A Bus Ride Through the Night

By Steven McCann

‘A Bus Ride Through the Night’ is an adventurous journey from boyhood to early manhood through the experience of Tom MacIntyre, high school actor and discus thrower, stockroom worker, suit salesman, Off-Broadway and Broadway actor. A tall rangy, sensitive and outgoing young man, Tom finds a home for his dreams in New York City, only a bus ride from his mother’s home in suburbia, yet a far greater distance in time and maturity filled with the self-discovery of his own weaknesses as well as his enduring strengths. Tom makes a lengthy stopover at the former New York department store, B. Altman’s. Doris Fiene, the older woman with whom he shares an apartment and deeply formative years, is a truly gifted artist fated to be born at a time when the world can’t appreciate her gifts and fated to fall in love with Tom, before he’s drawn away by his own gifts. Tom’s journey doesn’t reach a final destination. Rather, it is a journey of the spirit that will last forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543497939

Steven McCann

Steven McCann is the author of novels, novellas, stories, plays and poems, and a 2021 recipient of a City Artist Corps Grant. He was born in 1948, graduated from Spring Valley High School in New York where he excelled in three sports. He enrolled at the University of Kansas, and later at NYU, majored in English and received a BA. His work experience is varied; nightwatchman at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hotel detective at the Plaza, home renovator and shipping manager. In 2005 he was stricken with paraplegia and has been wheelchair bound since. He lives in New York City and remains passionate about Central Park, the Shakespeare festival, the Met Museum, Lincoln Center, the opera, and the people of New York.

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Copyright © 2021 by Steven McCann.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/09/2021

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 1

At one end of a field of carefully cut grass, in a small concrete circle, a young man swung his outstretched arms to one side and the other, then spun quickly, releasing from one hand a small disk made of metal and wood that caught the bright sun as it sailed in a graceful arc high into the air. Careening and gliding like a bird, it landed far out in the field. After making an additional spin in the circle and watching the disk in its flight until it landed, the young man ran after it in eager strides, quickly noting the mark it made when it first landed, then running back to the circle and repeating the exercise. The field was marked like a piece of pie with lines of white lime extending on two sides out from the concrete circle and running in equidistant curves from the circle’s center at distances of 140, 150, 160, 170, and 180 feet away. The young man’s first throws landed a few feet over the 170 foot line.

He probably had much in common with the discus throwers of ancient Greece. At six feet four and a hundred and eighty-seven pounds, his broad-shouldered muscular physique had lanky, yet perfectly athletic proportions. A head of brown curls trembled in the breeze and his large, searching blue eyes were keen and alert. But his good-looking features, flushing and perspiring with his effort, were too fair for a Mediterranean native. They conformed with the words written against his chest on his track uniform, ‘Pearl River, NY’, where many of the inhabitants were Irish American. Beyond the farthest marker of this field by another two hundred yards lay Michie Stadium, home to the West Point Cadet football team, open at one end and hosting dozens of other young athletes, all wearing similar uniforms in different colors displaying the names of their own towns. They were actively engaged in running and jumping competitions, before a cheering crowd that filled half the stadium’s seats, at this, the 1960 New York State high school track and field championships.

The young man threw his discus a half dozen times. When he returned to the circle after the last throw, he saw that he was joined by a middle-aged man wearing an official’s red vest and baseball cap, carrying a clipboard, who had wandered over from another direction and was inspecting the venue. The discus thrower looked at his watch.

It’s eleven thirty. We were supposed to start at eleven. Are they coming over soon? he asked the man.

They had a delayed start. They’ll probably be here in another half hour, said the man, looking in the direction he had come from at a large armory building south of Michie stadium where a cluster of young athletes were gathered.

Don’t worry, Son. You’ll have your chance, he added. He inspected the concrete discus circle and the lime markers leading out, then walked off again toward the shot putters. The young discus thrower moved off to the side, fell onto the sweet smelling, recently mowed grass, and did twenty-five finger-tip push-ups. He hopped to his feet again red faced, checked his watch a second time, and cast a disgruntled glance at the distant shot putters. Then he gave out a long sigh and continued throwing his discus. But he took more time between his throws, walking out into the field to retrieve them, instead of running. Finally, after half a dozen more throws, he sat on the grass and waited.

A whole thirty minutes passed. Suddenly, in the distance, the shot putters appeared to gather into a tight cluster. The young discus thrower, believing they had finished, jumped to his feet again and began throwing. This time he ran after his throws with the same eagerness he had started with when he first arrived. He threw with great verve and quickness, giving off a gasp at the release, as if he were in the finals of a competition. But a keen observer would have seen that there was a difference now from when he started. His leaping first step when he made his spin was not as high as it had been. His spin was a tad slower and his throws were not as far, landing in the mid 160’s, instead of the 170 s. Yet he continued throwing and racing out into the field after each, his heart and lungs pounding with excitement.

They did not come over for another half hour. It was past 12:30, more than an hour and a half after the scheduled time. The thirteen other contestants surrounded the concrete circle and entered it one by one, taking their practice throws. They were different in size and build from the first thrower. To a person, they were shorter and heavier, with thickly muscled weight lifter builds, all two hundred pounders. They threw in various styles, but none were similar to the first thrower. They didn’t take his long leaping first step into the spin and their spins were slower, with several shorter steps added. Their throws landed in the 140’s, 150’s range, with only one or two above 160. When they had all taken two or three throws each, the competition started.

