joe sits at the front, opposite the driver, cracking his gum as he watches the huge billboards streaking by, promising him power, happiness and beautiful women if he chooses the right breakfast food, hair oil or automobile. joe listens to the humming tires, the roar of the engine, shaking his head.
a seedy traveling salesman with badly-fitted dentures and a frayed collar has taken the aisle seat next to joe. as he lectures joe on salesmanship, he figures his expenses in a worn leatherette notebook, nervous fingers and eyes unconsciously revealing the extent of his failure.
joe is now sitting in the wide rear seat, between two young marines and a group of veterans wearing campaign caps and convention buttons, passing a bottle, singing "from the balls of montezuma to the shores of tripoli" joe follows the conversation between a veteran and a marine, participating only because he's sitting beside them, adopting a remembered military stance.
joe laughs as he passes the bottle, trying to sing along without knowing the words as the veterans segue into "over hill, over dale, we will hit the dusty trail, as the caissons go rolling along"
joe slaps one of the veterans on the back, trying to follow the song into "off we go, into the wild blue yonder"
joe is leaning across the two marines, staring out of the window as the veterans switch to "anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh"
joe crowded as the veterans prepare to leave the bus, lifting down banners and flags.