"Splendor in the Grass" or "Chasing Any"

August 28, 1998

I think I may have said this before, but it's worth saying again: I fall in love with a different girl on the bus and subway every day. There are just so many angelic looking young women in this city. It is maddening. Literally.

Last Friday afternoon, I was waiting in line at Gate 230 at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Gate 230 is where the Red Apple Bus departs for Hoboken. The waiting area at the gate is about thirty feet long. You enter the waiting area by ascending one flight of stairs. When you emerge from the staircase, you are standing at the widest part of the waiting area. I'd say that it's ten feet wide. The waiting area gets more narrow as you get closer to the door where the bus pulls up. At its narrowest point, the room is two feet across. So, the room is roughly an isosceles triangle, with everyone funneling into the narrowest point.

Being a Friday afternoon, this small waiting area was packed with people anxious to get home to Hoboken so that they could hop in their cars and head on out to The Hamptons or down to the Jersey Shore. In my case, I was heading to Baltimore to see Eva, who had just returned from a month-long trip to Italy.

The bus was late and the waiting area was packed. It felt like there were two hundred people crammed into that small space. (There were less than two hundred, but that's what it felt like.) The room was hot and steamy and smelly and tense.

It's important to note that the side walls and the front wall of Gate 230 are mostly made of dark, grayish-amber glass. I was in the middle of the waiting pack, pressed against the left glass wall. My cheek was actually pressed against the glass; that's how cramped it was. The heat from my body was fogging up the window.

I wiggled my laptop off of my shoulder and let it fall gently on top of my feet. I had to do this motion quickly and without much lateral movement so as not to bother the people standing a cunt hair away from me. (A "cunt hair" is a unit of measure that I learned while I was in the Active-Duty Army. Roughly defined, it is about 1/4 of a millimeter.)

Anyway, with the bag resting on my feet, I then carefully removed a handkerchief from my right pants pocket and wiped my glistening, dripping face. I thought about how my face would be glistening for a different reason later that night in the motel room with Eva. That made me laugh inside. It also made me feel like a disgusting pig. (The duality of Soz.)

As I was swabbing off and thinking my dirty thoughts, I caught a glimpse in the dark, grayish-amber window of the most beautiful woman I=ve ever seen. She was standing only two or three people behind me. Like me, she was up against the glass. Now, I've used the superlative, "the most beautiful woman I've ever seen" before, but this really was THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN I'VE EVER SEEN!!! But all I could see was her refection; soft, subtle pockets, promontories, and plateaus of differing grays.

I turned my head and leaned my body back as best I could in the tight crowd so as to get a full Technicolor view of this Venus. But I could not see her. There were too many people in the way; I could only see her in the reflection on the glass.

I just want to make sure I describe the physics of this scene properly. If she were any further away, the angle of incident between her face and the plane of glass would have been too obtuse for her reflection to reach me. If she'd been any closer, I could have easily seen her flesh- and-blood face. But she was not close and not far away; a shadowy siren, untouchable, calling me from the glass, yet invisible in the florescent light of reality.

The Red Apple bus came and we all shuffled aboard. The bus was totally packed. No seats were available by the time I got on, so I stood in the aisle in the rear. Since the phantom girl was behind me in line, I knew she must be ahead of me in the aisle.

I searched for my elusive beauty, but I could not see her through the thick crowd. As we passed through the Lincoln Tunnel, I tried to think of how I would approach her once the crowd dispersed. What would I say? Did she have a boyfriend? Would she go out with me? Was she an artist or a business woman? Did she have a sense of humor? Was she kind and sweet? Would she challenge me intellectually? Could I see myself married to her? Should I even talk to her in the first place? What about Eva? What about Eva?

The bus made its first stop at 14th and Washington in Hoboken. A few people got off. I studied the girls stepping outside intently, but none of them looked like my elusive beauty. We stopped next at 10th and Washington; a dozen people disembarked. Still no sign of her. At Eighth Street--my stop--another six people got off. She wasn't among them. I decided to ride on.

By Sixth Street, the crowd in the aisle has dispersed. I walked down the middle of the bus, checking each resting head to see if it belonged to this ultimate beauty.

Tenth-from-the-front row. Not her. Sixth-from-the-front-row. Not her. Front row. She wasn't there. My heart raced and my stomach fell. She wasn't on the bus. I must have missed her among the passengers getting off. But where? I'd watched all of them through the window. I didn't understand.

I felt like I was in the middle of the greatest tragedy ever told. Only a few feet away from perfection--close enough to breathe the same air--but I did not now her name, her voice, or even her true face. All I had to hold onto was the memory of a few shadows in a reflection.

Memories. Shadows. Reflections.

Even when I'm holding a warm, naked girl in my arms--even when I held my warm, naked, wife in my arms-- those are all I can ever seem to see. Those are all I ever seem to really want.

The inevitable disappointments shouldn't surprise me; they shouldn't hurt me. But they always do.

