It was 4:45pm last Thursday, and I had just finished the first day of my first semester at Baruch College. “ Now I had to make it to Port Authority Bus Terminal for my 5:10pm bus, which is scheduled to bring me back to the Jersey Shore around 6:45pm, under the best possible conditions. I stepped outside under the dark gray clouds and smelled the inevitable rain. I hopped on my Citibike, hoping to beat the rain. Of course it began to drizzle one block into my bike trip to Port Authority. I pedaled through the traffic of 23^rd Street, fighting to avoid the moving traffic and move through the crosswalks of unruly pedestrians who did not have the right of way, yet were not afraid of a cyclist zooming in their direction. Finally, I made it to the bike lane of 8^th Avenue and sailed smoothly through the rush hour smog.

I ran down the stairs to the dark, rundown basement level of Port Authority to board my bus, as I had done every day for the past year. “I just want to get home”, I thought as my stomach grumbled. There seemed to be more people waiting for their busses than usual, and there were no busses lined up outside. I shrugged it off and continued to walk down to my bus. The line for my bus was three times as long as it typically is, and I would have to wait for the next bus. As I stood in line, I asked a construction worker in front of me why there were so many people and no busses. “There’s a bus fire,” he snapped back, punctuating his answer with an f-bomb for added measure.

“Great,” I thought out loud, “How long will this will take?” A woman strolled along and waited beside me with her puppy, which she said was a service dog “in training.” As each minute passed by, more and more people piled on to the crowded lines in the basement to the point that it felt claustrophobic. Half an hour passed. There was no update from the intercom. I noticed streaks of pale yellow liquid on the floor and traced the trail back to the dog as I moved to avoid stepping in it.

All of a sudden, everyone fixed their eyes on the bus lane when flashing sirens emerged. It was a tow truck hauling the tiniest, most sorry looking bus through the lane. The whole basement collectively sighed and cheered. After enduring the hour-and-a-half delay, my feet were heavy and tired from standing. I could not wait to get home. But then the Lincoln Tunnel was clogged with busses that had also been delayed. After an eternity in the dark tunnel, my bus was sailing smoothly down the NJ Turnpike then the Garden State Parkway.

After the daily hour-and-a-half trip that has grown longer and more mundane after a year of doing it, I sprinted down the parking lot to my car. I could not wait to get home. As I reached my car, I noticed that a frantic woman in a minivan was parked next to my car with her hood up. With all the reluctance in the world, I asked, “Do you need a jump?”

“Please,” she replied. I proceeded to pop my hood and laugh at the irony of my 1989 car jump-starting a five year old minivan. I connected the jumper cables to my battery then to hers, as she and her young children watched in awe. I started my car and passed the time with small talk, hoping that my efforts would work. I had only helped her because it is truly no fun when something slows you down on the way home.