Brussels vs. Hellhole

January 28, 2016January 28, 2016 / Erica Herd / 4 Comments

(google images – Brussels)

According to the Merriam Webster online dictionary, a hellhole is defined as “a place of extreme misery or squalor.” The urban dictionary defines it as “a place you dread or hate.”

How Donald Trump equated Brussels with “hellhole,” I’ll never truly grasp. Here is a blurb from his anti-Brussels rant:

“You go to Brussels. I was in Brussels a long time ago—20 years ago—so beautiful, everything’s so beautiful. It’s like living in a hellhole right now,” Trump told Fox.

Brussels has not fared well since it is believed that part of the November 15 attacks on Paris were planned there.

Nevertheless, a “hellhole”?

Apparently Trump hasn’t spent any time at Port Authority Bus Terminal.

As comedian John Oliver said, it is “also known as the single worst place on Planet Earth.”

It’s not so funny for those of us who commute on a daily basis, but it is our personal reality.

If Trump ever spent a week commuting via NJ Transit to and from Port Authority, I believe he would understand the true meaning of hellhole. That is my wish for him: a week commuting like the rest of us working slobs.

(all Port Authority photos by E. Herd)

Scary Self-Talker

July 23, 2015July 23, 2015 / Erica Herd / 7 Comments

google images

It started with the man in the seat across from me talking to himself, or so I thought, until I saw his ear buds and realized he was on the phone. A thin man in shades and a white button down shirt sat next to me. His right leg pushed into mine—yes, the man-spread—and then the right elbow into my left arm. I gave him a quick once-over, hoping he’d understand that meant “stop it.” He spread for a while, then unspread. Unlike most of the other commuters, he had no “occupation”: he wasn’t reading, talking on the phone, texting, doing makeup, clipping his nails, or perusing a newspaper or kindle. Then it began.

“Whatever you say, dear,” he said. It had an eerie quality to it.

I wondered if he was talking to me.

It was neither spoken in full voice nor a whisper.

I half-glanced in his direction, hoping to see a Bluetooth or ear buds, letting me know that he was on the phone. No Bluetooth or ear buds. His elbow bumped me again, but I let it go.

The muttering continued. I listened to Pandora radio on my iPhone, hoping to block it out. At the “tear drop” toll plaza, it gained momentum.

I had the sense that this man might be unstable, so I no longer even half-glanced in his general direction, fearing that he might lash out. I thought of the man on the Greyhound bus who decapitated his dozing seatmate. Did he have a knife?

I was afraid to doze off listening to music as I often do. Of course, this was nuts, right? Or not.

“If you see something, say something,” says the MTA, and NJ Transit advises us on billboards and the sides of buses to “text against terror.” Well, what do you do if you think your seatmate is a serial killer? I was trapped, a sitting duck.

I vowed to remain alert for the remainder of the trip. I scrunched myself into a tight ball so as not to offend him or let him think his thigh or elbow were in my way. That was no longer an issue. The issue was STAYING ALIVE.

Perhaps if he pulled something out of his back pocket, I could crawl under the seat in front of me or divert the weapon with one of the basic boxing moves my husband taught me.

It seemed we were stalled at the tear drop for an eternity, and my seatmate was not happy at all. The mumbling and shifting in his seat continued. If only I could see his eyes beneath the shades. Maybe I could reason with him, tell him my name so he viewed me as a person, not a potential victim.

If only we could pass through the tear drop. Finally, we were on our way. The muttering was less agitated. Phew! Perhaps he would spare my life.

When we arrived at Port Authority, he jumped out of his seat and forged ahead, which, as a rule, I find rude. Bus etiquette (unspoken) requires one to wait their turn to exit, meaning the people in the front row exit first and subsequent rows thereafter. In this case, I didn’t mind. The sooner he left, the better. Another white knuckle ride with NJ Transit.

The Man with the Handlebar Mustache

July 22, 2015 / Erica Herd / 7 Comments

(photo by Darrell Miller)

Ascending the escalator towards Gate 224 was a gentleman in a pin-striped navy suit jacket, lemony linen shorts and boat shoes. We stood on the same line for the express bus.

He turned around, looking in the direction of hopefully soon-to-be oncoming buses, and said, “What do you think will come next, a 162 or 163T?”

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as if we were playing a game. His white handlebar mustache and round greenish-brown-tinted sunglasses added to his mystique.

I smiled and said, “I don’t know. I leave it to you.”

“I predict it will be a 162: they usually follow the 144.”

He had the mien of George Plimpton or Peter O’Toole: the height, the long limbs, the carriage, the comfort in his own skin. Underneath the jacket he wore a button-down dress shirt and delicately patterned pink bow tie.

