The Port Authority of New York and New
Jersey was the first landing page in my
customer journey to what used to be
called “The Big Apple”, skyscrapers and
every thang.
The
PUBLISHER’S
Pen
A lot has definitely changed since I exited
out of those glass-and-wood doors just
south of the world-renowned 42nd Street
and onto 8th Avenue. At first, there was
this insatiable need to check to see if my
wallet had been lifted during the mass
surge for what passes for fresh air. Once
that was confirmed, a directional pull had
me trying to act as if I had been doing the
whole commute thang my entire life. But,
eyes are always watching for any sign of
personal indecision by the denizens of
the Port Authority. Day and night.
When I got off the bus from Washington,
DC, it was still daylight. Probably around
4 p.m. Just in time for the pre-rush hour
convergence. None of this bothered me
at the time. I just knew that I needed to
get my bearings straight and keep my
mouth shut. So, I headed south along 8 th
Avenue. And, there was Penn Station.
Luckily, the restrooms are just down the
stairs on the corner of 33rd Street. From
that vantage point, the one on the left is
for men. The one on the right is for
women. I head into the white, tilepaneled room that has a sign overhead
indicating “Men”. Inside, it reminded me
of an old and nasty, smoke-filled roller
derby rink.
As I wash my hands, I look into the mirror
and this brother is in the next basin
brushing his teeth. I’m thinking to myself,
“In THIS funky bathroom?” The brother
looked up at me and just gave me the
nod. And, went on about his business.
You get the picture?