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		"Splendor in the Grass" or "Chasing Any"
		August 28, 1998 I think I may have said this before, but it's worth saying again: I fall in love with a different girl on the bus and subway every day. There are just so many angelic looking young women in this city. It is maddening. Literally. Last Friday afternoon, I was waiting in line at Gate 230 at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Gate 230 is where the Red Apple Bus departs for Hoboken. The waiting area at the gate is about thirty feet long. You enter the waiting area by ascending one flight of stairs. When you emerge from the staircase, you are standing at the widest part of the waiting area. I'd say that it's ten feet wide. The waiting area gets more narrow as you get closer to the door where the bus pulls up. At its narrowest point, the room is two feet across. So, the room is roughly an isosceles triangle, with everyone funneling into the narrowest point. Being a Friday afternoon, this small waiting area was packed with people anxious to get home to Hoboken so that they could hop in their cars and head on out to The Hamptons or down to the Jersey Shore. In my case, I was heading to Baltimore to see Eva, who had just returned from a month-long trip to Italy. The bus was late and the waiting area was packed. It felt like there were two hundred people crammed into that small space. (There were less than two hundred, but that's what it felt like.) The room was hot and steamy and smelly and tense. It's important to note that the side walls and the front wall of Gate 230 are mostly made of dark, grayish-amber glass. I was in the middle of the waiting pack, pressed against the left glass wall. My cheek was actually pressed against the glass; that's how cramped it was. The heat from my body was fogging up the window. I wiggled my laptop off of my shoulder and let it fall gently on top of my feet. I had to do this motion quickly and without much lateral movement so as not to bother the people standing a cunt hair away from me. (A "cunt hair" is a unit of measure that I learned while I was in the Active-Duty Army. Roughly defined, it is about 1/4 of a millimeter.) Anyway, with the bag resting on my feet, I then carefully removed a handkerchief from my right pants pocket and wiped my glistening, dripping face. I thought about how my face would be glistening for a different reason later that night in the motel room with Eva. That made me laugh inside. It also made me feel like a disgusting pig. (The duality of Soz.) As I was swabbing off and thinking my dirty thoughts, I caught a glimpse in the dark, grayish-amber window of the most beautiful woman I=ve ever seen. She was standing only two or three people behind me. Like me, she was up against the glass. Now, I've used the superlative, "the most beautiful woman I've ever seen" before, but this really was THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN I'VE EVER SEEN!!! But all I could see was her refection; soft, subtle pockets, promontories, and plateaus of differing grays. I turned my head and leaned my body back as best I could in the tight crowd so as to get a full Technicolor view of this Venus. But I could not see her. There were too many people in the way; I could only see her in the reflection on the glass. I just want to make sure I describe the physics of this scene properly. If she were any further away, the angle of incident between her face and the plane of glass would have been too obtuse for her reflection to reach me. If she'd been any closer, I could have easily seen her flesh- and-blood face. But she was not close and not far away; a shadowy siren, untouchable, calling me from the glass, yet invisible in the florescent light of reality. The Red Apple bus came and we all shuffled aboard. The bus was totally packed. No seats were available by the time I got on, so I stood in the aisle in the rear. Since the phantom girl was behind me in line, I knew she must be ahead of me in the aisle. I searched for my elusive beauty, but I could not see her through the thick crowd. As we passed through the Lincoln Tunnel, I tried to think of how I would approach her once the crowd dispersed. What would I say? Did she have a boyfriend? Would she go out with me? Was she an artist or a business woman? Did she have a sense of humor? Was she kind and sweet? Would she challenge me intellectually? Could I see myself married to her? Should I even talk to her in the first place? What about Eva? What about Eva? The bus made its first stop at 14th and Washington in Hoboken. A few people got off. I studied the girls stepping outside intently, but none of them looked like my elusive beauty. We stopped next at 10th and Washington; a dozen people disembarked. Still no sign of her. At Eighth Street--my stop--another six people got off. She wasn't among them. I decided to ride on. By Sixth Street, the crowd in the aisle has dispersed. I walked down the middle of the bus, checking each resting head to see if it belonged to this ultimate beauty. Tenth-from-the-front row. Not her. Sixth-from-the-front-row. Not her. Front row. She wasn't there. My heart raced and my stomach fell. She wasn't on the bus. I must have missed her among the passengers getting off. But where? I'd watched all of them through the window. I didn't understand. I felt like I was in the middle of the greatest tragedy ever told. Only a few feet away from perfection--close enough to breathe the same air--but I did not now her name, her voice, or even her true face. All I had to hold onto was the memory of a few shadows in a reflection. Memories. Shadows. Reflections. Even when I'm holding a warm, naked girl in my arms--even when I held my warm, naked, wife in my arms-- those are all I can ever seem to see. Those are all I ever seem to really want. The inevitable disappointments shouldn't surprise me; they shouldn't hurt me. But they always do. Broadway Jim Jenkins