A FRIEND ONCE said that it was too
late for us...too late for love. She said
that if we hadn’t met anyone at college, we
never would. Ridiculous as it sounded, once
I landed my first post-college job and became
resigned to the daily NY/NJ commute—
stepping onto the bus in the predawn
and returning home in the dark of night,
motion-sensored porch lights flickering on at
my approach—I began to believe her.
After all, work was a lonely thing. Stuck
in a cubicle nine hours out of the day, 23
floors up in the midst of a small strip of
buildings off Wall Street, the only thing I really
looked forward to was my daily coffee
break. I’d go two blocks over, to Manon
Café—where they offered a small, complimentary
Leonidas Belgian Chocolate with
each cup of joe—and allow myself to linger
in the long, slow strides I took as I made my
way back to the office.
At the end of the day, I headed directly to
the subway, catching the 2 or 3 up to Port Authority,
where I then stood in a maddeningly
slow line at my gate, followed by a bus ride rife
with starts and stops. Finally, after about 45
minutes, I would disembark, sometimes
sprinting down the last block toward home.
The next morning, it would begin again.
I’d trudge up the block in the predawn, the
only sound the birds in the trees, and stand
at the corner, waiting for my bus.The ride in
was always slower than the ride out, and so
I’d try to force myself into a half-sleep, from
which I’d awaken once we emerged from the
Lincoln Tunnel.Then I’d descend into the
subway tunnels, walking down the steep
slope toward the train. Along the ceiling, a
cruel poem, which I couldn’t help repeating
in my head every morning: “Overslept,/so
tired./If late,/get fired./Why bother?/Why the
pain?/Just go home./Do it again.”
Once the routine became a part of me, it seemed that the only familiar faces I ever saw were the ones on my bus, the 192 Express. Not that I felt compelled to speak to any of them.
I felt claustrophobic on my twice-daily
bus rides, with the people in front of me
leaning their seats back so far they dug into
my knees, and the men next to me spreading
their legs so generously I was left crushed up
against the window, the cold air from the
overhead vents blowing down onto my arm.
One evening, a woman seated behind me
sang softly and without pause the entire ride
home, her voice rising and falling in a sitarlike
drone. By the time I made it home, I
was hyperventilating.
Of course, I tried to scare off all potential
seatmates. I’d stretch and scrunch and angle
my way into window seats, hoping the seat
next to me would appear unattractive to
other passengers due to the low-leaning seat
in front of it. I’d place my bags beside me
and then pretend to be asleep, in the hopes
that people would be reluctant to wake me
up and ask me to move my things. And, no
matter what, I attempted to look as mean as
possible,my eyes blank,my lips pursed and
my headphones turned all the way up, in
order to drown out any and all friendly overtures.
I did this even while waiting on line at
the Port Authority, so that no one could possibly
get the idea that I might be a pleasant
person to sit next to.
I glared at those I found interesting, including
an attractive young man hiding beneath
his own pair of oversized headphones.
I would glower at him and then turn to stare
out the window, as if watching the approaching
buses. I was actually looking at his reflection
in the glass, curious to see if he was
looking back at me, watching me, too. Sometimes,
it seemed that he was.
When I boarded the bus, I’d grab a window
seat halfway back, and then watch for
him, trying to seem indifferent as he consistently
failed to take the empty seat beside
me. Instead, I’d end up with an oversized
seatmate, whose elbow would dig into my
forearm, or that same guy with that same
wide stance, whose knee crowded me into
the corner.
One time, he actually did sit down next to
me, and I held my breath as he settled into
his seat, his arm occasionally brushing up
against mine. I stared self-consciously out the
window and he stared pointedly into his lap,
while the overflow of our headphones mingled
in the air between us.We didn’t speak.
Finally, it happened. I was sitting curled
up at the front of the bus, the thrumming
engine having rocked me to sleep. I was
jolted awake by the bus’s hard brake at Main
Street. It was a highway stop, and I was often
mesmerized by the people disembarking
there, passing in front of the cars taking the
on-ramp for Route 3, and then disappearing
around the curve of the ramp.That night, I
was so absorbed in watching this that I almost
didn’t notice when Mr. Headphones
dropped a folded-up piece of paper onto the
seat next to me before making his way down
the stairs to the street. He finally gestured toward
it with a brusque “here” before fleeing
off into the night.
As I unfolded his note, thinking back on
our strange and silent courtship, I had to
smile. Despite my friend’s earlier proclamation,
it seemed to me that there still was
hope. No matter what she said, I, at least,
had not yet reached the end of the line.
Steph Auteri is a freelance writer with a lot of love in her life…despite not landing a husband at the age of 21. She blogs regularly for Nerve.com, and has also been published in Time Out New York, Playgirl, Tango, AOL’s Lemondrop and other bastions of fine writing.
anonymous
