BooksBarbecue
Back Black Ambrosia
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

But the first day I just wandered the streets, becoming familiar with Westwater.

I picked at a tuna-­salad sandwich in a truck stop right next to the freeway and watched the trucks come and go, and the buses, and then I realized the building next door was a bus station, and my curiosity was piqued. I finished my meal, noticed the time, and left for Lewis’s. I wanted to be home when he arrived, but the bus station drew me. I looked in through the dusty windows at the figures sitting on wooden benches, and I heard vague strains of a melody that had once been quite familiar. I agreed with myself that I would return the next day.

Initially, I explored Westwater every morning after Lewis left for work, then sat in the cool of the bus station during the heat of the afternoon, ostensi­bly reading a book I’d brought with me. I could never concentrate on the pages of the book; instead I watched bus-­station patrons and made up my own stories about their lives.

Eventually, I all-­too-­anxiously saw Lewis off for work in the morning and left for the bus station immediately after his car turned the corner.

The bus station, the fascinating bus station. It was a continual, entertaining show. My emotions roamed freely while sitting on the worn wooden bench. Some people I wanted to be with, some I wanted to travel with, some I wanted to get to know. There were others who were too obvious, some with too many children, some who angered me by their ostentatious and very assuming appearance, some who seemed, by their dress and manner, to be out of place in the seedy surroundings.

Within a week of my discovering the bus station, I was there every day, watching, watching. And the only feeling that was stronger than that which com­pelled me to sit there every day was this: I wanted to be there at night. I wanted to see the differences in the people; I ached to experience the atmosphere, to be with the night people in their element.

Something about the night escalates the darker side of mankind. Worries and fears weigh heavy when sensory input is slight; one can lay abed and fret over a faint sound from another room until the heart fairly bursts with the tension of it. Those terrors that overwhelm in the dark can become insignificant, even silly, in the day.

There is an excitement to being outside after dark. Even going to the corner market is different. Colors are altered, perceptions change, and the distortion of reality heightens as the darkness deepens. Things sound different in the dark.