New York City, the place of my dreams. The place I felt at home. The place that I always knew I belonged…
It was a rainy Thursday night and I had fallen asleep on the shoulder of my fiancé as we watched Horrible Bosses in our bedroom amidst the clutter of my last-minute packing. It was going to be a fabulous, but long, weekend, and I knew it would be in my best interest to catch some Z’s, though I also knew I’d probably sleep for most of the nine hour bus ride ahead of me. Yes, I would board the bus, fall into a comfortable but excited sleep, and in no time, wake to find myself in my most favorite place in the world—New York City.
“Get up…get up!” Scott shook me from my deep and contented sleep. The alarm had gone off. It was midnight—time to go to the bus station. I rolled over and mumbled “I know, I know” with a tone just evil enough, I thought, to get him to leave me alone for just a few more minutes. The trip I had been so looking forward to had arrived, but couldn’t I just nap a little longer?
Scott carried my excessively heavy bag to the bus terminal. The night was still and quiet but the Greyhound station was bopping. People coming and going and waiting in line; my adventure was beginning and I got a rush of excitement where I had expected a rush of sadness and nostalgia to be. Sure, I was sad to watch Scott walk back out the door past the guy who was taking his own little nap just inside the entryway of the bus station, but I would see him in a few days. Everything would be fine. I was on my way to New York!
Fast forward a few minutes, and I was a little later to board the bus than I had wanted to be. Not that it mattered much; “We will be filling every seat, so please move your bags and personal items to make room” bellowed the bus driver. Timing aside, I would not be so lucky as to have my own seat for the journey. I’d have to share.
Sleeping on the bus was more difficult than I recalled, especially sitting next to a “buddy.” I had taken a few long bus trips in my day, but had it always hurt my neck this much…? Three hours down as we arrived at the first stop somewhere outside Philly, and only six more to go. I decided to grab some food at the rest station. After all, I wasn’t getting much rest.
Around five A.M., it is most undesirable to be parked at a truck and bus rest station. The bathrooms are dirty. The food is greasy. And the creepers are out in full force.
“Is that a wig?” He was about 5’-6”, forty years old, partially cross-eyed and wearing clothes that had definitely been washed…a few weeks ago. Travelling with a younger girl, most assuredly no older than twenty-five, he assured me that he was no “creep,” with a chuckle that was oh-so-creepy. “So you’ve just got that beautiful red hair,” he continued. I was obvious in making a pained expression, an eye-ball-avoiding expression that begged ‘please, stop speaking to me.’ It was to no avail. Creepers tend to be particularly clueless when it comes to social cues of any sort.
Just before I got out of line due to my high level of discomfort and decided I’d have to wait until the next stop to get some food, he asked what I was doing up so late, and informed me that he was on a Greyhound bus travelling. As I re-boarded the bus, I prayed he wouldn’t realize I was riding the same damn one as him.
Finally, the bus arrived at the Port Authority station in New York City. The cramped bus ride and the creeper confrontation behind me, I was excited as shit. I hurriedly grabbed my bags and headed for the restroom. Not only did I have to pee, but I absolutely had to change into my “New Yorker” clothes, muuuuch more stylish and sophisticated than my “Greyhound bus-rider” clothes.
I looked hot. I looked New York. I looked like an idiot wobbling down the sidewalk in my heels trying to carry my overly-stuffed bags as I aimlessly walked, hoping to run into someone who would take my bags, take my hand, and kindly guide me to my Secaucus, New Jersey hotel room, for free.
When that didn’t happen, I stopped at McDonald’s to sit down. The cashier complemented my lovely red hair decision and I drank a huge cup of iced Hazelnut coffee, both of which upped my energy and confidence levels enough to continue on my journey.
Somehow I found out that the New Jersey transit station was about ten blocks from where I stood (I honestly cannot remember how I learned that information to this day), so I hopped into a cab. The driver was awesome and we chatted about traveling and why each of us had come to the city, two little fish in a ginormous pond. It was nice to feel that sort of camaraderie, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back. This was why I was here, I thought. To be young and chase my dreams and take chances. It was heartwarming, but then I got out of the cab. And I was alone again. With all my bags. And little did I know, about to take a train to the armpit of America.
At this point, I met one of the first in a series of guardian angels. God sent them there, just for me, I know it. Or maybe he just nudged me to run into them. At the worst, they were serendipitous finds, and I hold that I may not have survived without them. But I digress.
Guardian angel number one was on his way to New Jersey, but a different part of New Jersey than me. We navigated the train station together until we found where we were going, the same train. He carried my bag on and talked with me until we arrived at my destination. With a wave and a smile he was gone, and I was left to face…nothing. Where was I? It seemed like the middle of nowhere, dotted with a few trees and shady-looking cab drivers. Well, the hotel clerk had assured me that the hotel was only a short trip from Manhattan, 8 miles outside the city to be exact. After my ten minute train ride, how much further could it be?
I hopped into one of the shady cabs. “Red Roof Inn,” I said as I noticed that there was no time meter. Apparently this guy had been doing this for awhile and could keep track of the distance and cost all by himself with absolute precision. When he started the car, Spanish music began to play loudly, and the driver quickly turned it down and put on a different (more white?) station. I laughed and told him to change it back. “You like that?” he asked. “Yes!”
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the hotel. It seemed nice enough. My journey was $20. Horrible, no. Unexpected…yes. I entered the lobby, which incidentally was a single room, removed from the hotel itself, the hotel which turned out to be more of what I’d call a motel in its architecture (open middle, doors directly from outside to each room). I went to the front desk, trying to keep hope alive. “That will be $129.99” said the guy at the desk. Oh, but no, there must be a mistake, I say. I paid online, I say. I thought I had already taken care of it.
Well. Apparently I had not. My card information had been taken merely to reserve the room. I had to pay now.
When I reached my room, I held my breath, hoping that I had chosen somewhere clean. Stepping inside, I let out a sigh of relief. It was actually really nice. Maybe things would look up a bit. I could finally relax. But then…
I started to add. Four dollars to ride the train. Twenty for the taxi. If I was going to go back to the city, back to the hotel, back to the city…that was really going to add up. I thought I was snagging a deal getting a hotel in Jersey for at least a hundred dollars cheaper than I would’ve paid by staying in Manhattan, but it turned out, I’d forgotten the cost of transit. I was going to spend double what I had planned…I had to get out of it.
Tyree and I met in a literature class at Pitt a few years back. He was an acting student, gregarious and friendly, with a personality that swelled to fill a room. I knew he had been living in Brooklyn and though we didn’t know each other very well, figured maybe he’d be willing to help a girl out. I had asked him prior to my trip about staying at his place, and he’d welcomed me with open arms. I wondered if the offer was still good.
“Hey Ty! So…is the offer still open to stay at your place? I’m having a bit of a disaster…”
McKibben Avenue, said the text. Somewhere in Brooklyn. I’d have to find it…somehow. Fortunately, the hotel clerk had kindly refunded my money, a small miracle, I figured, especially since I’d already taken a crap in the room...”Did you use anything in the room?” “Nope…hehe.”
I had thrown him a twenty dollar tip in gratitude, telling him he’d saved me so much hassle. I’d very quickly regret that, as my NYC trip price tag was only going to go up.
Naively thinking that staying at Ty’s meant my money woes had ended, I decided to skip the train altogether and take a taxi from the hotel straight back into Manhattan. How much more could it be? Probably only a few bucks, I decided, as I loaded my bag in the trunk.
The driver and I were having a nice chat, even as we drove through the toll where I watched him hand $12 to the toll booth operator, silently wondering ‘Am I going to have to pay that?’
We talked some more and I asked him where he was from. “Jordan,” he replied. “No way!” I said, “That’s my name!”
He asked me where I’d like to be dropped off as we entered the city. I still hadn’t heard back from Ty after asking him which train to take to his place, so I awkwardly replied “Uhhh…here is fine I guess.” I got out all the cash I had, figuring this would be a big-ticket ride, probably around $30, $35 or so.
“That’ll be $65 dollars,” said the man from Jordan. My jaw fell open. How could this be? I could barely speak.
“Sixty…wait…what!?” I stuttered, hoping against all hope he had said $16. I would laugh in relief, he would laugh at the notion that such a short trip could ever cost $65, and we’d both go happily on our ways.
“Sixty five dollars,” he repeated, and reality finally set in. This trip was turning out to be a disaster, and it had barely just begun.
A few ATMs, tears, and phone conversations with my mother later, I was back on the streets of Manhattan, still lugging around a closet worth of clothes and shoes with no food in my stomach, little money in my wallet, and no real destination in mind. What was I going to do? I really didn’t know anymore.
I consider myself a pretty tough person, but even my resolve was wearing thin. New York and I had been so close, so in LOVE and now…now what? It was chewing me up and preparing to spit me out, an unassuming outsider new to the game. Was our relationship over? Could New York really do this to me, ME, who it had so kindly taken in during trips past, who it had beckoned to for a lifetime, called out to as the place of such hope and dreams?
I was as outraged as if I had just found a lover cheating on me. I was experiencing isolation of affection, being snubbed by the one I still loved so much, and, freshly jilted, I just couldn’t accept that things would turn out this way. I had to admit it: New York and I were officially fighting. And as I made my way to the subway entrance, my backbone hardening in defiance, I decided I was going to win.
I took a few different subways. I went up onto the street, and back down beneath. I asked for help and I looked at maps. And then, after finally calling the NYC Transit, I learned what two trains I need to take to make it to McKibben Street, Brooklyn. And make it is what I did.
My shoulder was killing me from lugging that damn bag, all those stupid outfits I likely wouldn’t even get to wear anyway. I sighed a small sigh of relief as I ascended the stairs to the street. I’d get hold of my friend, take my things into his place, and we’d probably drink coffee and laugh about my travels turned travails.
But a new scene was waiting for me as I heaved my bag onto the sidewalk. I’d never been to Brooklyn before, and what stood before me looked, in my eyes, like a veritable ghetto wasteland. There was graffiti painted on brick walls everywhere I looked, walls topped with curling ribbons of barbed wire. Trash lay in the street, on the sidewalk. There were no storefronts to be found, and I passed a white van that had black and red graffiti words covering the side, words that I couldn’t really make out but which had the letters “D-Y-E-I-N-G” and “T-E-E-N” distinctly legible…no joke. My phone chirped at me and my stomach began to sink as I realized it was about to die. And darkness was slowly beginning to fall. Not to mention that I couldn’t even find McKibben Street. I walked around for awhile searching, and even though I had a map, I couldn’t seem to make heads nor tails of it. I was starting to panic.
I found a gated park with a playground on the corner of a block, and decided to sit on a bench there to wait until I heard from Ty. It gave some semblance of safety in an otherwise rough-looking neighborhood, but as a group of tough-looking guys entered the park, my uneasiness continued to deepen.
“I am getting nervous,” I texted Ty. “My phone is about to die, I can’t find your house.”
I waited a few minutes, planning my escape if I didn’t hear back from him. If it got dark, I would head back to the subway. Maybe just ride it all night if I had to. Anything to get me off these streets.
“Chirp!” My phone went off and this time, it was Ty giving me directions to his house. “I’m coming home, just wait inside the door,” it said. With another heave-ho of effort I yanked my bag onto my shoulder and walked out of the park, trying again to find his house. I did. I got up to the door, thankful and ready for the indoors—I was really getting cold. I set down my bag and grabbed the door handle…locked. Well, of course it is locked, I thought, silently chastising myself for thinking that it wouldn’t be. I tried to think of another option as I hoped, not knowing how far he was, that Ty would hurry.
I started running through the directory of names next to the door. All I had to do was choose a safe-sounding name and ring the buzzer, I thought. I could tell them I locked myself out or something. Now who to choose…
Luckily, before I had to attempt that, a young guy came bursting out of the door. I must’ve looked a mess, because he looked at me and chuckled before handing off the door and walking away into the night.
I must’ve only sat at the bottom of the staircase inside for fifteen minutes or so before a hipster girl with mismatched pants (yes, she was wearing two pairs, and they didn’t match each other) came down the steps. She had a head full of curlers and a defiant sort of walk, like she knew where she was going and get the Hell out of her way. She brushed past me without so much as a smile and stuck her head out the door. When no one was outside, she looked at me. “Are you Ty’s friend?” she asked impatiently, and in a manner that seemed to say “I hope you aren’t.” To her apparent dismay, I was. She turned and went back up the stairs as quickly as she had descended them, leaving me to hurriedly try to finagle my bag and chase after her. I followed her up onto a high-ceilinged floor, creaky hardwood beneath my feet. We rushed down a hallway of doors until we came to the end, 406. She opened the door and ran in ahead of me, back to what she was doing before being interrupted with my undesirable presence.
I stood feeling awkward, waiting for the inevitable “Hello” or “How was your trip” or “Have a seat.” It never came. At this point, I wasn’t surprised, and I pulled up a seat on the floor next to an outlet where I plugged in my phone. “Are you still coming home now…?” I texted Ty. His response was a yes, but it would be a long time until he actually arrived. A long time of sitting on the floor. Alone beside some girl. Some girl who obviously, for whatever reason, wanted nothing to do with me.
The hippie hipsters came filing in the door. I had been waiting about an hour now, and had just about given up on seeing a friendly face. “Hello!” one of them offered with a smile as he approached me. “I’m Buck. Do you need anything? Are you comfortable? Is everything okay?” he fired off in succession. He looked at me, waiting, and I couldn’t help but smile; “Nope, I’m good,” I said, and followed him to the living room where the rest of them were headed.
“Are we gonna bring blankets? Handwarmers?” one of them said, to no one in particular. “I have handed out thousands of fliers already today,” said another. Each of the three seemed to be on a mission, some collective endeavor underway. I don’t know if it was the fact that Buck had been so kind to me, or that I just felt I had little more to lose, but I walked to the center of the room and started to talk.
“So are you guys having some kind of protest?” I asked, genuinely interested in what was charging the air with so much buzz. They told me it was a sit-in more than a protest. They said Wall Street and the government had bossed them around enough. The system was in a state of disarray, and today, on 11-11-11, at (what other time than) 11:11 P.M., they were staging a formal cry for justice. And they had invited most of New York City, it sounded like, to join them. It was a movement and a prayer and Buck had $600 to post their bail if and when they got arrested.
“You should come,” they said. “Would you like some hash?”
………………………..
“Are you okay??” asked Scott in a worried voice when I went into the other room to call him. “Yeah, things are actually turning around. Ty hasn’t gotten home yet, but I’ve met his roommates, and they’re wild!” I laughed. We are going to go to Central park for…some kind of protest or something. They’re hippies!” Scott laughed and told me that sounded awesome, and before we hung up he explained to me what hash was, jokingly asking me to bring some back for him. I sighed and told him absolutely no with a laugh just as Ty, my second angel, walked through the front door.
………………………..
He had made it, by my and I’m sure a lot of other peoples’ standards. He was on an HBO show. Just one or two episodes, he said. No big deal. And he smiled, showing off the signature gap between his two front teeth. “It’s so nice to see you,” he said, and I replied with the same. It really was so nice to see a friendly and familiar face. And with the time of the sit-in nearing, I thought maybe I’d get my real adventure after all.
…………………………………..
Not to disappoint anyone, but I never made it to the sit-in. I mean, I almost made it. I went with Ty and the guys to Central Park. We handed out fliers on the subway on our way there, and then staked out the park for the perfect spot. Supposedly, this was a bigger movement than just that night in New York City. It was a nationwide event, spanning the past few months, called Occupy, originally Occupy Wall Street, but the location had expanded. More people started showing up, and I was definitely excited. Afterall, this had the potential to be one of those sit-your-grandkids-down-and-brag-how-you-were-there kind of things.
But let’s face it. I had just endured more than I ever anticipated. I was hungry. It was cold. And I had managed to end up with the option of another, much cushier, place to stay.
…………………..
It was in Park Slope, still Brooklyn, but decidedly on the other side of the tracks from where I had been. I had wanted to take the subway there, leery of spending another dime on outrageously-priced cab fare, but my mom’s boyfriend’s sister, who had so kindly offered me a place to stay (IF and only IF I got there by ten P.M., however…so much for the sit-in) warned me that no, I needed to take a cab. Their subway station had a rapist a few months back attacking women at night. Apparently after being sought out by the police the man had downgraded to groping, but she still advised I take a cab, so I did.
We pulled up in front of the apartment. Thirty-four dollars this time. Eh, at least it wasn’t sixty, I thought. As I got out of the cab I thought to myself “Jordy, we aren’t in Kansas anymore!” And I meant that in a good way.
Lauren, Angel #3, invited me in to what I consider a pretty damn swanky-looking apartment. The floors were hardwood, the kitchen was brand new, in fact, it looked like just about everything in there was brand new. She gave me blankets and a fresh towel and told me to not “be frightened when Ronald gets home, he’s out with his friends.”
I called Scott and cried to him about how badly I wanted to come home after the lights went out. I just want to take an earlier bus tomorrow, I whined, dreading another entire day of battling the city that had so harshly thrown me out of its once-loving arms. “Come back earlier,” he said. “I’m going to,” I said. We hung up after our ‘I love yous,’ and the last thing I remember thinking before falling asleep was ‘Please God don’t let me leak any fluids out of my body onto this super nice and expensive white couch.’
………………………………
I woke up in the morning to the sound of someone on the phone speaking…Italian? I was pretty sure it was Italian, anyway, because I recognized two of the words, which I will translate for you now: “Mother Fucker” and “Shit.” ‘This dude is either really pissed that I am here, or he and I are going to get along splendidly,’ I thought. He ended up being Angel # 4.
He saw me stir and came over to the couch, leaning down close to my face in that invasion of personal space way that only Europeans seem to have truly mastered. “Why are you still sleeping?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. I looked at the time. Nine o’clock, still early in my book. “Uhhh…I’m tired,” I said slowly, not understanding his confusion. “My stomach kind of hurts too” I say. He remains very close to my face, his face contorting, “Are you pregnant??” come the words, thick with accent. “No!” I shout, sitting up and leaning away from him, sort of offended. Who the heck did this guy think he was? ‘Am I pregnant, pssshh, who was he kidding?’ I thought. ‘Now that would be an immaculate conception.’
“Would you like some coffee?” I shook my head no. “Tea?...Eggs? What do you want?” he asked as I continued to politely decline. I kept saying no, he kept prodding. He was kind of getting on my nerves. I finally told him I’d have some coffee “if it’ll make you happy,” and I walked over to the kitchen.
“Vabiya?” he asked as he reached into one of the boxes of Wolfgang Puck k-cups in the cupboard. “Huh?” “Vavilla?” “What?” “Babila?” “WHAT ARE YOU SAY—wait…vanilla??” I said. He nodded anxiously, smiling. I said yes and laughed. He laughed too. I decided this Ronald guy and I might actually get along after all.
I told him I loved New York, and he said, “It’s fucking expensive.” I told him I knew and then asked him how much his rent was, and he told me. He was just that kind of guy. And the rent was… a lot. I asked him how much money he made. I always ask people in New York those questions, however rude they may be, because I can’t understand how that many people can afford such an ungodly expensive place. If they can all do it, why can’t I? I wanted to find the loophole.
He wouldn’t tell me how much he made, just that it was “more than sixty-thousand.” He said “You have to make more than sixty-thousand to live here.”
He told me he was from Austria and I told him I was Austrian, too. He didn’t believe me, so I showed him my name on my license. He read it aloud, in the way it was supposed to be said, I would imagine, and then he asked me to say it again. “Streussnig,” I said, and he started to laugh. I was obviously very much an American, but at least it was entertaining.
“Jordan, Jordan,” he kept calling me. “Jordan, Jordan, what are you going to do all day?” “Walk around Manhattan…who knows,” I say, a teeny sliver of the excitement that is New York starting to creep back into my chest.
‘Who cares how yesterday went,’ I think to myself. ‘I have a brand new day in New York, and I’m going to try to have fun.’
…………………………….
I took the subway (which just so happened to be basked in daylight and groper/rapist-free) back into Manhattan. I was STARVING and I knew just where I wanted to eat—the Manhattan Bistro. Supposedly pretty affordable and not far from where I got off of the subway, the Bistro sits on the site of a notorious Eighteenth century murder, and was said to be haunted. In fact, it was on the Travel Channel’s Top Ten list for haunted places in America. I was totally game.
Sitting at my lonely little one-man table inside, I looked around as I awaited my French toast brunch. The place was really nice, but slightly disappointing in its unhaunted appeal. No ghosts. No unexplained happenings. Just a bunch of people drinking wine and chatting on a lazy Saturday afternoon, untroubled by the realm of the unknown.
I got bored with thinking about the dead, so I focused my attention now on the living. The wait staff was almost exclusively Italian, and they spoke freely together in the language of spaghetti and romance. It was charming. My French toast arrived and was really delicious, but slightly too rich. It didn’t really matter though; I felt famished. I started to gobble it down and as I did, one waiter in particular caught my eye. He was gorgeous. Flawless. My Italian stallion, er, waiter. I kept an eye on him through my meal, just for fun, sizing him up as anyone would such a lovely piece of artistic specimen, when suddenly, my stomach crapped out on me. I had been so busy admiring the scenery that I hadn’t realized I was pushing limits. I had to go. Now.
I grabbed my purse and hurriedly ran downstairs to the bathroom, praying to God I wouldn’t throw up. ‘Why can’t I get a damn break this weekend?’ I thought to myself, sitting in the bathroom, just waiting to feel O.K. enough to go up and pay my bill with some amount of confidence that I wouldn’t throw up all over the sexy waiter man.
I was down there for about fifteen minutes, and felt rather embarrassed upon going back to my table. “She must’ve been down there blowing out the plumbing,” they were all probably whispering. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not going down there any time soon,” I was sure they said.
To my surprise, it turned out they were talking, but about way better things than I thought. And the belissimo, gorgeoso man was the one who let me know.
He came over to me, suave, cool, collected, and asked my name. He held out his hand to introduce himself. “My name is Alberto,” he said with a roll of the tongue. “Alberto,” I repeated. “Alberto,” he said, and we locked eyes and smiled.
He asked me what I was doing in New York, and slowly his waiter cronies neared in to the conversation. He asked when I was leaving. I said “tonight.” He said “you should stay. We are having a party tonight…you should come.” I was going to say, no I have a wonderful fiancé waiting for me at home. Or, no, I have a bus that I have to catch. A job I must attend on Monday morning. Buuuut I figured I’d keep him going juuuust a little bit longer (sue me) so I asked “where?” “Twenty-ninth street and…” (blah blah blah my God was he puurrrdy). I asked what the party was for. He said “oh, you know, just a party. We’ve got a table, some bottles…” he trailed off, staring at me, waiting for me to say yes. “But I don’t have anywhere to stay,” I said (I swear I’m about to tell him no, it’s coming up, I’m telling you). He gasped. His buddies gasped. “YOU?” they asked, in their Italian accents. “A BEEEEautiful girl like YOOOOU has nowhere to stay??” they asked in exaggerated disbelief (ok fine, I was loving every moment of it and totally dragging it out for my own enjoyment). “You can stay with me,” each of them chimed in, one after the other. I laughed and waved them off in that “oh you shouldn’t have but please keep going” kind of way. The others trailed off to their various tables, but Alberto remained. “So, you won’t stay?” he asked.
………………………….
“OhmyGod OhmyGod OhmyGod!” I called my friend Alaina back home and told her about Alberto. We laughed and I told her it made me feel hot. Maybe in another lifetime, Alberto. Because right now, all I wanted do was go home to my Scotty and my puppy, my family that I missed now more than ever. Yet deep down I knew I still had a little ways to go.
…………………………..
I still had a few more hours to kill so I decided to try to fit in two of the things I had so hoped to do while in the city, one of which was go to a talent agency and try my luck.
No I do not think I am supremely gorgeous or exceptionally talented. I was in a few plays in high school and frankly I think I am plenty exaggerated, obnoxious, and insane enough of a person to be an actress, so what the Hell. So I whipped out my phone and typed “reputable new york talent agencies” into Google. I found a forum with people discussing that very topic. Someone said that they knew of a place called Carson-Adler Talent Agency on 57th street that had discovered Britney Spears. Ca Ching! If they found Britney that was good enough for me, so off I went, with just a couple of my Facebook pictures and some hope in my pocket.
…………………………….
“What floor is the Carson-Adler Agency?” I asked the man at the front desk. He told me the twentieth but that he thought no one was there. It was a Saturday. Oh well, I’ll give it a shot, I told him, and I hit the elevators.
Five minutes later I was back, and there was a new man at the desk. I asked him if there were any other agencies in the building that might be open on a Saturday, and he shook his head. He told me to come back Monday morning, and I said I was only around for the weekend. Just when I was turning to go, thinking I’d just have to come back another time, he stopped me. “Would you like to leave anything? I can make sure someone gets it.” “Uhh, sure!” I fumbled around in my purse, retrieving a few wrinkled and folded up pictures I had printed off of my Facebook before leaving work the day before. I went to hand them over, but stopped. “Um, what do people, you know…usually…leave?” I asked, not wanting to seem clueless. “Pictures and a resume,” he said. The pictures would have to do. He picked up a folder with a bunch of papers in it and dumped out its contents, handing it to me to put my pictures in. “Aw thank you,” I said as I reached for a pen, hoping to come up with something genius and irresistible to write on the back. As I was writing my name and number and a little message to the tune of “Please call me, please,” the front desk man asked me if I knew the bald guy from the T.V. show Scrubs. I thought for a minute, caught a little off-guard. “Oh, yeah, I know him,” I said, still writing. “Well, his mom works here,” he went on, “so I’ll make sure she gets it.” I thanked him profusely and went on my way, wondering what else I could’ve written better on the back to somehow make myself stand out from the masses.
…………………………….
I parked myself in the nearest Starbucks, eager for a little rest. I had really, really wanted to spend my trip volunteering, but that idea had fallen flat when the soup kitchen I offered to volunteer at had told me they were booked for the weekend. I sipped on my Gingerbread Latte and tried to rummage up my last bit of resolve to search for another soup kitchen. It was four o’clock and my bus was leaving at nine. I figured that left me with just enough time to volunteer, run back to Ty’s house in Brooklyn to grab my bag, and make my bus. A little too ambitious, you say? Not nearly J
As luck would have it, the internet on my phone wouldn’t work, an all-too common experience. I was visibly frustrated as I tried to maneuver the thing this way and that, right-side up and up-side down, pleading with it to just work already, just for a minute.
“Do you need me to take your picture?” came a voice from the next table over. “Huh?” I asked confused before realizing that all my moving around with the phone did kind of make it look like I was trying to get a perfect self-shot, and I laughed. “No no,” I said, and then I explained that I was visiting NYC and trying desperately to volunteer somewhere because I had this strong urge to help someone.
His name, Guardian Angel #5, was Gino, and he offered me his computer to look up a soup kitchen. He told me he liked to volunteer too. He was a college student who had moved to New York all by himself for school, a feat that I truly respected and envied. We talked about how much we loved New York, and about volunteering and such. I left Starbucks on my way to the soup kitchen which happened to be only a few blocks away, but not before thanking Gino and giving him my name. He promised to look me up on Facebook and tell me about more volunteer opportunities. We said it was nice to meet each other, but then I had to go. Dinner was about to be served.
…………………………….
It was an Episcopal church on 60th street. There was a sign saying dinner was every Saturday, starting at 4:45 P.M. It was 4:30, and a line had begun that disappeared behind the church. I was nervous. Scared they’d reject me like the other place had. Afraid maybe I looked kind of silly showing up out of nowhere at a soup kitchen where nobody knew me, asking if I could help. Maybe they’d think I had some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe they’d think I was poor and there to eat, which I don’t want to admit made me feel…uncomfortable. Or maybe, they’d do what they did, and welcome me and love me as any angels could be expected to do.
……………………………..
“Can I help?” I asked bluntly as I reached the entrance to the basement room of the church. Decorated in vibrant colors, alphabet letters and children’s artwork, it was evident that a daycare was held there through the week. “Sure,” the man at the door replied, “go see the lady in the red hat.”
Her name was Robin and she was Angel #6, a tall and lanky woman who looked to be in her mid to late sixties. I put on a pair of latex gloves and a hairnet. Robin helped me start handing out plates of food to the crowd of people who had come in and seated themselves on the long tables as if they were coming home for a family dinner over the holidays. The salad dressing was being passed around the table and the coffee was being poured. A man in the kitchen was spooning out helpings of baked pasta onto plates, and me and the other volunteers, members of the church, handed the plates out one by one to the eager and extremely grateful people. I watched, saddened, thinking that for many if not most of these people, this may be their only hot meal all week. While the diners talked like old friends, Robin and I got to know one another. She told me she was from California and had come to New York “when I was young and gorgeous” after winning a contest. She was an artist, and “starved for awhile,” but had decided to stay for what was now going on fifty years. I told her about school and that I am artist too, and we talked about medium, subject matter, that sort of thing. I told her that I had come to New York on a whim and that things hadn’t worked out as neatly as I had expected them to. I also told her that I was nervous to go back to Ty’s house all alone in the dark to get my bag and make it to the bus station.
We continued to hand out plates. One lady told me she felt a little woozy and she was worried. I told her to drink her orange juice, it was probably just low blood sugar. “I get nervous when I feel like this,” she said. “Everything will be alright,” I assured her, hoping I was right, as she held her orange juice tight with a shaking hand.
“Are you an actress?” another man asked me as I passed him a plate, causing me to smile. “Nope,” I said, and looked at him with a smile of gratitude. “You look you could be,” he replied as he dug in to his pasta, warming and breaking my heart in the same breath.
As the hour drew to a close, I met more and more of the soup kitchen’s volunteers. Each was so friendly and so appreciative to me. I don’t even know what I did that was so wonderful, but they acted like whatever I did was worth the world, and it made me feel so good.
As I was getting ready to leave, Robin approached me. “Maurice said he’ll take you to get your bag,” she said, gesturing over to the tall and leggy man who had cooked and served up the food that night. I walked over to him timidly, not wanting to take him out of his way but secretly hoping he wouldn’t let me go alone. “Sure, I’ll take you,” he said. I told him how much I appreciated it, and off we went, amidst sad byes and hope to see you soons from the angels of the kitchen and the dining room alike.
……………..
It took a few different trains to make it back to Ty’s neighborhood, and it took some time to re-locate his apartment, too. But Maurice never complained. He talked to me like an old friend, not like I was someone who was taking him out of his way. I got my bag from Ty’s. “That looks heavy,” said Maurice. “Do you need me to carry that?”
We got lost on the way back to the subway, but he never seemed bothered or hurried. He didn’t even mind when I asked if we could stop and take some pictures near some incredible graffiti. I told him I’d tag him on Facebook.
Finally we made it to the train. Then the next train. Then all the way back to the Port Authority terminal. Maurice didn’t leave my side until we had found exactly where I needed to be. He set down my bag, and I got a ping of sadness in my heart as he stood to go. “Let’s get a picture together!” I said to delay him and to keep a memory of the angel who perhaps helped me the most. “Ok,” he laughed, “let’s ask those girls to take it.”
Doesn’t that sound like a touching place to end the story? The heroin (er, me) defeating her obstacles and even managing to do some good along the way? The final hero (Maurice) completing his good deeds with a smile and then heading out safely into the night? Not so fast. Remember, this trip is Murphy’s Law in action, so don’t go getting all fuzzy one me yet.
After Maurice left, you’d think only a true dolt could screw up from there. I mean I was safely at my bus terminal, the line was starting to form, and I had my belongings and ticket safely in hand. But I had passed an Auntie Anne’s pretzel place on my way to the bus station. And I was starving again. And boyyyy did those pretzels smell good.
The night air was brisk as I ran out into the bright-as-day center of Time Square. I found the Auntie Anne’s and ordered two pretzels. “That’ll be $7.50.” I grabbed a fistful of ones and handed them to the cashier. I stopped at another place along the way to get some fries. They were cheesy, a real mess, but oh-so-delicious as I ran across the busy street back to the terminal. I wondered if the girls had asked to watch my bag were still there. I hoped no one had stolen all my favorite clothes and shoes. Into the doors and down two escalators and my bag was in view. The girls were still there, phew! I neared my seat and sat down next to my bag, exactly as I had left it. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had made it, AND I even got some delicious food for the ride back. The ride back…wait a second. Where was my ticket…?
I started a frantic search through my stuff as the sick realization set in that I had brought my ticket home along for the food run, but somehow I hadn’t brought it back. Did I drop it? Inadvertently throw it away? Drop it in the mess of cheese fries I was still clinging to? It was nowhere. As I searched, another creeper guy sat eerily close-by to me and watched my every move. had I actually left it behind on the table, and someone had taken it? Had this guy taken it?
“WHAT!?” I yelled at him, “Stop looking at me!” and he laughed, never taking his beady eyes away from me for a second. I bent over to look in my bag again and could feel his eyes searing through me. The ticket was gone.
…………………….
Seventy dollars later I was boarding the bus in frustration. The driver asked me how I was doing as he took my brand new ticket from my hand, twice the price I had paid for the other that I’d ordered online and printed off at home. “I’ve been better,” I told him. “I just had to re-buy my ticket.” “You should’ve told me!” he said with regret in his voice. “I would’ve let you on.”
………………………
The new ticket turned out to be non-refundable. Just my luck. At that point, however, I really didn’t care. I think I would’ve done anything, paid any amount of money, to know that I was safely on my way back home, on my way back into the arms of the man whose side I felt I could never leave again for anything. I just wanted to see Scott.
I settled into my seat, and in a brush of good fortune, I got my own two seats this time. I set down my stuff on the seat next to me and laid my head on my bag. I would just fall asleep, I thought, and at 6 A.M., I would wake up to Scott, there at the bus station to retrieve me. Everything was finally going to be alright.
But life had one more wrench to throw into my plans. The subway rides to Ty’s house and back had been rushed and dizzying and had made me more than a little nauseas. After getting to the bus station, however, I had felt a lot better, what with being still and feeling like everything was going to be downhill from there. But as the bus started to rumble along, a wave of strong nausea came over me, and I felt that I was definitely going to throw up. I get terrible motion sickness, and I cursed the decision to not bring along some Dramamine for the bus ride. I was out of luck. So I laid my head down and tried to take my mind off of the sickness that was worsening by the minute. Every bump was worse than the last, and with shaking hands I reached for my ipod, thinking some music might help calm me down. Dead.
The bus pulled into a stop in New Jersey literally just in time. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down as more passengers boarded the bus. I had to feel better before we started rolling again, because the next stop wouldn’t be for hours. As I lay there, I heard a man bustling around in the bag holding area above my head. Oh no, I thought. Please don’t let him sit by me. I feel so awful and if I get even more cramped, it’s going to just get worse.
“Excuse me,” he said impatiently. “Can I sit there??” I looked up and noticed there were two other available seats right behind him. I timidly stood my ground. “I’m not feeling well,” I murmured, and laid my head back down. “Let me sit down,” he argued. I ignored him, hoping he’d just turn around and sit somewhere else. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he went on, and I made the silent decision to puke on him if he did indeed force me to move. “I feel really sick,” I repeated. “No, you just want two seats!” he yelled at me. I refused to move and he finally sat somewhere else. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. The sickness wasn’t going away. I felt so embarrassed but I knew I had to tell the bus driver.
……………………….
He moved me up front and at the next rest stop, we went to a nearby convenience store to buy some Dramamine. They didn’t have any. I bought a pack of Mentos, hoping that would suffice.
………………………..
In the front of the bus and with my Mentos in hand, I managed to fall asleep. The intense nausea was gone when I woke up, and it was 5:30 A.M., time to call Scott. “Hey babe!” I said. “I will be there in a half hour.” “I’ve been here since five,” he said. I’ll be waiting.”
…………………………
It was like a movie. But not a disaster movie anymore. Not a horror film or a tragedy, not even a drama. More like a romance, in fact. I don’t think anything at that moment could have happened more perfectly. As the bus pulled into the Pittsburgh station at 6 A.M., I could already see Scott out of the window, standing there waiting for me right where the bus pulled in. No one else was standing there waiting for anybody. That’s right, I thought to myself. That’s my guy waiting for me!
The bus pulled in and slowed to a stop. As the doors began to open, I was already walking down the steps, Scott’s eyes and mine locked, big smiles on our faces. I knew in that moment I could never leave him again. Next time, he was coming with me!
I hurried down the steps, and here’s where it gets even more like a movie—but I SWEAR to GOD I’m not making this up. I set foot on the pavement and as we embraced, a few piano notes of a familiar song started to play from inside the bus station, and I laughed as I hugged my fiancé, never wanting to let him go.
Where is the moment we needed the most
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost
They tell me your blue skies fade to grey
They tell me your passion's gone away
And I don't need no carryin' on
You stand in the line just to hit a new low
You're faking a smile with the coffee to go
You tell me your life's been way off line
You're falling to pieces everytime
And I don't need no carryin' on
Cause you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day
You had a bad day
Well you need a blue sky holiday
The point is they laugh at what you say
And I don't need no carryin' on
You had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day
(Oh.. Holiday..)
Sometimes the system goes on the blink
And the whole thing turns out wrong
You might not make it back and you know
That you could be well oh that strong
And I'm not wrong
So where is the passion when you need it the most
Oh you and I
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost
Cause you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
You've seen what you like
And how does it feel for one more time
You had a bad day
You had a bad day
Had a bad day
