Go Greyhound. We Hire Crazy People.

The bus ride from New York City to Albany started out normal enough.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for riding Greyhound. We should be arriving in Albany between 8:00 and 8:30. Please refrain from talking loudly, put your cell phones on vibrate or silent, and please have any electronic devices turned down so only you can hear them."

An hour or so into the ride, we got another announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the bus driver began, slightly testily. "I'm going to ask you again to please keep your voices down."

I looked at The Young Man quizzically. He shrugged. I looked around and saw other passengers looking at each other in confusion, as the noise level had been exactly what you'd expect it to be for a nearly full Greyhound bus from New York City to Albany. Actually, being a frequent Greyhound rider, I can say that the noise level was actually significantly below normal. This was not low enough for the bus driver, apparently, because another hour into the trip, he made another announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not going to ask you again to keep the noise level down. If you don't lower the volume, I'm going to pull this bus over."

Pull the bus over? I thought, bad middle school memories rearing their ugly head. This time, The Young Man was looking at me with an expression that said, "What is wrong with this guy?" The bus became strangely silent, and an uncomfortable vibe settled over the carriage.

We were treated to one more threatening announcement about our nonexistent noise level before arriving in New York City. The grumbles of the passengers were no more than whispered complaints, and I don't know about everyone else, but I just wanted off that bus, pronto.

As we departed the bus, we noticed an older man up near the front, waiting for the passengers to exit. He looked normal enough, but then he started a strange, batshit crazy, stream of consciousness rant about his mother.

"You don't look like my mother," he sneered, narrowing his eyes at me as I walked by. I was glad for that, because I think that looking like his mother may have been a more punishable offense than not.

Later, as we sat in a diner with Mama Cavefish and the grandparents, we told them the tale of our strange bus ride.

"And then there was this weird guy who was talking about his mother --," I began.

"That was the bus driver," The Young Man interrupted.

"It was?"

"Yeah. You don't remember when he took our tickets?"

And then it all came back to me. And I realized we'd just spent nearly four hours on a bus driven by someone who both hates noise and has mommy issues. And possibly a few heads in his freezer at home. Awesome.

I might be persuaded to take Amtrak next time. It's more expensive, but hey, you get what you pay for, right?