next to him. None of them more than twenty-one, if that, Jones thought as he shut the door behind him.

The bus, fortunately for him, was on smooth highway now, though he still kept one hand on the safety bar. He noticed a dispenser of wet-naps attached to the wall and grabbed one of them. Perfect. He couldn't help but see his bloated red face in the mirror on the wall behind the toilet, but he told himself that the mirror distorted things somewhat; his face couldn't be that big and puffy. And then the longish, tangled hair on top of it (he had lost his comb along with just about every other thing he possessed), the ugly and still large scabs on one side. He looked away, down at the hole in the seat. He could hear liquid sloshing around in the tank and wondered how often these toilets were serviced, and who had that pleasant job.

Jones knew he had to focus his mind on something else if he wanted to accomplish what he had come to do. And he very much wanted to do that, for a little sexual relief might help him sleep. The bus swerved a little and he hung on and looked away from the mirror, thinking he didn't want to be in here too long or somebody would bang on the door.

Yet it was no use; there was just too much to distract him. The bus bounced a couple of times. He heard somebody talking outside, a person wanting to use the toilet. Still frustrated, Jones went back to his seat.

Most of the lights were out except for the ones over Dreadlocks and his girlfriend, and a couple of his buddies. The music could still be heard over somebody's set, though the bus driver had warned passengers about high volume on them.

Dreadlocks sounded as if he had a glow on from drink or something, the way he laughed at just about everything the woman said. And she couldn't seem to stop chattering away about someone they both knew. Idle chatter by the sound of it, Tate thought. Something to pass the time. It was just unfortunate that they weren't readers.

One of the young men started singing the lyrics; he had them all memorized now. Dreadlocks joined in. The woman laughed.

Jones wished he had a drink in his hand, and he might have joined them. He could be quite sociable with a glow on. He recalled some of the long "conversations" he'd had with people on other bus rides, times, when loaded, that he had carried on one-sided entertainments until he noticed weary looks from whoever was on the receiving end of his good spirits. If you wanted a story, Jones had plenty of them, and they flowed out of him as easily as the booze went in. He could overwhelm people with some of the pieces in his repertoire.

Jones's typical night was a quiet one, however, even when drinking. He had lived on the city streets, but most of his nights were spent in the parks, under trees or bushes, dark and fairly quiet places away from the lights and noise of downtown. There would be some motor traffic in the distance, but after a while he didn't notice it. Early in the morning, there was very little traffic anyway. When he first arrived in the city, Jones was surprised at how quiet it could be downtown at three or four in the morning. It was often at that time of the day that he felt most comfortable in the city.

Usually, the only thing that would wake him was the sound of some small nocturnal animal rummaging through the undergrowth. He would stay very still and watch the thing (possum, coon or whatever it was) explore around him, oblivious of him sometimes. When he moved, it would freeze in its surprise. Sometimes he would pop open a beer can to surprise it. Many nights, he would be awake as he was now, unable to sleep and not even trying to, sitting in the shadows under the trees and watching for any late night, early morning passers-by: other homeless, lovers, groups of stoned or drunk youths, and, of course, the cops who patrolled the parks every now and then (the flashlights were the giveaway). He would stay somewhat drunk through the slow, early morning hours until it was time to go to the men's mission downtown where he sometimes got work, or had breakfast.

They were good nights, overall. Peaceful. To be drunk and alone with his thoughts wasn't all that bad; it was something Jones had gotten used to over the years. Here on this bus he wasn't drunk, yet he felt very much alone. He felt isolated from everything in his life, and he wondered if anything would really change at his parents' house. It was a place to dry out and get healthy again, but then what? His parents could only help him to get physically well; he would have to sort things out in his head (if that were possible).

Jones heard the top on a can pop, and he heard the young people behind him laughing again, that insistent beat from the music, and he closed his eyes and hugged himself, feeling the vibrations of the bus as his head touched the window. Where were they now? Illinois still? Indiana ? Did it matter? No, he would have to get through this sooner or later.

