I don’t love New York. At least I don’t love New York City. Sure I've heard all the stuff about New York City being one of the most exciting places in the world. I've heard all about the great shows, the
night life, the wonderful sports teams and supportive fans. And the restaurants. And fabulous hotels. It’s the city that never sleeps. Blah, blah,
blah. Maybe if I could afford those
shows, hotels, restaurants and sporting events I’d care more for the
place. The only pleasant memory I have
of NYC is a day spent with a banjo player friend of mine. I’m not sure if that says more about me or
the city. However this past Friday night
the only memories I made were of the confusion and chaos of the Port Authority
Bus Terminal.
When I first entered the terminal my
immediate goal was to find a bathroom. A
ride up the escalator and several quick walks through shoulder to shoulder
crowds brought me to a men’s room. But
it was closed for repairs. So back up to
the other end of the terminal I went, quicker now, only to find a long line
formed and waiting for relief. I glanced
at the women’s room. No line there. I was tempted but I still wasn't that
desperate. Eventually my turn came to
enter the smelly room where unidentifiable liquids covered the floors. Paper towels were being thrown around
everywhere because the trash cans were overflowing. Men, try to stand at a urinal and take care
of business while holding a small duffle bag that you’re afraid to put on the
floor for fear of soaking up a couple gallons of bodily fluids. It can be done, but it isn't pretty.
Next I needed to find out where the bus
to Dover would be loading up. So I went
to the information counter. It was
closed. Then I looked for a departure
and arrival board that might have the information I needed. I found the board but the information was so
cryptic that it might as well have been written in Sanskrit. No wonder no one else was looking at the
thing. So I decided to go to the
Trailways/Greyhound ticket counter and ask a human being for some help. After waiting in line for about fifteen
minutes I finally got to the counter.
The young lady was very helpful.
She looked at her computer. She
shook her head. She consulted a
supervisor. The supervisor shook her
head. They both looked at me with
mournful pitying expressions on their faces.
My new friend, the ticket clerk, asked me if the ticket clerk way up in
Malone had told me all of the conditions of the ticket I originally
purchased. I said “Well, she told me I’d
go from Malone to Albany to New York City to Dover and that I’d change buses in
Albany and right here in New York City.
I changed in Albany and now I’m going to change here.” The kind young lady said “Yes, that is true
but the change can’t take place until 8:15 tomorrow.” I said “You mean I have to wait until 8:15 in
the morning, twelve full hours, to get a bus to Dover which is four hours away
by car?” She said “No, you have to wait
until 8:15 tomorrow evening, twenty four hours, to get that bus to Dover.”
Well, I had been an awfully cooperative
bus passenger up until I heard that “twenty four hours” phrase. The young lady went on to explain that my
ticket was essentially a “space available” voucher that needed to be exchanged
for a boarding pass. There were no seats
available on any bus going to Dover until Saturday evening. I asked if there were any seats on any bus going
to Wilmington, Delaware that might be stopping long enough for me to jump off. It wouldn't be so bad and my wife could make
the forty-five minute drive to pick me up at that bus station. The young lady said “Sure, there’s a bus that
has a seat available at 10:30 tomorrow morning that stops in Wilmington around
three in the afternoon. It takes a long
time because it stops at twelve places in New Jersey.” My patience was gone. I started yelling and demanding that a
supervisor come and talk to me. I may
have used some unpleasant language. I
may have threatened people. A police
officer stepped up behind me and asked me to lower my voice and to discontinue
the abusive shouting. I said “Oh yeah?” He tapped the grip on his pistol and said “Yes,
sir.” Well, since he called me sir I
agreed to calm down. At this point I
noticed another customer buying a ticket for Philadelphia. So I asked the clerk, who seemed much more at
ease with the cop on her side, if I could exchange my little ticket for one to
Philadelphia. My wife could surely make
the drive there since it was only an hour and a half from Dover. The clerk said “I’m sorry sir, your ticket is
not exchangeable. You’ll have to write
to the issuing office to get a refund on the part you didn’t use. But a ticket
to Philly is only twenty two dollars and seventy cents.” I said “Are you sure I can get on the Philly
bus?” She assured me that I could, so I
bought the ticket.
With my Philadelphia ticket in hand and
clear directions to the gate I hustled back down to the bottom level of the
terminal. I found the line but when I
got to the end of line I was too far away to see the gate. Boarding began. People streamed through the doors and happily
got on the bus. The doors closed. A jolly Greyhound employee announced that the
bus was full but they had a cleaning crew coming along to get another bus ready
and we all would be boarded and headed to Philadelphia soon. So we waited.
I called my wife. Actually I
tried to call my wife but the cell phone wouldn't stay connected since I was so
far underground. I did manage to give
her the basic information that I was waiting for the bus to leave and I would
call her when we emerged from hell.
After about an hour standing in line we
finally were allowed to board the bus.
By the time I got on the thing the only seat available was on the aisle,
directly ahead of the bathroom. Not
good, I thought. The bus driver came on the bus and delivered his little safety
spiel along with a pep talk. He also
said, and this is a quote, “If you’re mad, don’t be mad at me. I’m just the driver. You need to be mad at the big grey dog.” Getting out of the Port Authority Terminal
was truly one of the high points of my life.
It was raining, thunder and lightning were all around but I felt like it
was just a perfect night. I called my
wife. She wasn't happy. I heard stuff like “I told you we should have
taken two cars to Malone. I told you
Memorial Day was a bad time to travel on public transportation.” She may have said more but I have a policy of
not listening after two “I told you so” statements. But we made our arrangements. She was a little leery about driving to the
center of Philadelphia late on a Friday night but she agreed to do it for
me. She’s a good woman even if she does
like to remind me how she’s always right and I’m not.
Sitting in front of the bathroom was an
ordeal. Traveling on the bus were some
folks who were, against all the rules, drinking alcoholic beverages. And they needed to make frequent bathroom
visits. They also had some affliction
that caused them to light a cigarette every time they went in to urinate. For nearly two hours I was regularly treated to
the jostling of drunken passengers heading to the bathroom followed by the
smells of their output and their inhaling.
Not a pleasant way to spend my time.
But through the dark rainy night we
traveled on to Philadelphia. We had a
brief stop in Mount Laurel, New Jersey where some of the drunker passengers got
off. As soon as we crossed out of New
Jersey the rain stopped which seemed to be a good omen as well. When we pulled into the Philadelphia bus
terminal my wife called me on the cell phone and said she had seen the
bus. She told me she hadn't been able to
find a close parking spot but was about a block away down near the 7/11
store. I quickly found my way outside
and headed down the street. Sure enough
there was my dear wife standing next to our car waving at me. Oddly enough there were some other women
along the sidewalk, some even in the street, waving at men walking or riding by
in cars. As I got closer I saw that most
of those women were dressed in skimpy, form revealing outfits and six inch
spiked high heels. I began to move a
little quicker because I saw that those ladies were eyeing my wife with evil
intentions.
We managed to get out of Philadelphia
without further incident. But when we
stopped for a bite to eat at an all-night diner in Wilmington we were accosted
by a hopped up crack-head who needed some lunch money. I beat him senseless. No, of I course I didn't do that. I just ignored him because after my Greyhound
adventure nothing much could bother me.
But in the future, you can be sure, I’ll leave the driving to myself.
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