Within five minutes, the 162 bus barreled through. The gentleman turned around at me and smiled. I smiled back.

“You were right!” I said.

No smugness in his victory, only playfulness and fun.

I wondered about him—did he own a yacht, why did he live in New Jersey, why would a man like him take the bus?

A young man standing between us on line turned to me and said, “Do you want to sit together?”

“No, we don’t know each other,” I said.

The gentleman exited the bus in Hackensack. I didn’t picture him as a Hackensack resident. He seemed more a Cherry Hill sort, but that’s another bus line. A Billy Joel line ran through my head, “Who needs a house out in Hackensack, is that all you get for your money?”

People continue to amaze me. I suppose that’s a good thing.

Giant Elbow Thug

May 1, 2015 / Erica Herd / 10 Comments

photo by Bonnie Natko

Giant elbow nudges me
I inch closer to the window
to avoid its harass
Elbows need no words
They let you know with a poke
you are not welcome here

I was not in the mood
for elbows this morning
I prayed they would leave
and take their human with them
Sometimes you get what you ask for

They got up and moved to
another seat
Perhaps in search of another body’s
space to invade or
in search of a wider stance
Either way
I am happy

Night Crawlers

April 26, 2015April 26, 2015 / Erica Herd / 13 Comments

Wally Gobetz (Port Authority Bus Terminal Subway Station, “Losing My Marbles” by Lisa Dinhofer)

10 p.m. It’s the bewitching hour at Port Authority Bus Terminal. It’s when the changeover occurs, from Commuter-land to Weirdo-ville. Even the gate numbers change. Bus 163 now arrives at Gate 409 instead of Gate 224. An endless corridor leads you to the 400 gates, or maybe it feels like that because you’re more tired. There are more tourists, young people, revelers, down-and-outs and oddballs.

It was Friday night after seeing a show. I thought the next bus was at 10:50, but that was the 164. The next 163 came at 11:05. Twenty minutes till then. The line was long.

“Can you take my jacket off? I’m like sweatin’, oh shit!” said a woman sprawled on a couple of those plastic pull-down plastic seats that can barely accommodate a toddler’s ass.

She was a dead ringer for Roseanne Barr, but much younger, in gray leggings and a loose black blouse. She was soused and loud.

Her boyfriend or the guy with her was a lean Latino of average height wearing a baseball cap. She addressed him and seemingly anyone in earshot.

She commented on a woman passing by, “A white girl got ass, what? Damn! I tell everybody to shut the fuck up.”

I could not hear what her boyfriend was saying, but I think he was trying to quiet her down.

“This be gettin’ some tonight,” she said, pointing to her crotch. “I’m gonna fuck him tonight.”

“What, you don’t like it?” She cackled, Roseanne Barr-like.

Finally the 11:05 pulled in.

The boyfriend led the girl to the back of the bus. I sat 3/4 towards the back.

A woman with two small children sat towards the back of the bus.

A white guy and the drunk girl continued shout-talking, every other word punctuated by “fuck” or “fuck you up.”

A 20 to 30-something African American man said, “Please, man, there’s children in here.”

“Fuck you!” the white guy said.

“Hey, I’m trying to reason with you, bro. Have some respect.”

“You wanna take it outside?”

The bus driver seemed oblivious to the back room antics.

“Come on, man, take it easy,” the African American man said.

“You gonna have to bail me out,” the loud guy said.

I fantasized about the bus driver stopping, letting the two guys off to settle their differences, bloody mayhem ensuing.

It felt like an eternity of back and forth, one guy shouting threats and curses and the other trying to stay calm and reasonable.

Sanity prevailed. By the time the African American guy was exiting the bus, the two had settled their differences.

“I’m just trying to get home,” the African American man said.

“Me too, bro. It’s all good,” the other guy said.

Peace, aside from the intermittent cackle from young Roseanne Barr.

Then she, her boyfriend and the white guy disembarked as well.

Heaven. I closed my eyes and relaxed for the rest of the ride home.

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

April 1, 2015April 1, 2015 / Erica Herd / 9 Comments

Once a week or so, I treat myself to a real cup of coffee in the morning. By “real,” I mean non-office coffee, not that there’s anything wrong with it: it’s Green Mountain coffee in Keurig cups and it’s not bad. But I really enjoy the coffee at Au Bon Pain, better than at Starbucks or any other local coffee café. Better still, it’s conveniently located in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, right before the glass doors leading to the subway. Only a couple other commuters graced the Pain today—must be due to Holy Week—so no pushing and shoving or waiting to grab your package of sweetener or pitcher of milk product to complete the morning elixir.

While I was carefully mixing my ambrosial brew, I overheard one of the baristas (not sure if it’s correct to call Pain cashiers baristas since they don’t whip up exotic brews) say, “I’m sick of this song. Every morning, over and over, the same thing.”

“Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from the musical Oklahoma was wafting through unseen speakers.

She was talking to her customer. “I wish they would play something else, or I could hook up my iPod.”

The customer seemed sympathetic, nodding.

She continued, “Yeah, it’s like ‘beautiful morning, beautiful morning’ over and over. It drives me nuts, and it’s on a loop, repeating itself with the same other songs. Dang.”

Her customer said, “Yeah, that must get tiresome.”

I started to feel a bit nostalgic, thinking how much I still enjoyed the song, even though it wasn’t being sung by Gordon MacRae, who played Curly in the 1955 film. It’s always his voice I hear when I think of Oklahoma.

I can see how it might become insufferable to hear the same songs piping in over and over again at your place of work, or anywhere, for that matter. Then I kind of envied her for being able to listen to music at work. In any event, it’s been a fine morning so far.

Preachers on Parade

March 24, 2015March 26, 2015 / Erica Herd / 6 Comments

42nd Street Subway station preacher posters (a bit out of focus because I was afraid the screaming preacher was going to rip my iPhone out of my hand. He and another one were screaming “Abortion is murder!”)

Every day on the ramp from the #7 subway to Port Authority Bus Terminal at 42^nd Street is a kind of mini-carnival of preachers, but last night was a full-fledged parade! They were coming out of the woodwork, I mean, tiles. Everywhere, all ethnicities and ages and temperaments. They almost outnumbered the commuters. Was it annual Preachers Day, and nobody told us?

Among the preachers were:

(1) An unintelligible Korean woman holding a placard and shrieking Bible quotes or condemnations at the passersby.

(2) A Latino man who approached a girl no older than 5 walking hand-in-hand with her mother. He got in her face and said in an admonishing tone, “It’s never too late.” Are you kidding? What sins has she committed? It reminded me of going to confession as a young girl and running out of things to confess. One of my “sins” was interrupting my dad when he was on the phone in his study. If I were that mother, I would have told the guy to leave my kid alone, or perhaps used stronger language.

(3) A white stringy-haired guy standing against the wall, mumbling sotto voce. Too shy to be a preacher, I think.

(4) A young African-American man wearing a brown hoodie with block yellow lettering on the back, “TRUST AND BELIEVE IN JESUS.” He hovered near the pamphlet / chachka table and said nothing. I wonder what his sales are like.

Tons of plaques and posters painted with scripture verses in primary colors, and one of Jesus, head bloodied by thorns, with an ocher backdrop, lined the walls. A painting depicted what looked like a man being lured by a prostitute (oversized woman, smaller man – you get the point) sitting in a come-hither pose. I wasn’t able to make out what it said, will have to check back again tonight.

In the morning, there’s the African-American preacher in Frye boots and cowboy hat and bolo tie, who says, “Do not reject Jesus. Jesus will not reject you.” Listen here:

The energy of these preachers on parade is palpable. If only it could be harnessed and used for the greater good, to solve world problems, or help the poor, homeless and mentally ill and other disenfranchised people. If only they were DOING and HELPING, instead of preaching and accosting the innocent. I guess I could say the same about myself; only difference is, I’m not a preacher, but still, no excuse.

(audio – E. Herd)

Kindergarten Bus

March 3, 2015March 4, 2015 / Erica Herd / 2 Comments

photo – Howard County Library System

Every morning, I turn on CBS news to check the weather and see what horrors have ensued while I was asleep. The fun part of the morning is John Elliott, the perky meteorologist who lets us know it’s “hug a squirrel day” or “eat peanut butter day”: he must have a special book he looks these things up in. Then there’s Alex Denis with the “Now Trending” segment. She shows us cute youtube videos of animals, children and adults doing the darnedest things and simple acts of kindness.

In the spirit of “Now Trending,” I want to share with you my morning news which I feel is headline-worthy (at least to fellow commuters). It happened on the NJ Transit bus when the driver said, “If you have an empty seat next to you, please raise your hand.” That’s something a teacher would say to her kindergarten class. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The bus driver was quite friendly and I know she didn’t mean to sound condescending. A lady across from me on the other side of the bus sat alone with her tote bag but didn’t raise her hand. Deliberate non-cooperation. For shame. Hey, we’re all in this together, New Jersey commuters. “Jersey Strong,” as Governor Christie says. After all, he’s always looking out for his fellow humans. Maybe she’s a germaphobe, but if that were the case, she wouldn’t be riding the bus at all—it’s filthy!

Back to our bus driver. The drivers should (hate that word—so laden with negativity and dogmatism, but nevertheless) be keeping track of how many passengers have boarded, so the showing of hands would not be needed. In my over 7 years riding the bus, no driver has ever asked us to raise our hands. But there’s a first time for everything, right?

