Five Days Passing Through

Commuter blues, people I've seen, and hoping for a higher power

Monday

I write to you from the bus.

No, not homeward bound, crossing town on the M86. Nor headed for a few laps at the pool on the M57. And definitely not coasting up Fifth avenue on the M1 still half-drunk with friends after a fun night out.

I write to you from New Jersey Transit on my way to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which I consider the armpit of the New York metropolitan area public transportation system.

I ride the bus for forty-five minutes twice a day, every day. On good days, I catch the bus that stops right in front of my office. On so-so days, I step off the local bus (sometimes while it’s still moving) and sprint through an underutilized parking lot to my stop. On bad days I still sprint, but I miss the bus entirely and am doomed to comb through my contacts for people to call while waiting on the side of the road in the driveway of a remote Burger King.

If I’m honest, it’s not as bad or dramatic as I’m making it out to be. The bus always arrives eventually. I’m lucky that even on my bad days the wait is usually no more than fifteen to twenty minutes. It hasn’t been too cold to stand outside, and when it gets colder, I have my trusty Burger King to fall back on. They stay open until 10 pm.

Still, there are some days when this commute feels all-consuming. My head can’t stop scrolling, refreshing the New Jersey transit app even after I’ve caught my ride back. Whether I read, answer work emails, call a friend, or simply stare into space, I’m tied to this bus. I’m dependent on it. The effort I invest in it exhausts me. Exhaustion ages me. My youth is leaking out the tailpipe all the way through the Lincoln Tunnel.

I worry I’m racking up a lot of wasted time.

Then again, on other days, I’m simply relieved and thankful not to be stranded on the side of a Moonachie highway.

One day on my morning commute I opened the app to see all the transfer buses indefinitely delayed. I dreaded the twenty-minute walk I’d be forced to make in heels along the side of the road. There’s no sidewalk between my office and the express bus stop, but there are plenty of deer and raccoons. I texted a friend at the front desk a little amused but mostly embarrassed about needing a ride. An assistant from another department, who I’d never met, was dispatched to save me.

Ten minutes later he still hadn’t arrived.

“Your boy is lost,” I texted my friend.

“I had a feeling he might be,” he replied.

I called the assistant, who said he didn’t see me. I told him he must be in the wrong place since I was standing by the road, the only soul for a mile, dressed in black-heeled boots, a leather and faux fur duster, and a hot pink hat.

Once he finally found me, I think the sight made a memorable first impression.

Tuesday

Every day I see other people traveling on the bus - doing my commute or some other one - and I am reminded that my life isn’t particularly difficult or trying. A lot of these people probably started taking the bus before me and will still be taking it long after. There’s one stop in front of a Spanish American War Memorial where a bunch of people get on only to get off a few minutes later in front of a Dunkin’ Donuts. What is behind or near that Dunkin’ Donuts to employ so many New Jersey natives? Why do they take the bus as opposed to driving? How long have they been taking it? Do they get as tired of their commute as I do?

Tonight, I catch my first bus but miss the second. I call my mom. Being on the phone with her allows me to exhale. We have a nice talk that I probably wouldn’t have found time for otherwise. I go on and on about my day and everything I did at work. She tells me about the trip she’s going on this weekend and our elapsed holiday break. We both miss each other more after being together over the long weekend. She stays on the phone until the bus arrives.

Unlike some of New York’s more regal transportation centers, Port Authority is all about utility. No one’s here who doesn’t have to be. The colors are dull, as is the fluorescent lighting. It’s not a historic building nor are there many windows. It feels like a basement when you’re on the third floor. Yet I know I’m one of the fortunate ones to be able to pass on through this manifestation of purgatory. I race down the escalator, out the door, onto the subway, click clack down the blocks to my apartment where I bolt the door, turn the heater on, and scrounge around my fridge for a snack. Some are not so lucky.

Lots of people can’t leave purgatory.

If they do it’s because they’ve been kicked out. Then, where do they go?

Wednesday

The walk to the Port Authority isn’t pretty. It’s the most commercial stretch of Times Square. I’ve never liked Madame Tussauds and I don’t find the enormous neon Target dog endearing. The streets seem dirtier now than when I’ve come here for a Broadway show. A while back there was human shit on the subway steps that didn’t come off for a week.

I’ve always loved Times Square and hate to think it’s losing its brassy, ballsy luster. It’s a place full of New York history and possibilities, but it doesn’t feel that way when you’re dodging holiday tourists, being called a bitch by a stranger, and having a 50-foot Kardashian billboard thrown in your face.

Today is an insane day at work. The big shots head out to dinner allowing me to catch the early bus. In the process of cleaning up my desk I almost forget to watch the clock. I wave goodbye and leave the same assistant who picked me up on the side of the road. He has to move a massive TV stand by himself. I feel terribly guilty about it, but not guilty enough to miss the bus.

Another assistant who takes transit to work is already waiting at our stop. She waves to me wildly as I sprint to join her. After, she tells me after I arrive that she would have made them wait. We gab and gossip all the way to the 1 train. The time flies by.

Thursday

When you commute every day, you get to know the regulars. The vet on crutches outside the 42nd street entrance. The smiling man who sits on the third-floor bench by the busses but never seems to go anywhere. The man with a blanket on his lap who leans against the podium in front of the escalator. There are also one-offs: the woman who talks to herself with caked-on layers of powder foundation and red lipstick; the guy sleeping on the 41st street stairs; the woman with a large suitcase who asked me to buy her a sandwich. They make a lasting impression, but whenever I look for them a second time they’re not there.

