Greyhound

Long ago, I bought a bus ticket, New York City to Trenton. That Greyhound could fly down the highway but, about every ten minutes, a few men stood and moved to the front. The driver obligingly pulled over and opened the door. The men filed off. They walked toward waiting cars parked nearby and the Greyhound pulled back on the highway. The guy next to me explained, “Those men, they’re busboys, porters, dishwashers, bellhops and such. They stay over in the city, eleven days on, three days off. The drivers understand, drop them off close to home as they can.”