“Port Authority is the most depressing place on Earth.” she says and she may not be wrong. Like so many things in New York, the bus terminal wasn’t built to impress anyone, but simply to serve a very necessary purpose: like helping the two of them, Jamie and Sam, move out of the city.
They sit and wait at the gate, surrounded by all that they now own–nearly two years worth of possessions–on Sunday morning. The place is nearly dead except for the homeless people just waking up and the Port Authority Police trying to get them out. It’s almost silent because the two of them don’t have anything much else to say to one another, don’t really care about one another anymore, but he tries.
“Here’s looking
at
you kid…” “Here’s looking at you kid…” Sam says with a smile, not really referencing an old movie, but an old life; a life of tiny theaters showing classic films, of discussing cinema over 8 dollar beers, of being filmmakers at night and ‘production assistants’ by day. She doesn’t respond, so he adds “If you don’t get on this bus to Jersey now, you’re going to regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow…” Still nothing, he gives up.
“You know, Jersey’s not so bad.” She says, thinking his words were a slight, “I mean, all my friends and family are there and it’s so much easier to get a job.”
“Yeah.” He says, having told himself the same thing for weeks, since doing the math.
“And we’ll come back, of course, once we save up some money. I think I definitely want to raise my kids here.”
A homeless man comes up and begs for change. Sam has none–I mean, really, has none. It temporarily stops the first conversation these ex-lovers have had since deciding to give up, both accusing the other of living on “Mommy and Daddy’s dime”.
“What time does your bus leave?” he asks, once the tired old man has moved on.
“8:22, I think, about. Yours–”
“8:30.”
“I’m actually kind of glad we’re leaving early, so I can hook up with some old friends today before work tomorrow. There’s a bar called ‘The Old Greene’ where all the people from my High School who still live in town usually go on Sunday nights. ”
“What are they going to have you doing–the job, I mean.” He asks.
“Well, the position is ‘assistant producer’ and it’s a creative position, I mean it may not sound like that, and I know it’s just a local station, but it could be really good for me. What about you, you have any jobs lined up?”
“Um, I’m looking at a few things.” He always was. He was looking at a few things while he went broke last month.
“Yeah, Jersey’s not bad at all” she repeats, ignoring him. “My parent’s place is actually pretty nice–”
“Maybe…maybe we could stay another day, just one.” He says, when its gotten silent. “Do something in the city we’ve never done,” he’s getting excited and turns to her sharply, “Like I’ve never seen Grant’s Tom–”
“These are fifty dollar tickets–”
“We could refund them and–”
“You can’t refund bus tickets and…I want to go home!” She insists, angry at the return of irresponsibility that had already cost them so much.
It’s quiet now; they both stare off as the line of people near Gate 121 starts to build. Eventually the bus comes and he helps her throw her things in the storage compartment. She’s about to board.
“You know,” she says, “we should get together in Jersey some time. Maybe at my parent’s place by the shore.”
“Yeah” he says.
They share a cold hug and she heads off to New Jersey for her new life. It’s now 8:25; Sam goes back inside, the once large pile of bags has now become one bag. Everything he owns fits nicely in there. He leaves it; somehow it feels better to start from nothing than a tiny, tiny bit of something. He takes his ticket out and goes downstairs, to Port Authority’s main desk. They don’t give refunds, of course, and he knows this, but the trip to the counter and back may be just enough time for him to miss is bus.
.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.