Ch. 22
I figgered I'd take the bus to Prescott. But the man behind the counter at the Greyhound Bus Depot informed me I could only detour way way down a hundred miles to Phoenix on the bus ~ and then ride a shuttle another hundred miles back up and over to that Shangrila town. Ouch!
Then I figgered, maybe that group of Indians standing around doing nothing across the street from the Greyhound Bus Depot might have better information, seeing as they were standing infront of what looked like an outdoor bus stop of some other kind. So I went and talked to them. But they had no clue. However, one of them had an original piece of art tucked under his arm, a painting of a purple moth that he had recently completed. So we talked about that.
Then I figgered maybe the man sittin' relaxin' at the wheel of the bus of a more local hue than Greyhound, parked a short ways down the the street, might have more of a clue as to how the hell I could get to Prescott. So I went & talked to him. He made it quite plain to me that it was either Greyhound way down to the splash of city on the desert floor, Phoenix, & around & back up into this here mountainous region, or nothin' at all.
Well well well. As I headed back to my motel room, I figgered alas alas ~ I'd just take-off like a rocket ~ walkin' ~ and see what come of that. After I figgered this out, I began to notice big piles of cold cold snow piled on the edges of parking lots and other places here & there in Flagstaff. The sun was up and a-shine ~ but what about tomorrow ~ and I didn't have a coat.
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