After she took note of the raised hands and more passengers boarded, she said, “Thank you.”

You see, that makes all the difference. Thank you. She asked us to do a thing, and some did, some didn’t, and she thanked us. A little civility goes a long way. That makes it trend-worthy.

As for the lady who didn’t raise her hand, she reluctantly let a stranger sit next to her. As she moved her tote bag from the seat and placed it onto her lap, her face scrunched like a balloon losing air. Did she really think she could hog two seats during rush hour? Just plain rude.

Now, what’s trending with you?

Chuckles, the Bus Driver

February 20, 2015February 20, 2015 / Erica Herd / 4 Comments

Will Russell

Chuckles is the saddest bus driver you ever did see
but he isn’t testy, and he isn’t mean
he picks us up at the same time every day
but when you say “good morning,” he turns the other way

I’ve tried to get through to him, Lord knows I have
hoping on a Friday he wouldn’t be so sad
still sullen as ever, he turns the other cheek
perhaps he’s simply mild-mannered or meek

I wonder if I poked him or brought him a beer
you think that would cheer him, or would he think it queer?
of course, I’d tell him it was for after his shift
wouldn’t want him to get in trouble or drive us into a ditch

Perhaps a mug that says “Best Bus Driver Ever” would do the trick
or would that go against driver / commuter etiquette?
What about Bus Drivers Appreciation Day, I think it would be swell
they certainly deserve it, they go through hell

Commuters yell at them when buses are late
we know they’re not to blame, but sometimes haters gotta hate
we could storm Christie’s office, demand the transit system be improved
but Governor Christie, as we know, has more important things to do

Despite his glum demeanor, I hope Chuckles finds joy
perhaps he’s a Rhodes scholar, and is merely underemployed
at least he has a job, we all know that is a boon
so Happy Friday all, and remember, your bus driver has a heart too.

Chris Christie Tanks in London

February 5, 2015February 5, 2015 / Erica Herd / 4 Comments

Eugene smith

Governor Christie’s 3-day “trade mission” to London paid for by—you guessed it—New Jersey taxpayers has proved fruitless, despite his penchant for “squeezing all the juice out of the orange.”

Christie is a kind of Boss Tweed, taking for himself and his family and leaving New Jerseyans to flounder in the wreckage.

New Jersey is only one of three states where poverty has gone up according to the latest U.S. Census data. (New Mexico and Washington are the two others.) Back in 2007, 8.6 percent of the state lived below the poverty line. That went up to 9.4 percent in 2009 and in 2013 hit 11.4 percent.

A month after being sworn in as NJ governor in 2010, he declared a fiscal state of emergency, and said, “Like any family . . . we must live within our means.” Why doesn’t he do the same?

Previous New Jersey governors have flown commercial for trade missions, but Christie traveled by private plane for three. He takes his family on all the trips and stays in five-star hotels. Taxpayers footed the bill for him, his wife and two aides to travel to the 2013 Super Bowl in New Orleans. Airfare totaled $8,146 for the four and his 3-night hotel bill was $3,371. These costs were only disclosed after The Record, a northern NJ paper, filed a lawsuit and a judge’s order ordered him to do so. In response to other public records requests, the governor’s office has said that he is not subject to disclosure laws regarding travel or that they don’t have the records.

On his first day as governor, Christie promised “a new era of accountability and transparency.” Really?

His administration has been unwilling to disclose basic information such as payroll data without first being sued by various media outlets. The Christie administration is currently battling 23 open-records requests in court.

And what about his personal stake in the World Trade Center:

Less than two years before Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones paid for New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie’s tickets and travel to NFL games, government documents show Christie personally pushed the Port Authority to approve a lucrative contract for a firm part-owned by Jones.

In March 2013, Governor Andrew Cuomo and Governor Christie chose Legends Hospitality LLC (owned by the Dallas Cowboys, New York Yankees and Checketts Partners Investment Fund) to operate the World Trade Center observation deck. The Port Authority spent a whopping $4 billion (borrowed money, still to be paid off) to re-vamp the World Trade Center transportation hub alone, leaving nothing for the decrepit 42^nd Street Bus Terminal which has not been renovated in 40 years and funnels 250,000 commuters daily. But that’s another story . . .

And then there’s Bridgegate, which will never die. That was his Waterloo, immortalized by Bruce Springsteen and Jimmy Fallon. Time to bail out, Christie. We know you orchestrated it. How could we possibly want you for President?

And another thing, Christie has bad manners. When asked how he reacted to many Londoners not knowing who he was during his trip, he said, “I don’t think I have to worry about that. I’m not running for anything in the United Kingdom anytime soon.”

Consider yourself fortunate, U.K.!