WESTMINSTER WEST — Greyhound bus terminal, Richmond, Va., September 2014:
Wrapping my jacket around my shoulders to stay warm, I curl into myself on the wire seat digging into the backs of my thighs. The clock hands rendezvous at midnight above the ticket counter, but I'm not willing to even try to sleep. With five hours of layover to go, I observe passengers departing buses and boarding other ones.
Those bus riders with experience carry fleece blankets to ward off the air conditioner's chilled blasts. Pillows allow the them to catnap through the overnight hours while cushioned against their irritating wire seats, or snuggle in a protected corner along a floor edge.
As I shift in the chair with the hope of finding any comfort at all, I invite distraction by gaping at the television hanging from the ceiling.
Once my TV fried years ago, I isolated myself from our media culture, not that I ever flipped through channels in the middle of the night.
After a series of reality shows broadcasting who's having sex with whom, I suffer through a couple of talk shows whose guests spew insults at friends and family.
Then, at 4 a.m.:
“Be one. Be one of the first 320 to call,” he declares into the camera.
“You can be one of those to receive your free, blessed No Evil Oil.”
A huge phone number flashes across the screen under the well-dressed televangelist's smiling face looking right at me. My eyes narrow into slits as I glance around the terminal to see if anyone else is watching this or, worse, watching me watch this.
* * *
Intrigued by this idea of No Evil Oil, I run through just how often the oil could come in handy. I wonder what kind of oil is used, whether it is a special blend of many scented oils or collected grease from a local burger joint. And could I self-bless any oil that has significance to me?
I picture using the oil in a convenient spray bottle, liquid and thick, rich and clear, to spray rapists and murderers on the street. I could drip some into bar drinks to avoid annoying pick-up lines.
Or I picture a beautifully sculpted, pear-shaped vessel with a cap that can dab a drop on creepy people in bus terminals or on trains. It could come in ready-to-use individual foil packets, under the TSA ounce-limit for carry-on plane travel, to use against terrorists.
I speculate whether the oil might work in the wilderness against grizzly bears and poisonous snakes. Maybe old boyfriends?
* * *
While I'm lost in conjecture, the man sitting two seats down from me squirms in his chair. “They take this stuff too far.”
Suddenly released from the spell, I turn and openly agree with him. After all, I'm from Vermont; we don't get traveling snake-oil salesmen coming through that often.
Before my bus leaves for Roanoke, I envision many more ways it could be practical.
And - I would definitely want it to be blessed.