When I stepped off the bus at Newark Station, I felt like I could breathe again. Compared to Port Imperial, it felt empty. I stood in the lobby, looking around. An employee at the station stopped and stared at me.
“You okay, man?”
“Yeah,” I said.
He looked at the side of my head. His attention made me nervous, and I fought the urge to see if it was still bleeding.
“I’m just looking for the bus station.”
“Down past the McDonald’s.” He paused. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nodded and walked quickly away, heading in the direction he had pointed. When I reached the Greyhound ticketing window, I leaned over, my face close to the opening in the glass of the ticket booth. The woman working there watched me, clearly suspicious.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
The woman looked around, like she might call for assistance. Then I put the credit card on the ledge between us.
“I need to get a ticket.”
“Destination?”
My head throbbed. Whenever I searched for an answer, the pain intensified. Maybe I hoped that in the moment, I might remember. Instead, there was nothing. So I pulled my license out of the clip and placed it next to the credit card.
“To that address.”
The woman looked at the license and up at me. She stared for a moment, like she was assessing me again.
“That address?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes rolled. I remember thinking that she must deal with all types in a job like this. I wondered what type she pegged me for. Crazy and violent? Maybe I was. I had just stopped shaking from what happened in the apartment building. Maybe this woman was totally right.
She looked at the address again, then turned her attention to me. Her head tilted. I felt like she stared at my face, at the blood. I still had no idea how bad I looked. For some reason, I remember thinking that she looked at me like a stranger. I was, so the feeling made no sense at all.
She looked at the license again.
“Look, I have no idea where this is. It’s crazy in here today.” She paused, looking at her screen. “This is all crazy. They need more people down here helping you all. I don’t know what they want me to do.” Her frustration ebbed. “I can get you to Philadelphia. Is that close enough?”
I had no idea, really. But I nodded anyway. She ran the transaction without even looking at me. When she slid the ticket, my license, and the credit card at me, her eyes were lowered.
“Next.”
I paused for a second, but another customer came up close behind me. I felt agitated, but I kept it in check. Instead, I wandered away from the window and looked at the ticket and up at the clock. I had a little over an hour. I somehow found my way to the gates and found a bench by the restrooms. I sat and closed my eyes, thinking that soon, at least, I’d be home . . . wherever that was.