Story

The Bus Ride

Nancy's Notes 🖊️🎶

Written for OLWG #410.
The three prompts are shown below.
This is my story.

© Columbia Registry
Columbia, South Carolina Greyhound Bus Station, circa 1938

Monday, June 20, 1938 at 11:25 in the morning, Frances Bennet boarded the Greyhound bus in Columbia, South Carolina with just one small suitcase, her purse, and a bandanna sack of sandwiches and cookies. The ride to Raleigh, North Carolina was long …. too long to go without food.

Three days ago, Francesca Benedetto was fired from her job as a transcriptionist for a wannabe playwright. While plugging in the brand spanking new Dictaphone machine, she inadvertently pushed the only copy of her boss’ script on top of an ashtray holding one of his disgusting cigars which was still barely alight. Thankfully, the office didn’t go up in flames; the script was damaged but salvageable. The same can’t be said for Francesca’s job. Her boss called her a stupid guinea bitch, she called him a no-talent bastard and told him to go to hell …. and she got axed. That weekend, after packing her bag, she doodled various configurations of her name on her notepad; that was when Francesca Benedetto became Frances Bennet. 

Frances made herself comfortable in a two-seater at the back of the bus, her suitcase resting comfortably behind her legs. She readied herself for the long ride to Raleigh. Exactly one hour later, at 12:25PM, the bus made a stop in Sumter, South Carolina. No one got off but a new passenger got on and all eyes were on him …. a young man dressed in an old tweed suit a bit too small showing wear and tear on the cuffs.  The jacket was taut across his chest, the buttons threatening to break free of their slits. His shirt was clean but yellowed and appeared to be strangling him, his oversized tie making him look a bit like a circus clown.

He removed his threadbare cap and looked around the bus for a seat; the only one available was next to Frances. She quickly looked down as he cautiously made his way over and excused himself. Frances looked up from her notebook and slowly absorbed the somewhat comical sight before her. She immediately determined the young man in the ill-fitting suit was an immigrant. When her eyes finally landed on his face, Frances’ breath caught in her throat. Up close, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

His hands were large and weathered …. probably a construction worker from southern Italy …. which would explain his deeply tanned skin. He was a blend of browns – rich caramel skin, lustrous mahogany-colored hair and eyebrows, and warm chocolate brown eyes under the longest lashes Frances ever saw. All her life she prayed for lashes like that but it wasn’t in the cards. In contrast to this mighty oak, she was a white picket fence. Her pale skin, light blue eyes and strawberry-blonde hair, brows and lashes gave her the appearance of being German when, in fact, her grandparents were from Trentino in the Alpine region of northern Italy.

A pleasant smile crossed her face as Frances motioned for the man to sit. He smiled, his full lips revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. He looked tremendously relieved at no longer being the center of attention. The new seat partners must have made a striking duo as a woman sitting nearby looked over in tacit approval.

When the bus started up again, the movement caught Frances by surprise; her pen rolled off her pad and onto the floor. Both she and her traveling companion leaned over in their seats to retrieve it and promptly knocked heads. They groaned loudly, eyed each other sternly, then suddenly began howling with laughter , causing all heads to turn in their direction. The ice was broken. The young man handed Francis her pen and, in halting English, introduced himself as Salvatore Cedro. Frances extended her hand and used her birth name to identify herself; Salvatore seemed surprised and pleased to learn she was also Italian.

They both relaxed and their true journey began. As best they could they started a conversation, each one employing what little they knew of the other’s language. Frances learned that Salvatore was a housepainter in Ragusa, Sicily. She wiggled her fingers as if typing to explain her line of work but Salvatore could just have easily thought she was a pianist.

At each stop they watched the placement of the sun in the sky and laughed as the wild rabbits chased birds in the fields; during a 30-minute break, they left the bus to stretch their legs and found a bench where they shared Frances’ sack of food. The more time they spent together, the more they enjoyed each other’s company. Even the moments of silence were comforting. When Frances’ eyes closed and her head landed on Salvatore’s shoulder, he sat quietly delighting in the occasional feel of her soft hair on his neck.

During their 9 hour bus ride, there were three undeniable facts Salvatore and Frances learned about each other: they were both traveling to Raleigh, they were both single and unemployed, and they were both now madly in love with each other. When the bus arrived in Raleigh, they checked into a hotel …. separate rooms, of course. The next morning they ate breakfast in a tiny coffee shop in the hotel lobby, bought a long stemmed rose from a flower seller on the corner, and walked to City Hall where they became Mr. & Mrs. Salvatore Cedro.

© Pinterest
Raleigh, NC City Hall, circa 1938

⌘   ⌘   ⌘   ⌘   ⌘

This is the true story of Sal and Frances’ Greyhound love affair. They eventually moved to New York City where they met my mother and father at Holy Trinity Church. They became treasured friends and were my godparents at my baptism. Sal passed away in 1998 after 60 years of marriage; they had no children but I loved them and knew them as Aunt Frances and Uncle Sal.

© Mine
Holy Trinity Church Choir, Easter Sunday, 1948
Sal is back row, 2nd from L; Frances directly in front of him
My dad is back row, 2nd from R; my mom is 2nd row, 2nd from R, directly right of dad

NAR©2025
#OLWG

Here are the prompts: 1) manuscripts do not burn; 2) Dixie biscuit; 3) roadrunners and jackalopes. We can use one, we can use three or none at all. We just need to be creative.

This is “Love On A Greyhound Bus” by Kay Kyser and His Orchestra

OLWG#410- My First Time in Kansas

All text, graphics and videos are copyright for Nancy’s Notes 🖊️ 🎶, The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk, The Rhythm Section, et al. and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.

40 thoughts on “The Bus Ride”

    2. BTW, Jim …. you might get a kick out of knowing that Steven Tyler’s favorite aunt & uncle, Phillis & Ernie, are in my old photo. Ernie is the guy on the back row, far left and Phyllis is on the bottom, far left. She was a pistol, full of piss and vinegar, and both loved to perform, just like Steven himself.

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    1. Thanks so much, Clive! I don’t have many old photos of my parents and their friends but I was thrilled to have this one with Sal & Frances in it. So pleased to know you enjoyed their story. ☺️

      FYI the man on the far left, back row (looking sideways) is Steven (Tallarico) Tyler’s beloved Uncle Ernie and his Aunt Phyllis is on the bottom, far left. They were very charismatic people overflowing with talent and bravado …. not very different from Steven himself. 😎

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    1. Heaps of thanks, my dear Ivor! I have been sitting on this beautiful true love story about my godparents for years waiting for the right time to tell it. The prompts this week made me realize this was the right time. I’m so very pleased to know you enjoyed reading about Sal and Frances. Thank you! 🥰

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