Friday, Port Authority Bus Station: I got a ticket to ride, oh I got a ticket to ride all right. The lovely Greyhound 2437, Express: three hours to my destination.  I’m visiting a friend in another city, and roundtrip it’s $150 cheaper than the train. I’m racing through the bus station looking for Gate #26, which I think might be my gate if I’m reading the ticket correctly. I’m not. At Gate #26, a homeless man sleeps at the doorway.

Back at the information counter, there’s a line of seven people. I have fifteen minutes till my bus departs. In a panic, I turn to the person behind me. “Do you know any better than I know how to figure out your gate?” She does. She points to the clearly written, large red-lettered “74” on the front of my ticket sleeve. “You’re a genius,” I say, “and a life saver. Thank you.” And I go running off to Gate #74. She’s now one step closer to the front of the line.

At Gate #74, the woman smiles at my T-shirt, a boast for the local neighborhood association. “Hells Kitchen, all right. You’re a local. Don’t worry about the bag, I’ve looked enough. Don’t let him get your place in line. You’re set.” She doesn’t glance through my belongings at all, just blue stamps my ticket. 

I don’t know what to think …

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