And the worst came sooner than he thought. Jones shook so bad at the next hour long break stop that he almost fell down the stairs getting off the bus, which caused the bus driver to give him the eye. He practically stuck his head under the faucet in the restroom, trying to get that greasy feeling off of him, but the cold water only made him shiver more. It wasn't his imagination either: people were staring at him because of his wounds - the ear, in particular, that was still crusty with blood. God - yes, God (he had to direct his frustration at something) - did he feel dirty and ugly all over, inside and out, a complete wreck. He had read about characters like this in books and had always considered the descriptions to be exaggerated. Now Jones knew better. Apparently, some of those writers knew what they were talking about. There were people who could hit those depths, and for the first time in his life, Jones realized he was one of those people or characters that others just shook their heads at. He had become a down and out drunk. And a quick look at his outfit convinced him of this. He could have sworn these clothes looked decent when he put them on (a drink buzz added a little decency to everything); or maybe he was just so used to wearing second-hand clothes now that he'd settle for anything that looked washed.

More rap music in the lobby: Dreadlocks and his group hanging around in their comically baggy, "street" garb, which had already become a cliché in music videos. The shorts hanging off their skinny asses, most of them tall and thin, the baseball caps on backwards or the black kerchiefs tied tight, pirate style. Young and strong and seeming to radiate good health; Jones couldn't help but admire them in that way. He remembered a day when he was trim, tightly muscled, and without an ounce of fat on him, either; the days when he took three sizes smaller in the waist.

Jones couldn't wait to get back on the bus and what he by then considered the safety of his seat. His shaking was noticeable now and he still had to re-board the bus. He went through his ticket envelope for the re-boarding pass and his fingers refused to co-operate. He felt like tearing the things up. He couldn't recall a time recently when he was this frustrated with himself, not even after the car accident. And what really added to the frustration was his knowing that it would only have taken a couple of stiff drinks to change the whole perspective. He would have given almost anything for a fifth of booze then. That would have straightened his back and put some snap in his sails. To hell with what people thought then, and everything else; he'd relish a bus ride through the night and the next day too. He'd make some fast acquaintances and feel like a traveller instead of a desperate wreck, the prodigal son pushing forty. He'd hit Philly with a warm feeling of brotherly love all right.

And it was all a fine fantasy for the five minutes that had elapsed on the clock, before his nerves intruded on it, bringing him back to his true, sorry condition. If only he had it in him to leave his body, mentally, to be able to escape, temporarily, and forget about his physical self, leave his body slumped in the bus seat as he flew off somewhere on his thoughts. That would be the poor drunk's trick indeed, but Jones imagined someone before him would have perfected the method by now if it were possible.

Pittsburgh . He had been through here several times in his journeys over the years, usually going the other way and optimistic about a trip "out west" somewhere. But this time, there was no giddy or drunken optimism, no "fresh start" to a road trip; it was anything but. Jones was miserable and really worried about the remainder of the trip. He hadn't really slept again the whole night, but had been plagued by a dream-like state, hearing things, seeing things in the dark. He remembered talking to himself, deliriously. He couldn't seem to get warm, though he put every shirt he had on. His pulse raced, and more than once he thought: this is it, this is the big one. The ticker gives out on a bus (he had a picture of them notifying next of kin from the nearest hospital). He could see the bus driver shaking him, thinking he was asleep. "C'mon, sir, we've got to service the bus here. Sir?"

When was the last time he'd gotten any good sleep? Four or five days anyway.

The night before, Jones thought he heard other passengers talking about him, making disapproving comments. He had heard a woman's voice saying that he had gotten too far away from God, and others agreeing with her. Dreadlocks and his buddies laughed at him for being in the rough shape he was in. An older male voice said that he better get with the Good Book and stop running with the devil.

