Portal Authority

 

Remember those stories, where the author asks us to take a leap of faith with them, to suspend reality as we go through a hole, maybe a trap door in a closet, or sit in a tree house that can travel through time to get the main characters (and through them the reader) to a magical place where there are dragons and elves or princes and princesses, or other flights of fancy?

You know the stories like:Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Magic Tree House series, The Chronicles of Narniaprobably come to mind.

Due to the scattershot workings of my mind, I was recently thinking about the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City. My thoughts turned to going to our camp reunions in the days before I had a license or a car and I thought of how I would get there. I thought the similarity of the words port/portal  was apropos as that bus terminal was our trap door in a closet, our Magic Tree House to the special worlds of trees and grass, lakes and rivers, mountains and valleys…outside the city.

City kids of a certain age, those of us who grew up in Gotham before Guiliani& Bloomberg cleaned it up, will tremble a bit at the thought of this portal, our trap door to travel to the leafier confines outside the five boroughs. ThePort Authority?Dun DunDun.Holy shit! Talk about a crucible, a labyrinth. Man that place made even street-wise kids put their wallets in their front pockets. It was a metal and concrete behemoth just west of Times Square, I don’t know how many stories high, a hulking mass of bus fumes, street walking hookers, con men, homeless vets, punks, litter and the suburban rubes who had to travel in and out of the city every day to the greener pastures of Upstate New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and beyond!

 

Oh to be one of those rubes, gulp. We were warned, by our peers, street smart guys from the neighborhood, wizened adults and of course our parents about taking the bus from Port Authority.

Don’t ask anyone questions! These people sense fear.

Act like you know exactly where you’re going!

Do NOT trust anyone. Most people are on the make.

Are you sure you can’t get a ride?

 

The thought of heading into the Port Authority to exit the Big Apple could make your knees knock. Before the first trip, there was a genuinefear that if you engaged in a conversation with the wrong dude, you might never be found again. The possibility of getting gutted by a knife in the bathroom seemed like something that I should protect against, as if someone might drag me into the bathroom by force because there was NO WAY I would use a public restroom in the subway, let alone the Port Authority. Stories circulated in our neighborhood of people who went to Port Authority and didn’t come out the same person, urban legends like…Johnny T took some acid he bought at the Port Authority and now look at him? His mom breaks out into tears every time she sees him. Last I heard he thought he was a can opener, he’s living on the streets in Hells Kitchen…he’s practically homeless.

From our neighborhood, there were many reasons a young adult, a teenagermight have to go through the Port Authority.  Most often it was my trips to camp reunions or I might be visiting a girlfriend or maybe a group of us would organize a camping trip up to Harriman State Park. If I couldn’t get a ride(man it was nice to have friends with cars) Port Authority was the last option. Eventually, a necessary evil, one that might be worth the risk if those special places outside the city were really calling you.

From our neighborhood you’d take the F train, switch to the A at Jay Street and then exit the A at 42^nd Street. From there you wind up meandering the dank, graffiti-covered tunnels, reading the billboards, following the signs, keeping up with the crowds, to emerge “inside” the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

And here it comes…

Spare some change?

Pssst, Sense, Sense, Sensimillion?

Thai Stick?

As I walk, the advice of friends echoing in my head…Keep walking. Don’t make eye contact and whatever you do, don’t ask anyone a question! Act like you know where you’re going. As a last resort, if you’re not sure , your head is starting to spin, find a suburbanite, look for Regular-Joe Commuter, they are there…and grab onto them like a life preserver.

It’s an interesting performance, to act like you know where you’re going when the maze seems limitless and fraught with danger.  You hear the voices and there’s the fear that a decision of yours might result in you losing your wallet, getting stabbed, or even worse….To act cocky while we have no clue, that’s the city-kid recipe for survival… That’s how we make it through life…

I always chuckle and think that I should get a piece of cheese at the end after successfully wending my way up the twists and turns of the subway and Port Authority tunnels, considering the subway’s reputation for rats and all.

Mind is racing as you go…Follow the signs, we’re cool, we know what we’re doing. Find the right bus company…damn, look at all the choices. Why didn’t somebody tell me the name of the bus company? Hey this isn’t so bad, seems like quite a few normal people around. She’s kind of cute. But hey, I’m going to visit my girlfriend. 
Where’s the bus company that serves…Rockland County? He’s clearly a father, a business man, he’s not going to rob me, I could ask him…

“Excuse me, do you know…

And of course it works out. There are plenty of helpful people around. Mr. Commuter is someone’s father, smiles at your anxiety and gives you foolproof directions.  If he’s going to the same bus as you, might even say, “I’m heading that way, bus is in 11 minutes, buy your ticket and you can follow me.”

Once on the bus, we double-check, “Excuse me, is this the bus to Spring Valley and Nanuet?” 

Whew, made it, now just relax, open my book and watch the scenery. 

The bus gets more and more crowded. Try to make myself intrusive, large, so nobody sits next to me. Veteran commuters come in, stow their briefcases and duffel bags overhead, put their headphones on (Walkman headphones not earbuds) open their books, most nod off to sleep.  When the bus is just about full, we begin to drive. Big noises, squeaking brakes, lurching buses, horns beeping, traffic…exiting the Port Authority on the bus, is similar to getting into the Port Authority…twists and turns and dark tunnels. Eventually some of the ramps are outdoors, we can orient ourselves…there’s the West Side Highway over there, Empire State Building...It seemed that most buses, no matter where I was heading, would take the Lincoln Tunnel and then head West, North or South after that.  After many stops at various odd places for bus stops, hotels, smaller bus terminals…I would be excited to exit the bus, finally into the welcoming embrace of a friend…

Coming back…After a two or three day breather, a scrubbing off of the city grime  if you will, with Fresh Air, sunshine, greenery, we had to get back on the same bus, and reverse the trip. Ugh, what a sad trip that always was, watching my girlfriend get smaller and smaller in the bus window as I prepare to retrace my steps, to reenter the city through the same maze was a shock to the system. I love the city, always have but it was at those moments of reentry, after being cleansed of the city’s grit, that New York seemed so much dirtier, the litter, the graffiti, the rats, were depressing. The city felt even dirtier than before being juxtaposed with the places I had left. Those were the rare moments when I could see why someone would say, “How do you live in the city?”  But it was always a fleeting thought, after the initial shock to the system, instinct and survival mode would take over.

Once you made the trip once, the turns, the bus companies that service each area, the windows where you buy your tickets became familiar. The labyrinth becomes less intimidating every time you cruise through Port Authority like a crafty veteran. Head down, hold your belongings close, get your ticket, follow the crowd to your bus, grab a seat and open your book, you’re home free, so to speak. Enjoy the ride. And like many things that once seemed so scary, not so much anymore. I’m still thankful that I have a car, and I don’t think I’ve been inside the Port Authority since Reagan was in the White House. Happy Trails.