Editor’s Note: This story was originally published in 2012. No details have been changed so as to retain the spirit of the original story.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I said to the white-haired gentleman inside the terminal, feeling disinclined to sugar-coat my dilemma.
The man stood nonchalantly in the aisle-way, a gold SUPERVISOR tag pinned above his left pocket. He listened patiently as I told him the location of the Broadway bus-stop nearest my apartment; all the while he peered at me over oval bifocals, with eyes that seemed to whisper, “This girl will never survive this…” Moreover, his lack of urgency oddly contrasted the busied crowd bustling in and out of the Kennedy Plaza Bus Terminal.
Having walked out of the plaza and towards my mother’s silver Saab sedan, I felt slightly relieved. Although planning a bus route to work proved more challenging than anticipated, I had figured out step one and had a game-plane for getting to work this week.
I wonder what his name was.
Erin Rides the Bus 