Lost Love

We’ve been on some adventures together my trombone and me, ad as much as I love her, I’m sorry to say I haven’t always treated her right.

I’ve dumped her in bushes, sent her on international flights poorly packaged and even put her down at traffic lights and walked away. After all she’s not worth much, my rusty old trombone. I’ve often thought it wouldn’t be the end of the world to lose her. That was until last week, when I nearly did.

We were to catch the Greyhound bus from Charleston, North Carolina to Nashville, Tennessee. Greyhound usually provides yu with a baggage tag for your luggage but Charleston bus station as small and closed when I arrived for the 10.30pm bus.

“Where to?” the grumpy bus driver asked me

“Atlanta” I piped up, that was where we’d change buses.

He nodded towards a pile of bags presumable headed for Atlanta. I added my backpack and trombone to the stack.

At 1am, in Columbia, Georgia, we were forced to change buses. The bus driver was as surprised as anyone.

“I don’t know what’s happening y’all, but we’s gotsta change buses. Erbody getcher bags and put ‘em on the other bus”.

I spotted my backpack and grabbed it. I waited patiently while the baggage handlers emptied the bus.

Panic stricken, I approached the driver. “Excuse me sir, my other bag isn’t here, do you know where it could be?”

“I’m sorry ma’am you have to take your bags and put them on the other bus”

“I know but one of my bags didn’t make it on the bus. I had two and only one is here, do you know…”

“Ma’am” he interrupted, “I don’t know why they done this but you have to change buses here.”

And that’s when I became one of the crazy people yelling at the bus driver, while said bus driver, walked away.

I thought of my sweet baby bone all alone outside Charleston bus station in the middle of the night. Was she OK? Had someone picked her up? What if she’d been run over by a car? Or a bus?

Charleston bus station would reopen again in 7 hours. I’d have to wait til then to get some answers.

I called Charleston bus station from Atlanta the next morning.

“Hello, have you found a log black bag outside the bus station this morning?”

“Erm, lemme check. Hold on.”

I waited.

“Yep.” Said the man finally

“Is there a trombone in it?” I asked excitedly

“Could be…”

Silence

“Could you check?”

Sigh, click, zip. “Yep”

I breathed a sigh of relief. She was OK.

I asked for her to be put on the next bus to Nashville, Tennessee.

“Next bus gets in at 3.45am tomorrow” he told me

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed

“OK”

Click.

One of the benefits of Greyhound’s loose security is that they don’t ask any questions. There was no ‘who are you? Why was your trombone on the side of the road? Why didn’t it have a luggage tag? How do I know it’s yours?

All I had to do was point at my trombone at Nashville Greyhound station and it was handed over without a word.

Reunited again! After 36 hours apart, somehow, my baby got back.