MacIntyre, Pearl River, first up! called out a red vested, red capped official, reading from his clipboard. The competitors spread out some twenty feet behind the circle. The main official positioned himself just a few feet behind it and the two other officials who had joined him stationed themselves alongside one of the white lines leading out, holding opposite ends of a measuring tape. Tom MacIntyre stepped inside the circle with his discus and carefully positioned his feet in a wide stance so that his toes were almost touching the rear of it. With his face contorted in deep concentration, his clenched teeth emitting short puffs of air, he began to swing his outstretched arms to one side and the other, with the three-point nine pound discus held in his right hand. His body rocked ever so slightly, and after several preparatory motions, it leaned to his right with the outstretched discus, then suddenly leaped the other way as he began his spin. His right leg swung over his left in a high long step that landed in the middle of the circle, and his upper body followed his lower half with his right arm and the discus extended backward. When his right foot landed, his body made a short quick half spin with the left arm and then the right following. The last part of his body to complete the spin was his right arm. The discus shot from his hand, and the thrower, continuing his body motion, completed another spin empty handed, then came to a stop with his eyes focused ahead following the flight of his discus. It sailed outward, curved to the left and cut into the grass out in the middle of the field. Everyone paused for a second or two, until the main official’s voice was heard.

Step out of the circle! he commanded.

Tom MacIntyre complied. The official holding the far end of the measuring tape ran out to the middle of the field and held the very end down onto the exact spot where the discus had first cut the grass. The official holding the other end entered the circle and they pulled the tape taut. The main official leaned over the tape where it dissected the front outer rim of the circle.

One fifty-two and seven inches! he called out, then wrote the sum onto his clipboard. The officials holding the tape moved off to the side and the next competitor was called.

Lowery, White Plains!

All thirteen competitors made their first attempt. Three of them fouled, hitting the front of the circle, their toes going over the rim on their spins. Among the others who had made successful throws, the farthest was 162’4’’. Eight were bunched between this distance and Tom. When he entered the circle for his second attempt, Tom took a brief moment to look out over the field and fasten his eyes on the 170’ line that he had surpassed on his first practice throws that morning. Then he clenched his teeth and nodded, as if he had made a pact with himself, and took his position with his toes almost touching the back of the circle. He swung his arms back and forth more times than he did on his first attempt and took deeper breaths. He shot his breath out abruptly, just before he started his spin, and grimaced tightly. But his first step, despite these preparations, was slower by a fraction, and the hand holding the discus at his outstretched right arm was slower also as it followed the spin and the thrust of his legs and torso. His throw was low, on a line drive, landed flatly, and skidded through the grass.

Step out of the circle! commanded the main official. The official holding the far end of the tape ran out to mark the throw and the other two officials entered the circle. The tape was made taut.

One hundred, forty-seven feet, and three inches!

Tom swallowed hard, as if he had been hit in the chest. Remaining stoically silent, he turned away with his eyes cast down and moved to the back of the other competitors. He stretched his body doing knee bends, swung his arms and made spinning motions on a clearing of the grass with one ear cocked to hear the other marks as they were called out. The competition proceeded. Among the thirteen others that followed on their second attempt, only one competitor bested his first throw. That was the leader, who threw about a foot farther at 163’8".

When Tom entered the circle for his third and last throw, he looked out to the 170’ marker again, then closed his eyes tightly, as if he were saying a prayer. He positioned himself at the rear of the circle and began to swing his arms, taking even more time than his previous two throws. Suddenly he leaped, spun, and threw, giving off a low audible gasp. He stayed in the middle of the circle, afraid of fouling and spoiling his effort. The throw had felt perfect and the discus sailed up and out, curved slightly to the left, and cut into the grass.

Step out of the circle, MacIntyre. Tom complied. They stretched the tape for Tom a last time and the main official leaned over it.

One sixty-four, eight inches!

A few mumbled voices were heard amongst the other competitors. It was immediately apparent to everyone that Tom had taken the lead, if only by less than a foot. Tom moved to the back of the group, but he stood looking over them, carefully watching the last of the competition unfold. The other names were called out in a steady fashion and five competitors took their turns, throwing under 160. Then the former leader took up his position, spending more time in the circle than any of the others, doing knee bends and shaking out his burly arms in an attempt to loosen them. Suddenly he threw, spinning and giving off a yell at the release, the loudest utterance to be heard there that morning.

Step out of the circle, Browning. Browning did so. They stretched the tape and leaned over it, taking more time than on any of the previous throws. Tom stood on his toes, holding his breath.

"One sixty-six, and five inches!’ exclaimed the official. Suddenly Tom had fallen to second place. But the mark seemed to enliven the other competitors. There was a chatter amongst them and a ripple of laughter. When the next competitor was called, he appeared to be looser, as if some pressure had been taken away. Tom watched him throw and heard him make a loud gasping yell like Browning.

Step out of the circle, Logan.

A minute’s silent interval befell them.

One hundred sixty-seven feet, five inches!

A chatter of voices rose up again from the group as if they were cheering each other on. Tom stood at the back, chagrinned and silent. He was now in third. The remaining five contestants took their throws. Three of them fouled, one threw under 150’, but the last threw 168’6", the winning throw. A loud cheer erupted from these young men, and they began talking to each other like old friends. When they left the field for the stadium, Tom, who could only claim a distant fourth, walked a few steps behind them, speaking to no one.

He wandered into the crowd at Michie Stadium, barely cognizant of the events still going on. Neither the grandeur of the stadium’s history, nor the majestic Hudson River a short distance away, could lift him from his low spirits. At the pole vault event across the field, his coach, Mr. Grenshaw, was acting as one of the red vested officials, the only other Pearl River inhabitant for miles around. When the winner and two other places for the