I never used to feel melancholy in transit. Maybe I just didn’t take the train during rush hour. But now I look around at people’s exhausted faces and feel sorry for them or sorry for myself before realizing it’s time to snap out of my indulgent self-pity. I think about where they’re going and how much time we’re all investing in getting from one place to the next. I think about the regulars at Port Authority and how little separates me from joining them: luck, inherited wealth, genetics, supportive parents, an addictive personality. It affects me more than it ever used to. Surrounds me more than I can recall in the past, but maybe that’s my brain playing tricks on me. 

This morning I’m on the train when I see a story about Eric Adams, New York’s mayor, and his policy giving NYPD the power to forcibly remove people deemed “mentally unstable” from the street. Whether they pose a danger to themselves and others or not. Whatever “care” is attached to forced institutionalization won’t solve the problem. I imagine it will rip away the last autonomy some people have left.

I sit on the train across from a man likely experiencing homelessness. I know he is struggling not from his clothes or shoes or smell, but from his eyes. My community service director in high school always spoke about dignity. How people are ignored every day and giving someone a smile can mean something. I think about that a lot. I wish it was easier for me to give people that, but I still try.

When I step off the subway, I watch a woman leave a granola bar for a man sleeping on the train platform. She barely even stops. It’s a fluid moment of generosity that’s been perfected by time and instinct. It moves me so much that I stop in my tracks, something commuting New Yorkers almost never do. I check the time, then dig in my bag for something to leave. A bag of popcorn. I curse the fact that I don’t have anything more substantial or nutritious. I decide it’s better than nothing.

I keep meaning to get something for the guy who sits by the pillar at Port Authority. Every day this week I’ve passed him but didn’t have any cash. I look for him again, but today, he isn’t here.

These encounters over the past few months have been enough to make me pray. When people ask my religion, I identify as a Catholic. I feel I’m entitled to after fifteen years of catholic school. Still, it’s very rare that I clasp my hands to give thanks to God or ask for something. It’s rare that the world overwhelms me enough - that I feel powerless enough - to pray. I journal, I cry, I throw something, I talk to everyone and anyone before considering it as an option.

Yet, I’ve done it twice in the past month.

Friday

That woman who wanted a sandwich (once we got to the deli counter, she decided on a burger) hasn’t been back, but I keep looking for her. It seemed like the guy at the deli might have known her, but I haven’t gone back to ask. If I think about how little I’ve done and can do life feels insurmountable. I pray she’s somewhere better than Port Authority now with a burger and improved circumstances because I have to.

I have faith I won’t be walking through the Port Authority forever. Not literally because for all that I complain about it, New Jersey Transit isn’t that bad. I just want the loneliness to let up. All this transit is solitary and it weighs on you if you can’t steel yourself and keep a single-minded focus on your destination. The other day I watched the viral pizza rat video from years gone by and felt so much sadness for the rat who couldn’t carry his slice of pizza the full way to his subway cave. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes over something so absurd because he, like so many other New Yorkers on the MTA, was simply trying to make it home.

It’s possible the sadness and the prayers and the hopes for the woman who wanted a burger or for the guy who sleeps on the subway stairs are necessary. They push me to do my part in the delicate ecosystem of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. A place that despite its shortcomings manages to keep random acts of human kindness alive and offer lessons from women with granola bars about how to be a human being.

Today I see the holiday decorations that have been newly hung around the station. I’m surprised and happy to see something so festive in a place that feels anything but. So, at my favorite time of year, a time known for charity and love and the spirit of giving as well as an increase in suicide and depression, I find my least favorite place can still make me smile. Maybe what’s wrong with the world can still become right. Luck can turn around. Streets caked in dirt can be cleaned. Wasted time can hold lessons. And those of us stuck together waiting for the bus or waiting for whatever reason can find peace.

A photo of purgatory that makes me inexplicably happy.

A Note from the Author

This is a melancholy entry, but it’s actually being published in the middle of a great week!

I don’t want you to think everything in my corner of the world has been all doom and gloom, because, for all the difficult days, I still love New York. Since I wrote this my train rides have gone so smoothly, almost as if transit knows I’ve been talking shit about it. And Times Square looks great in the rain.

Outfit of This Era:

Monday’s work outfit. One of my all time favorites even though it’s hiding a bit under the coat.

Recommendations for This Era:

• Afterparties by Anthony Veasna So - I’m only three stories into this collection of shorts, but thus far it’s one of my favorite things I’ve read all year.

• Advent Calendars

• “You Ought to Know” by Alanis Morissette

• Muffins

• Dressing up for work (I’m not advocating for business casual here)

• Tea. All kinds of tea!¹

• Getting into the Holiday spirit (whatever that may mean to you!)

Resources for This Era:

I feel in no way qualified to give advice about how to help people struggling in NYC, but in the interest of something being better than nothing, I’ve included some links below.

• The Coalition for the Homelessness in New York

• More information on the state of homelessness in New York City in 2022

• New York Cares Coat Drive

• Midnight Run - I was part of this program in high school and saw it do a lot of good for my community.

• New Alternatives - Supports displaced LGBTQ+ Youth

• The Bowery Mission

• Time Out’s 8 Organizations to Help the Homeless in NYC

I also encourage you to do your own research and find out the best ways to give back to your neighborhood!

1. It’s the perfect winter drink.