Jones tried to ignore the voices, and the laughter from the party group that seemed to mock him now. All he wanted was some peace and quiet and to be left alone. He was on his way home. Couldn't they see that? Yes, he was sick, very sick. It felt as if he would shake out of his skin any time now. The sweat never stopped running out of him, the poison punishing him. The rap music became louder, harsh, mocking also. The voices behind him taunted him, and that one woman's stood out every now and then as she proclaimed something, righteously. Dreadlocks also wouldn't shut up; he had started a music career and wasn't shy about singing his lyrics. The youngsters had gotten a second wind early in the morning. Daylight came grey and rainy as they approached Pittsburgh . Why not? The weather itself might as well add to his dismal condition. Pile on, God. Pile on all of you.

In Pittsburgh, Jones had to leave the bus because of servicing, and in the busy terminal he became confused as to what door he had to return to (after cleaning, his bus would be at a different gate). He looked for the driver, but the man wasn't in sight. It was at this stop that Jones sensed big trouble. He had the first of some violent spasms, which almost took him off his feet. He felt light-headed and weak and quickly found a seat, aware that people watched him. Jones loathed himself at that moment for allowing himself to get this way; this was the worst he had ever been. His chest felt so tight that it was as if he was short of breath; his legs and arms were just twitching things, out of control; and his feverish brain (he was sure he'd been hallucinating on the bus) was trying to keep the whole show together. Jones kept repeating to himself that he was almost there; he had made it most of the way and would be in New York by the end of the day. There is no help anywhere but inside you, he told himself. Forget any of those sympathetic faces around you, or the puzzled faces, or - what angered him - the smiling, amused expressions on some of the younger faces - particularly Dreadlocks and his rapper pals. They had noticed something was wrong with the "white boy".

"It won't be much longer," Jones said to himself, though he was thinking that he had made a big mistake even getting on this bus two days before. He thought of where he probably would have been now if he stayed in the city: sitting in one of the parks with a cold beer in his hand (an ice cold beer!), feeling just fine and relaxed and marvelling at the multi-coloured flower beds, the big palms and the eucalyptus, the kids playing on the grass, the lovers sprawled on blankets, and that warm sun making him drowsy. What the hell had he been thinking when he called his parents and asked them if he could come home? Did he really think he had been making the right move? Or had the car accident prompted him into a rash decision (it was looking that way now). He was angry for putting himself in this spot; everything was really falling apart on him.

Jones spotted the driver, a well-fed man, plump, with a rosy face, laughing with one of his colleagues, and looking contented enough to sicken Jones. Reluctantly, he left his seat and approached the man and asked him what door the bus was leaving from. The driver pointed it out, telling him that it would be another twenty minutes or so before they left.

Jones went and sat down as close to the door as he could. He took his book out of his bag for what must have been the twentieth time that trip, for lack of anything better to do with his hands. He noticed people eating fast food from the restaurants, and he felt the emptiness in his stomach, but knew he would have been sick if he ate anything.

Jones noticed someone had left half of a large cup of soda on the floor two seats away. No one stood near it, so he moved over next to it. After another look around, he picked the cup up, removed the cap and straw, and saw a cherry colour drink. He craved something different than water, and this would have some sugar in it, which is what his system was missing now from the lack of booze. He finished it before getting on the bus, which was filled again now from this stop. Still, he had his window seat, and he wasn't going to give that up. He would try to lose himself in the passing scenery which, on getting out of the city, soon became hilly country thick with summertime green. Despite his misery, Jones couldn't help but be pleased with what he saw; it seemed to calm him a little.

It was a thirty minute stop for lunch, at some diner off the highway. There was an ice cream shop and a convenience store nearby, and some of the passengers went to one of them. Jones walked around the parking lot of the diner (also a bus stop), breathing deeply, trying, futilely, to relax in some way. This tension was driving him out of his mind. He searched the ground for dropped money, change for a soda, anything. Finally he stood at the side of the restaurant, leaning against the building, telling himself that this was a learning experience if nothing else. He heard a group of the young people with their music playing, laughing and talking excitedly about something. This trip was a lark for them. Life was good. They were going places.

