Eat it, Peter Pan.

The bus people that is.

Or, more appropriately, the transportation demons of the lower realms, the product of Stephen King’s nightmares with diesel engines, those ticket selling wolves in sheep’s clothing.

I’ve wanted to write this column for four years now, ever since I was forced to use Peter Pan Trailways to haul myself home and back occasionally through the years. Sometimes, when a friend can’t drive you, your car dies, or you’ve suddenly realized you’re a moron, you go down and buy yourself a ticket on the J.M. Barrie inspired Ride O’ Horrors.

Where to begin?

Well, first there’s the absolute futility of trying to use their website. It’s utterly useless in every way, shape and form. The only thing I could determine from it was that there was a bus company called Peter Pan, and it thought I was destined to go to Albany, NY. That’s the only place it wanted to send me. I don’t know why. I don’t want to go to Albany. I’ve never met anyone who wanted to go to Albany. I’m not exactly sure the good people of Albany want to be in Albany. I bet if they knew that the evil that is Peter Pan keeps trying to stuff unsuspecting college students into buses bound for their fair city, they’d certainly have a few things to say to Mr. Peter Pan.

So, naively assuming that this company would have a somewhat early bus back to the little college I call home, I took the first train into the Hub and arrived, a bit sleepy and a little hung over – my uncle’s wedding was the night before – at South Station at 8:20 Sunday morning.

South Station is one of the coolest places to be on a holiday weekend. There’s a bookstore, a model train thingy, a good-sized food court, and people watching.

Well, the train part of the station, anyway.

However, the bus station at South Station reeks with the stench of sweat and broken dreams, and the building itself has all the warmth of one of Jupiter’s moons. I popped a couple Aleve for my headache and wandered over to the ticket counter.

Now, wouldn’t it make sense to have a bus leave at, oh I dunno, 9 a.m.? Somewhere around there? Since the trains pull into the station around 8:30 in the morning, that would seem reasonable. I’m not asking for instantaneous transportation. I’m asking for a reasonable amount of time between train and bus. Of course, the infant behind the counter told me the next bus was at 10. Great.

A few words on benches.

There is nothing quite so relaxing as a well built, solidly designed bench to provide respite to the weary traveler. Few things can soothe the back, sore after lugging a heavy backpack through trains and stairs and streets. Yes, the bench, a wonderful invention that, when well done, is a blessed thing.

South Station Bus Terminal has none of these.

Their benches, designed by some mad sadist, are painful and not properly bolted down, meaning that the hyperactive crack head’s gyrations at the other end gives one the curious feeling of what it must be like to be one of James Bond’s martinis.

Granted, the other options aren’t much better. A bus to Albany has been departing for the last 40 minutes, at least according to the broken departure board that hangs over the crumpled form of a homeless man.

I’m wondering whether I should put a sign out (“Will satirize for food”) when I see people queuing up in front of my gate. Cool.

I go over and get in line. There’s a guy dead asleep at the front of the line. His snores lull the rest of us. About five minutes after the scheduled departure, we’re still there. I haven’t moved. Some green sweater person looks around and calls out that the bus to Albany is leaving from the next gate, not this one. Again with the Albany. Another one of Peter Pan’s attempts to divert me from my quest. Damn you, you pixy dust snorting nancy boy, I’m NOT GOING TO ALBANY. Holyoke Mall-Northampton-Amherst-UMass will still be leaving from this gate, so I watch as several people get out of line and queue up at the next bus. The seemingly unconscious man in front of line wakes up and goes to. He’s going to Albany. Of course, when we finally leave, our estimated time of arrival is more than it takes to drive from my house, an hour south of Boston, to UMass. And that’s just to Springfield. With perfect conditions and a few extra Tinkerbells under the hood. No such luck for our coach, cleverly named after an obscure character from Barrie’s novel.

Rain, traffic, and just random stoppages seem to taunt me. We finally get to Springfield, which makes South Station look like Grand Central, and we’re told that it’s ok to just stay on this coach, because it’s continuing on to Amherst. Albany passengers have to get off.

Finally, I catch a break. So I look out the window, and sure enough, there’s my luggage, on the ground. Yup, the chuckle twins are about to load it on to the Albany bus.

I get up, go out of the bus, which, remember, I’m supposed to be able to just stay on, relax, and forget about it; Peter Pan’s seen the second star to the right, and he’s rarin’ to go.

I explain to them that I’m going on, and that this luggage, being mine, is going to. Maybe they didn’t see the fact that it has a big UMass decal on it? Is there a UMass in Albany? I did not think so, but having never been to the capital of New York, I’m not really sure. But the safe money is on there not being a Massachusetts state school in New York. Put the bag back on the bus, Chumley.

That done, I get back on the bus, return to my seat, sit down, breathe a sigh of relief, close my eyes, and think of sweet, sweet UMass.

But no. The idyllic scene of Lappas leading the Minutemen to an NCAA berth is shattered by the voice of what I can only assume was one of the Lost Boys – it sure as hell wasn’t Wendy. He’s telling us that any Amherst-UMass passengers can get off, the bus next to us is an express.

Oooooh. An express. That sounds fast. That sounds efficient. That sounds competent.

Again; Peter Pan, you vile deceiver.

Well, long story a bit shorter, I reached UMass around 1:30 p.m. You’ll remember that I started this little jaunt at 7:16 that morning.

So, in summary; bite me, Peter Pan. Bite me.