OK, so not too much to relate so far, but a quick update before I head out for the day.
So I jet last night from work at 4:45 pm to make the 5:30 pm Greyhound express. Figure I’ll have to wait a bit at Port Authority for Tim to get out of his show, but I’d rather be in the terminal than on a bus. So I haul ass, well, as much as I can considering I had three bags, onto the T, get my ticket, and get in line at 5:15 pm. Only one person in front of me. Sweet.
So yea, at 5:50 pm, I’m still standing there. I must have worn a shirt that was mistaken for a Greyhound Employee Standard Issue, since every person who got in line or thought about getting in line barraged me with questions. It didn’t help that the bus in front of us was not a Greyhound (or Peter Pan), yet people mysteriously kept getting on and off it, circumventing the oh-so-modern notion of a LINE to further complicate my futility. Then, the lady behind me starts to tell me her LIFE STORY. I had been reading Dennis Lehane, and was seriously contemplating my role as the antagonist in his new novel, “I Done Killed Someone In Line for the New York Express Bus”.
Turns out, the bus in question was going from Portland, Maine, to NYC, with the Boston stop as a layover, so anyone who made the initial leg of the journey could go and off as they pleased, due to leave Boston at 6. As for the 5:30 bus, well, apparently that was an elaborate fiction, a hoax perpetrated by the Greyhound website to fool six of us into believing their lies. Just…ugh. It’s the cheapest way to get from Boston to NYC, and you get what you pay for.
So fine, we get on the bus, and it’s not too crowded. Pick a seat with no one in front of back of me. Can stretch out, and all that good junk. God knows I need the stretch room. If I have a passenger in the seat next to me, I all but have my knees above my chin. While that may turn three of you on, believe me, it’s not a fun position to hold for 4 hours. There’s a reason that “Uncomfortable on a Bus” is not a yoga position. And then, because God hates me for not going to church, He places the last two passengers in the seat directly in front and directly in back. Dude in front of me shoots his chair into my knees with great vengeance and furious anger, and then has the nerve to look surprised when I switch over one seat.
As for the woman behind me, well, she talked for the entire 4 hour trip, which wouldn’t have irked me so much, except that I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what she was saying or who she was talking to. Not a clue. Might have been using a headless cord for a cell phone, since she clearly was engaged in a call and response conversation. No monologue here. She clearly was talking to someone. Whether this was her sister or Harvey the Rabbit, though, is unclear. Just bugged me. You can only turn up Lucinda Williams so loud on your headphones, after all. Between her and Super Snoring Guy across from me, I had a dissonant symphony of sorts. Go Greyhound, everyone. Go Insane.
So, get into NYC, meet Tim, and head back to the Fortress of Solitude (look, that’s wha he calls it, I’m just reporting the facts, ma’am). Watch the epic battle between the A’s and Sox. Watch the epic battle between David Justice and the English Language. Finally, I can’t take the commentary, and ask Tim to throw on some music. So he cues up the CD in his player. I soak in the music for a bit. And then I say, “Uh, Tim, isn’t this from the musical ‘Anything Goes’?” He doesn’t even look at me, and nods in silent, resigned agreement. The Red Sox, unlike her baby, were not the top, though. (Four of you got that. To the rest, I apologize. Just pretend like it never happened.)
(Best exchange of the night came everytime a local strip club showed ads during the game. “Tim, can we go to Gallagher’s?” “No.” “Tim, can we…” “No.” Never got old. My asking if the strippers used sledgehammers on watermelons as part of their act was severely underappreciated by Tim. That was funny, man.)
Frickin’ Cole Porter scoring our viewing of the game. To be fair, it did put a slight bounce in our mood, cuz God knows the Sox weren’t doing it for us. I ended up crashing at 1:30 am, with the game still in progress. Turns out I didn’t have to stay up after all.
So my body decided to lapse into a coma, and here I am, after 11 hours and one bizarre “Survivor” dream later, ready to take on the day. Long one ahead, too. Meeting a friend at 3, we cavort until 7:30, then meet 5 others to see Tim’s play, then late night carousing with friends. And I can do so because I, like Derek Jeter, use my Visa card.
Frickin’ Jeter.
Frickin’ Red Sox.
I need a hug.