Looking around at the littered ground around him, and then an overgrown field behind that, Jones saw similar spots that he had stayed in over the years, "campsites" for a night as he journeyed along. There was something familiar about the place.

He looked up at the sky that was clear here, the sun out. They had left the rain behind. When he came to, Jones was looking into the faces of two medics who leaned over him - healthy, ruddy-faced men. One told him not to move, to stay where he was. He had a big hand on Jones's chest. Jones noticed other people standing behind them, looking at him, strangers. Every one of the faces was serious. Instinctively, Jones tried to get up, but the big man held him down.

"Don't move, now. Just relax. You'll be all right. You had a seizure." Jones looked around as best he could and he saw the diner building on one side, and part of an ambulance on the other, but still he didn't know where he was.

"Do you know where you are?" the other medic asked. Jones tried to say something; he felt he knew where he was, but he couldn't come up with the words. The medics smiled.

"That happens," one said. "It'll come back to you. Just relax."

Seizure? What did that mean? Jones determined that he didn't feel any pain, but there was a thickness around his mouth, and he thought he felt liquid on the side of his face. Blood? He couldn't tell anything.

"What day is this?" the medic asked. Jones tried for that but didn't get it. He smiled and shook his head, for it seemed to be right there at the tip of his tongue. "How about your name?" the other asked, smiling.

At first, that wouldn't come either, but then it did. Everything eventually came back, including where he was when he went down. One of his first thoughts then was whether or not the bus had gone, and of course it had. He wondered how long he had been on the ground.

"You banged your face up a little," one of the medics told him, but Jones had already noticed some blood on his shirt. He immediately thought of the car accident back in the city, and how he was on his back then too, with plenty of blood also. He knew then that he had taken his alcoholism further than he ever had in the past: first the car accident and now here with a seizure (the possibility of which never would have occurred to him), both incidents coming within days of each other. "We're going to move you onto the stretcher now," the medic told him. "Don't move. We'll do the lifting."

Stretcher? Ambulance? This really had turned into a nightmare, he thought. His bus was gone. His parents would be expecting to meet him at a certain time the next day. And here he was being carted off to the hospital. He hadn't made it all the way after all.

The put him on the stretcher and lifted him into the car, with a small group of people looking on. He wondered if they had ever seen something like this to interrupt their meals, and the thought made him smile. They probably wondered what he was smiling about, and maybe thought him to be crazy. Maybe he was. He still didn't feel any pain, but he noticed that thick, numb feeling in his gums on one side of his mouth; he had done something to his mouth. Why not? He might as well do a complete job on his face.

"Have you ever had a seizure before?" he was asked.

No, he had never had one. Jones had seen other guys have them, at some of the missions he'd stayed at, but they had been older guys, boozers who had been at it a lot longer than he had, guys that made him look almost collegiate in comparison.

The medics asked him about the dried scabs, and he was honest with them, as he was honest about his drinking. He told them about the horrible time he'd had on the bus, and they nodded their heads as if they had heard it before. No doubt they had. There were drunks everywhere. Jones spent the night at the hospital; most of it sleeping after the doctor gave him medicine to calm his nerves. He was concerned about his bus ride, but the doctor assured him that they would call his parents and let them know. Before he went to sleep, Jones had his lip sewn up with six stitches, it being the reason for so much blood on his clothes. He had also impacted a couple of his front teeth into his gum, and that would give him some pain for a while, and might require some dental work. The same side of his face that had been hurt a few days before was now swelled up again. So much for looking good for the folks.

A hospital drug and alcohol counsellor came to see him the next day before he was released. A guy who, on first glance, looked like he might have had some experience with the bottle himself. The man was in his late forties, early fifties, but he looked a little older with the lines in his face. It turned out he had been a boozer; he admitted this to Jones, from one alky to another. It was probably his opening line with every alky he talked with, to let them know that he didn't just have book knowledge.

