There are few crucibles more harrowing and arduous than transcontinental travel by bus. These overheated, murderously under-deodorized rolling disease incubators make Gandhi’s March for Salt feel like Emma Woodhouse merrily gavotting through the Surrey countryside. It is easy to understand why Admiral Scott chose to march his men to an icy, grisly grave rather than catch a Greyhound to the South Pole. Those seemingly comfy seats, when first sat upon, have the soft and silky come-hither feel of a loud-laughin’, close-dancin’ Fotomat clerk at a Two-Bucks-For-Any-Well-Drink Barn Dance. After a scant few hours though, you begin to pick up the first clues that she may not actually be the girl of your dreams. After a couple of days, you’d gladly sell your cock to get away from her.

Not the Girl of Your Dreams

But these were the early times. Sure the savage wind outside was hurling snow clouds the size of the Islip Garbage Barge hither and yon. Sure the bus driver’s breath smelled of Tanqueray and pineapple juice (and his breath got progressively pineapplier with every pit stop along the way). Sure they hadn’t even made it to Etobicoke yet. But, the journey was young and so was our hero. The hip-searing, leg numbing excruciation that no amount of fidgeting could ameliorate wouldn’t be creeping into his lower extremities ’til at least Fort Eerie.

David decided to settle in about half-way back, in the area most likely to be fatal in the result of being T-boned. But the Grauntian statistical certainty of tasting a speeding Chevy Biscane before he’d even reached the American border weighed on him not. He rapturously re-read his precious letter and dreamed of palm trees, sun-swept beaches and women appareled in immodest swimwear.

Beside him sat Mike Bokley; a large fellow whose chosen manner of livelihood often ran counter to the widely accepted mores of a civilized society. Michael did not possess his own letter to read. Nor did Mike’s usual list of pastimes include voraciously devouring the written word but David’s luminescent glee as he pored over that wrinkled piece of paper, did have his un-diminutive seatmate curious.

A man possessing such imposing dimensions having a gander over your shoulder in such cramped quarters was hard to miss. Even for someone as suicidally unobservant as David.

“I’m reading a letter, eh?” So far, Mike’s universe and all he believed to be true and holy had not been turned into a paint-sniffing circus tent. “It was sent to me personally by this real globally celebrated writer/director/producer from Hollywood. The one in California.”

“There’s also one in Florida.”

“What? No. This ain’t that, fer sure. Totally not. Jeez, I’d be headed the exact wrong way. No, this one is the Hollywood that’s way more famous and real close to Malibu. That’s where he lives when he’s not writing, directing and producing for all the major studios and whatnot.”

“And this guy wrote to you?”

“He sure did.” David waved his missive proudly aloft. “He went as far as to invite me down to his palatial estate that’s right smack dab on the ocean. I’ve even been offered the very prestigious position of bein’ the chronicler of his super-genius-and-storied-type career.”

“Well, a big congrats on that.”

“So, where’s you headed?”


“Man, they got bus stations everywhere and more these days, don’t they?”

Mike nodded in agreement. “It’s gettin’ harder and harder to imagine a world that’s more modern than the one we’re sittin’ in.”

An incomprehensively daunting thought. “Cripers! I’d probably need to grow a whole new brain and some extra pockets, fer sure.” David took a small intellectual breather and then lowered the conversation back down to a more manageable level. “So, are you visitin’ a sister or something or are you an only child?”
“I’ve been hired to kill this woman’s husband, so she can go skiing.”

This startling admission gave young David momentary pause. “Well, far be it from me to get all quibbley on ya as to how you put the proverbial provender sur la table, but it sure seems like a pretty darn frivolous reason to call for a fella’s unconsented extirpation.”

“I don’t think they were getting along too well, besides that.”

“Well, relationships can be complicated. No doubt about it.”

