The cheapest bus Coach found was a party bus. Five minutes into our bumpy trip and he was already announcing for the third time that it cost one-hundred-eighty-six on the dot. Unlike most buses, the seats lined both sides of the bus, offering no respite from the gaze of the teammate opposite you. I had been told under no uncertain terms that there was to be no strip dancing of any sort around the pole in the middle.

So far, this excursion might seem fun, or at least, interesting. Who doesn’t love a ride covered in cocktail ads? For a bus associated with drugs, drinks, and debauchery, it was a real let-down. I rubbed my arms, trying to escape the current of air-conditioned chill creeping through my baggy sportswear. This would be a two-hour voyage with two soaked guys flanking me, both no less sweaty from our run than I was.

Joseph glanced at me. “Who’s the most alpha?”

I shrugged. “Kyle.”

Latent in the air was a dry heat that made you want to move, that made you want to do something, that made you want to be something more. Our summer readings littered the floor, abandoned in favor of our true “on the road” experience. The bus lurched, banking a tight mountain turn. I shifted in my seat; it was fluffy but thin, so you’d sink into the hardboard and have to adjust positions or risk cramping.

Joseph nudged me. “Nah, he’d be a beta with all his following us around and all.”

Pulling out sticks of gum, Ethan drawled, “Being alpha is about being tall and being big and being suave.”

Chewing, he leaned deep into the cheap bench. “We’re not that. Want some?”

Flicking my phone, I checked the time. Ethan looked over. “Pink case?”

I nibbled my tongue before explaining, “They stopped producing them. Pink’s all that’s left.”

Companies did that: take away the good options till you caved in and lost dignity or money. Where had the American work ethic, the American standard, died?

Joseph took out his earphones; they were Apple. “Pink, that’s beta.”

I asked, “Who’s the most omega?”

Looking around, we stared into the shaking bus’s dim depths. Coach’s playlist roared in the background. Everyone else had their headphones on, either oblivious to the Great American Desert passing by or attempting to block out the blaring speakers.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Kyle spoke for the first time on the ride. “That’s easy, Ryan.”

We sagely nodded and shrugged before hunching over glowing screens. Almost simultaneously, we wore our earbuds, blocking out music from times long ago. (Joseph was the only one of us who could even identify the singers)

Occasionally, a car would pass, and my heart would lurch, fearing they’d slam into us or fall a mile to the rocks below. They probably would have too, if the bus driver hadn’t halted along each turn to let them pass. He got paid by the hour, so it wasn’t his worry.

Gazing into the dirty pane opposite me, I watched desert roll by. Then it hit me: no one had been here for half a century. Perhaps the last touch of man was when the White Man had come with his black trains and brash explosions, waking half the world with his ruckus while paving a way for his “Civilization.” Yet, despite all his powers, this road was barren, signless, tattered; for Nature wins. A primal urge compelled me to yell, “Stop!” sprint out, and piss off those red mountains. Seven thousand feet in the air, I could piss on the world below me. I’d stand on ground no man had touched since this narrow, rocky road was paved a hundred years ago. I imagined it, my shadow looming a mile below, foreshadowing a stream of yellow rain.

We got off at a river, heading upstream along a cliff carved over a million springs that had each eroded this proud granite majesty with torrents of melted snow. It had been carved by nature, and even the Indians wandering down this valley three centuries ago would have seen the same sight. (For once industrialized America hadn’t stolen the scenic views before I could get there)

We forded upstream, hopping rocks across the rapids. Bill fell down and nearly cracked his sternum. (He had a yellow and black bruise the next day) He got up, though. He was a tough kid. We said we were following the wild, but we were really chasing a group of chicks that had swum up a few minutes before. Although always claiming we’d turn around at the next bend where we’d discover the perfect waterhole to jump into, after a few dives, we’d move on to search for somewhere better. (Bill didn’t on account of him being injured and all) Eventually, we grabbed a few photos to commemorate the adventure and dragged our soggy selves back to the bus.

The bus next stopped in a small town. It was touristy, with renovated buildings and neon signs. We piled out of the bus, escaping the sterile air conditioner and the scorching sun piercing the windows. No steamy Houston hotness or arid desertness, the air bred a dampness that infected you, making your clothes sticky but leaving no traces for observers. There was something unnaturally moist about the feeling, so we surged forward into the sprawling village below as if fleeing toward the Great Freedom hitherto unknown. Yet, before we even reached midway, we sagged, looking for someplace closer beyond the sun’s reach.

I suspected that the shops had been placed by some great magnate’s hand along this very road to entice naïve travelers such as us because I ended up paying two Jacksons for spaghetti and a smoothie. Although my stomach felt queasy (hot and cold don’t mix well), the smoothie rebuffed the sun, cooling the sweat along my neck. In Arizona, sweat evaporated off bare skin before you noticed except when it pooled beneath your clothes, so I walked around shirtless ‘til we loaded the bus again. Well, long story short, after a bit more sweating and sublime scenery, I returned to my dorm, took a shower, and then tried to forget about the whole mess.