"I think you've reached the point where you can say to yourself that you have a problem," the man said. "I had the same one for years before I got help. I couldn't do it on my own." Jones had heard similar lines before; he had attended AA meetings in the past, though not for any length of time. He would go to an AA meeting once in a while when a particularly bad binge had caught up with him, causing problems in his life and making him sick of himself. Usually, he had gone with a friend who had temporarily gotten enthusiastic about AA. Or, in the city the last few months, Jones would sometimes attend a meeting for the free coffee.

"I still go to meetings," The counsellor said, "and I haven't had a drink in ten years. And I think you've reached the point in your disease where you have to do the same thing. You have to start hanging around with sober people. Every day. Otherwise, I don't see things getting any better for you. How many times can you get hit by cars?" Jones let him do most of the talking, for that was his job, and Jones really wasn't up to saying much with his swollen mouth, but he knew the man was being straight with him. There was no beating around the bush at this point. He had to change something, and soon, or one of these incidents would be fatal.

"If you weren't leaving the area, I'd take you to some meetings around here. There's one here at the hospital once a week. But you're too young to throw it all away on that shit, man. Where's it gotten you so far? Anything you can brag about?" Jones smiled at that. So did the counsellor. He saw the pain, the frustration, the anger and sadness in Jones's face. He saw a young man getting old too fast, and he could have been looking in the mirror ten years before.

"You've still got a lot to live for, but you won't realize it until you get off that stuff. I can promise you one thing, and I know you've probably heard it at some of the meetings, that things will get better if you stay sober. You may not think so at first. It's very difficult at first, I won't feed you any bullshit, but it will pay off eventually. Take it from an old drunk." He laughed and patted Jones on the shoulder and wished him luck. "Remember one thing that I told you," he said, as he walked off. "Meetings. You can't go to enough of those."

Jones smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. That course had obviously worked for the counsellor and he firmly believed in it, much the same as some of the church going people Jones had known believed in Christ and the Good Book. In fact, Jones noticed a silver cross hanging around the counsellor's neck, so his Higher Power was indeed a Christian one. Well, he remembered that God was mentioned quite a bit at those meetings, which was one of the things that had turned him away from them. Jones had never been a church going man, nor had he ever studied the Good Book. From experience, however, he knew that religion was a touchy subject with many people, so he normally kept his mouth shut when the topic came up. When he felt it was safe to offer an opinion about religion, or organized religion specifically, it was a scornful one. He had no time for it. The Christ story was a fairy tale as far he was concerned. Yet if others wanted to believe in it, that was their business. Whatever got them through the night, as Lennon sang.

But the Bible wasn't enough for Jones; it just wasn't going to get him through that long dark night of the soul (where had he read something like that?). He managed to smile again with his swollen lips. Leave it to you to wax poetic in this condition in a hospital bed, he said to himself.

He did get home, a day later than he was supposed to. His parents had worked something out with the bus company and he was still able to use his bus ticket, getting picked up at the diner that afternoon. Jones felt much better, of course, about getting on a bus now. The medicine and the full night's sleep had calmed his nerves. He had been given some pills to help him through the remainder of the trip. He wondered how much of a hospital bill he had, knowing that an overnight stay wasn't cheap. He would find out in a week or so when they mailed it to his parents' address.

As the bus moved along toward Philadelphia , Jones thought about what the hospital counsellor had told him. He would have to try something; his folks would expect it. He'd attend those meetings anyway to make it look like he was open to help, and maybe eventually he would get something out of it. It couldn't hurt to be with people who were going through similar problems, or to keep an open mind.

Just thinking about doing something made Jones feel better. It was as if he had emerged through some doorway, he had gotten through a period of hell, and he would be stronger for it. Yet he couldn't forget that hell; that was something he needed to remember for any kind of recovery. Even after the cuts and bruises faded. For those demons were there, always, biding their time for a resurgence. He could almost hear the voices whispering to him as he gazed out at the passing scenery; he could almost see something ominous lurking just behind that pleasant summertime green.