Words, Words, Words
a.k.a.,
the stuff inside
Nirvana and noodles in aisle nine
Scary but true tales from the toilet
Would the real Erica please stand up?
Diary of a slave to New Jersey Transit
The best import since the Camry
Solitaire only looks sweet and innocent
Seen and heard: Nifty stuff in the news
Stuff that rocks just like Lenny Kravits
If you ever find yourself
in a midtown office building, with nothing to talk about around the water
cooler, try talking about your commute. Even if you live five blocks away,
ask your cubicle-mate about it. Trust me.
Commuting is the one thing most office workers in New York can relate to, since very few of us can afford to live in Manhattan. I live in a crappy neighborhood in New Jersey, and I can barely afford my rent.
So, here's my story: I walk out my door around 7:45 am. I look down Palisades Avenue and see the earlier bus go by. I walk two blocks and cross the avenue and wait outside the Episcopalian church with the red door. The crossing guard, who does not actually stop traffic, just yells at people crossing the street, calls me "Hon" and I wait. Anywhere from five to 20 minutes later, the New Jersey Transit 123 arrives. I sit down and read my book for the next 20 minutes, that is if someone chatty doesn't sit near me. Sometimes I'm lucky and a cute guy sits next to me, but more often than not I have no such luck. I arrive in the lovely Port Authority Bus Terminal and begin walking. I work on Lexington Avenue, on the other side of town. I start out on 41st street, cut through Bryant Park, behind the library then continue on 42nd street. I stop in the deli downstairs, get my blueberry muffin and take the elevator to the 10th floor. I usually get there about 8:45 am. Not too shabby considering I live in a different state.
I lived in Bergen County in northern New Jersey for about three months. Although it is only about a 30 minute drive from my home, my commute was two hours each way. I took a train from Westwood to Hoboken, then the Path to 34th street then I had to walk or take the subway to 42nd street. The plus was that I had plenty of time to read and was probably the only time in my life I could finish and entire issue of Vanity Fair.
These tales are the modern day equivalent of war tales. A former co-worker of mine was on the Long Island Railroad one morning when the train got lost. How can a train get lost? My co-worker said it had to stop and back up to get on the right track. One evening, at about 7 p.m., I had to wait for almost an hour for a bus that is scheduled to come every seven minutes. I've been on a bus that clipped the side-view window off a shiny red car driven by a pretty blonde. I've been on busses that got half way up a hill and conked out. I've been on busses that drove past the Lincoln Tunnel into Hoboken.
Us commuters are a different breed of people. We're non-reactive. We've brought along something to shield us from the rest of the world, a book, magazine or CD player. We communicate with each other with sighs and glances at our watches to mean that the bus is running late. Words are rarely exchanged. That's for the occasional bus passenger, not us serious commuters.
Truth be told, I like my commute. I've read books that I might not have read otherwise. But, a word to the wise, don't read Stephen King's horror novels on the bus. Between the gruesome the text and the swaying of the bus, you can get pretty nauseous. I get to work about the same time every day, rain or shine (even during an ice storm, I'm at my desk while my Long Island colleagues stay at home). I do my best thinking during my cross-town walk when nobody bothers me, except the same homeless man saying, "Coffee, pretty lady?" every day. Somedays, the only solitude I get is when I am surrounded by scores of New Yorkers, trying to get home too.
Now if only there were more cute guys on my bus route, life would be perfect, almost.