And the bus rode on into the back-breaking heart of cross-continental travel. Sweating and freezing. Sleeping and then starting awake. Being racked by hunger until the moment you see what’s on offer at the next bus station cafeteria. Disorienting and dispiriting, this mutant carnival on wheels is packed to the rafters with mean-eyed drunks, aromatic seniors, noisy breathers, dentally challenged country-folk and the unmistakable “thwapa-thwapa” of maniacal masturbation the second the above-head lights were dimmed. And off they careened into the hot/freezing, stop/start, semen-scented night.

It is often smugly chirped that there are no atheists in foxholes. But what if that foxhole was also going seventy miles an hour and full of blue, undulating shit? Could Mephistopheles himself ever have dreamed up a more brutally barbaric test of men’s souls? The “little room” that ominously lurks at the back of these vicious vehicles, wickedly spins its whiffy web and waits. Every passenger, not immediately involved in hand-cranking out a sloppy one, is cringingly aware of its malignant, malefic presence. As demonic darkness fell, they cowered and shook, praying that they would not be forced, by tragically ill-timed digestive processes, to utilize that tiny, festering stink-pit. What foul beast is this that makes one long for the opulent décor and reassuring hygiene of a small-town bus station toilet?

Oh, if only David hadn’t opted for the chicken-fried steak with a side of Bush’s Homestyle Beans in Lansing. His greasy, queasy luncheon fare was rocketing through his colon like it was the water slide at Six Flags Magic Mountain. Giggly, jacked-up poop lumps merrily waved their feculent hands on high as they tore through vertiginous sigmoidal turns and corn-popping intestinal straight-aways on their way to The Big Splash Down.

It is said that a man’s true balls do not hang from him but are born within him. Alas, at that moment, it felt like the creature from Alien was being born within him. And yet, he stood…well, he sat firm. But, just on the off chance that his anal aperture’s tungsten-steel steadfastness should fall short of the next port of call, he scanned the aisles for an empty potato chip bag or if anyone was wearing a hat.

But take heart, dear reader. No amount of suffering nonpareil could dampen this young giant’s spirit or resolve. The sparkly and illusory magic of big-time Showbiz was calling from afar and David was mindlessly determined to answer its plaintive Siren’s song.


An immensely concerned Mike stood outside a heavily graffitied stall in the staggeringly pong-ridden catacombs of the Chicago Bus Station bog.

“Are you alright in there, buddy?” the anxious and very kind hit man inquired.

“Ahhhhh!! Be-crumminy JESUS!!!” was the first part of his measured reply. Moans and muted yelps also leaked out of the cubicle like propane from a Walmart barbecue.

“Are you sure?”

“Absotutely fine. Thanks so much for asking.” Although David valiantly attempted to project an air of erudite insouciance, it sounded more like he was being sodomized by a Henry Moore sculpture.

As hellishly dire as David’s catastrophically unsoftened stool breach appeared to be at first glance, these were but the first few minor peeps in what The Chicago Tribune would later dub, “The Deafening Night of Screaming Madness”.

Yet still, the enchanted journey continued.

Neosporined within an inch of his life, he was. But dissuaded from his pursuit of the Hollywood Grail, he was not. The bus and its inherent travails be damned. For, every sphincter-ripping butt apple, every dewy tuberculin cough, every anthrax-laden sneeze brought him ever closer to Malibu’s legendary shores and a boundless destiny preordained. Soon, David would alight in The City of Angels and The Amos Drawling would sally forth to retrieve this once prospectless Oshawarian in a deluxe Mercedes Benz SEL and he would be whisked away to a dazzling land of enchantment and life of splendorous achievement and joy.


The entire book can be purchased at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07J3XNJSW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1538935214&sr=8-1&keywords=darrell+vickers for a pittance.

Darrell Vickers, ‘Bu House, novel, vol. one, Here Comes the Sun, Amazon,

Please scroll down to leave Your Comments, Kudos, and Complaints

DBAWIS_ButtonDarrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg.  CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay.  From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.  Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S.  He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.)   Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music.  Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com 



  1. Peter Montreuil Says:

    Excellent, very evocative!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: