I left New York Thursday before Labor Day weekend. Tried Amtrak, which goes NYC, Cleveland, Chicago, then down to Albuquerque and over, ending in L.A. Sold out, try tomorrow.
Cabbed from Penn Station over to
the Port Authority, where Greyhound always runs, always has space. During the 3-hour wait for departure, I stumbled into the little cafeteria I’d been in the very first night I came here: New Year’s Eve, 2002, and that’s saying something because the Port Authority Terminal is a multi-level maze of entrances, stairways, gates and shops in which one can easily get totally lost.
Back then, I’d driven 500 miles in my Geo Prism all the way from Columbus over the fogbound mountains of Pennsylvania, arriving in Secaucus, New Jersey, at 10 pm, where I finally found a motel room (major feat on New Year’s Eve – so many were by the hour only, on that night). At the bus stop into the City, I met a guy who took me under his wing, amused that I’d come all the way from San Francisco for New Year’s Eve in NYC.
The end of the line was the PA and my newfound friend took me 4 blocks down 8th Avenue to a bar full of show people in mid-celebration, where he intended to roost for the night. I wanted to go to Times Square though, so, telling him I’d come back after midnight, I started walking down Eighth, trying to find a way to get over to Seventh and Times Square, but because of “heightened security” the cops had blocked every street.
For 10 blocks I walked. After enduring 2 checkpoints, the crowd I was in was funneled into a “corral,” a half block-long area surrounded by blue barricades,manned by dozens of cops. In the distance we could see the Square. This was my first experience with what New York City had become.
I love crowd surfing, but we could only be good cattle this night. A couple years later, I discovered the police had completely crushed the Critical Mass movement by calling the bicyclists “terrorists,” setting safe biking in Manhattan back many years. They did the same thing during the Republican Convention in 2004, setting freedom in America back many years. I could only wonder if it had been any different before 9-11.
It was a mild night – high 40s. New Year’s came and went without much celebration. I noticed lots of girls hitting on the cops; it’s so true about some women and a uniform, ain’t it?, I walked back to the bar to find my new short, pot bellied friend completely shit-faced. He slurringly told me the 1st was his birthday and since I’m a Capricorn, too, I asked how old he was.
He was a year younger than me. Lordy! Is this what living in the East does to you? I found out later the answer to that question is — yes.
He’d spent all his money and I was in no mood to drink anymore, so we na
vigated the 4 blocks back to the Port Authority. Our departure gate was 2 floors below the street, but didn’t leave for 45 minutes. Next to the gate was that little cafeteria.
I was hungry and I figured my friend needed some coffee badly. So I bought a hot dog and coffee for me plus one for him. As I handed him the cup I witnessed the most truly amazing sight of the evening. He began by first twirling around right by the condiment counter experiencing the vertigo that sometimes comes from severe drunkenness. On the 3rd twirl, he began projectile vomiting. A few more twirls and he stopped, then fell flat on his back, a felled tree amongst the forest of high chairs and tables, still vomiting like a whale spewing water from its blowhole.
Then he passed out and started snoring. Without a second’s hesitation, a latin guy was at my side, discussing these events. Could he be having an epileptic seizure? An older black lady said leave him alone. Two Port Authority cops came in, hovering around him. He regained consciousness and wanted to catch his bus and go home, but the cops weren’t going to allow him to go anywhere except maybe to Bellevue or the drunk tank.
While he argued with them, I got on the bus. My East Coast adventure had begun.
And now 5 years later, here I was in that small restaurant again. An old woman sat next to me. She badly needed a shave and a bath. On the other side of her, a 30-ish dished-out blonde was reading the Post, pointedly ignoring my neighbor’s attempts to chat. Cursing the blonde and NYC in general, she told me she was on her way to an ashram upstate.
Go figure. Maybe she was my last beacon from the East. Had I come full circle?
The bus left on time, a no nonsense black driver at the helm. A Christian 3 rows back started explaining “things” to his Asian seatmate as if giving a sermon in the Church of Greyhound. He spoke for 6 hours straight. I’ll bet you didn’t know the infallibility of the Pope is protected by God: if the Blessed Father attempts to say something not true our Blessed Lord will knot up his tongue rendering our Blessed Vatican City Mayor speechless.
I hadn’t slept at all the night before, preparing for my departure. As I tried to doze off, the Christian’s subliminal sermon penetrated my brain like pincers from an Inquisitor’s torture cabinet: his parents were part of Opus Dei; our Heavenly Blessed Pope visited and forgave his Turkish assassin in his prison cell, and yadda yadda. Oy! I left New York for this?
We made one rest stop on the way to Pittsburgh, just in time for a sudden rainstorm. The girl down the aisle smiled at me as she passed me in the 7-11. The latin family across from me didn’t return to the bus within the 20 minutes allotted by our driver, causing him to drive to the freeway entrance and gun his motor for 10 minutes, fuming. When they finally ran up, wet and anxious, he lectured them severely. Chastened, we rode on through the night, making it to Pittsburgh at midnight for an hour layover to change buses and drivers.
[to be continued]
Cabbed from Penn Station over to
the Port Authority, where Greyhound always runs, always has space. During the 3-hour wait for departure, I stumbled into the little cafeteria I’d been in the very first night I came here: New Year’s Eve, 2002, and that’s saying something because the Port Authority Terminal is a multi-level maze of entrances, stairways, gates and shops in which one can easily get totally lost.Back then, I’d driven 500 miles in my Geo Prism all the way from Columbus over the fogbound mountains of Pennsylvania, arriving in Secaucus, New Jersey, at 10 pm, where I finally found a motel room (major feat on New Year’s Eve – so many were by the hour only, on that night). At the bus stop into the City, I met a guy who took me under his wing, amused that I’d come all the way from San Francisco for New Year’s Eve in NYC.
The end of the line was the PA and my newfound friend took me 4 blocks down 8th Avenue to a bar full of show people in mid-celebration, where he intended to roost for the night. I wanted to go to Times Square though, so, telling him I’d come back after midnight, I started walking down Eighth, trying to find a way to get over to Seventh and Times Square, but because of “heightened security” the cops had blocked every street.
For 10 blocks I walked. After enduring 2 checkpoints, the crowd I was in was funneled into a “corral,” a half block-long area surrounded by blue barricades,manned by dozens of cops. In the distance we could see the Square. This was my first experience with what New York City had become.
I love crowd surfing, but we could only be good cattle this night. A couple years later, I discovered the police had completely crushed the Critical Mass movement by calling the bicyclists “terrorists,” setting safe biking in Manhattan back many years. They did the same thing during the Republican Convention in 2004, setting freedom in America back many years. I could only wonder if it had been any different before 9-11.
It was a mild night – high 40s. New Year’s came and went without much celebration. I noticed lots of girls hitting on the cops; it’s so true about some women and a uniform, ain’t it?, I walked back to the bar to find my new short, pot bellied friend completely shit-faced. He slurringly told me the 1st was his birthday and since I’m a Capricorn, too, I asked how old he was.
He was a year younger than me. Lordy! Is this what living in the East does to you? I found out later the answer to that question is — yes.
He’d spent all his money and I was in no mood to drink anymore, so we na
vigated the 4 blocks back to the Port Authority. Our departure gate was 2 floors below the street, but didn’t leave for 45 minutes. Next to the gate was that little cafeteria.I was hungry and I figured my friend needed some coffee badly. So I bought a hot dog and coffee for me plus one for him. As I handed him the cup I witnessed the most truly amazing sight of the evening. He began by first twirling around right by the condiment counter experiencing the vertigo that sometimes comes from severe drunkenness. On the 3rd twirl, he began projectile vomiting. A few more twirls and he stopped, then fell flat on his back, a felled tree amongst the forest of high chairs and tables, still vomiting like a whale spewing water from its blowhole.
Then he passed out and started snoring. Without a second’s hesitation, a latin guy was at my side, discussing these events. Could he be having an epileptic seizure? An older black lady said leave him alone. Two Port Authority cops came in, hovering around him. He regained consciousness and wanted to catch his bus and go home, but the cops weren’t going to allow him to go anywhere except maybe to Bellevue or the drunk tank.
While he argued with them, I got on the bus. My East Coast adventure had begun.
And now 5 years later, here I was in that small restaurant again. An old woman sat next to me. She badly needed a shave and a bath. On the other side of her, a 30-ish dished-out blonde was reading the Post, pointedly ignoring my neighbor’s attempts to chat. Cursing the blonde and NYC in general, she told me she was on her way to an ashram upstate.
Go figure. Maybe she was my last beacon from the East. Had I come full circle?
The bus left on time, a no nonsense black driver at the helm. A Christian 3 rows back started explaining “things” to his Asian seatmate as if giving a sermon in the Church of Greyhound. He spoke for 6 hours straight. I’ll bet you didn’t know the infallibility of the Pope is protected by God: if the Blessed Father attempts to say something not true our Blessed Lord will knot up his tongue rendering our Blessed Vatican City Mayor speechless.
I hadn’t slept at all the night before, preparing for my departure. As I tried to doze off, the Christian’s subliminal sermon penetrated my brain like pincers from an Inquisitor’s torture cabinet: his parents were part of Opus Dei; our Heavenly Blessed Pope visited and forgave his Turkish assassin in his prison cell, and yadda yadda. Oy! I left New York for this?
We made one rest stop on the way to Pittsburgh, just in time for a sudden rainstorm. The girl down the aisle smiled at me as she passed me in the 7-11. The latin family across from me didn’t return to the bus within the 20 minutes allotted by our driver, causing him to drive to the freeway entrance and gun his motor for 10 minutes, fuming. When they finally ran up, wet and anxious, he lectured them severely. Chastened, we rode on through the night, making it to Pittsburgh at midnight for an hour layover to change buses and drivers.
[to be continued]
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