Nut Magnet Disorder & Roadtrips, Maggie Shayne

I had a lovely day in Manhattan with my agent on Tuesday. Of course, getting there wasn't easy. The plan was for me to go in on Monday, spend the day Tuesday and come home Wedensday morning. (It's a bit of a haul, but not a terrible one.) But with me, you know, things tend to happen. I guess I expect them to, so I'm probably drawing them in. I didn't want all the fuss of flying for a short trip like that, so I booked train tickets, because I hate buses.

The first snafu was when the train exploded. Okay, not MY train, but A train. A freight train hauling propane blew to smitherenes Monday morning. No one was injured, thank goodness. All rail service was suspended. My ticket was cancelled.

Ooookay. So off I trot to my computer to book a ::shudder:: bus ticket. Got one, quite easily, but the rules stated I had to pick it up in person no later than one hour before departure at the Grayhound station in Cortland--which is the worst bus station in the universe. It's a tiny building with a waiting room, a desk, and an office in the back. Their posted hours are 8 to 5. I phoned over there for hours, but no answer. Finally, I just drove there with my bags, but there was no one around and the place was locked up. I was worried. I figured the bus would stop because it was on the schedule, and Grayhound does what it says it will do. The station isn't theirs, it's independently owned. Anyway, I waited, and about 20 minutes before the bus was supposed to get there, someone finally showed up. But she couldn't help me right away. She had to walk her dog first. Left me sitting in the parking lot in my car, waiting.

Finally, she returned, dog in tow, and unlocked the building. Took her all of about a minute to get me a ticket. Relieved, I waited for the bus to arrive, and it did, and I was off. But about the time we hit the major traffic heading into the Lincoln tunnel, the bus door decided to open, thrusting itself out into the right lane, which was bumper to bumper. The driver had to pull over to mess with it. Of course it continued flying open all the way through the tunnel, and I was sure another car would clip it and we'd end up in a major accident. No one did, though. The driver was asking if anyone had any rope. I was thinking if one of my fellow travelers had brought rope along, I didn't particularly want to know about it. "Yeah, I've got rope, sir. It's right here with my duct tape and hefty bags." Yikes.

We arrived an hour late. I walked from the Port Authority to the hotel, about 11 blocks, and I had my laptop in my backpack, which made it too heavy. I developed a wrinkle in the sole of my shoe, right under my heel, and by the time I got to the hotel I had a blister. My agent was delayed, so I wound up spending the night alone in my room, raiding the mini-bar. I watched Happy Feet on TV to cheer myself up.

Tuesday was much better. Eileen arrived in the morning. We had a lovely lunch, walked a lot, surfed the net together, discussed career plans and promotions and so on. We saw the best show on Broadway that night: The Drowsy Chaperone, which has won 6 Tony Awards. I just absolutely loved it. After that we had dinner at Ruby Foo's, a fantastic Asian restaurant with decor to die for. And all was well.

Then came Wednesday and the return trip. I went to the bus station to await my ride. I was sitting in the waiting area when a man dressed completely in camo (though clearly not military) came and plunked down right next to me, though there were plenty of empty seats. And he stared at me. Just stared. And I'm sorry, but he smelled. It was a very potent and unusual aroma, and I knew I had smelled it before. He smelled just like the homeless lady I had brought home with me when I was seven. I made my mom let her stay for dinner, and then asked if I could keep her.

I didn't want to be rude, but I decided to get up and move. I made it look innocent, though, by going to the restroom, and then buying a bottle of water.

Finally I get on the bus. At the only rest stop, the driver informed us we would have precisely ten minutes to get our food, and get back to our seats. So everyone's in a hurry. And the first guy in line at Mickey D's can barely speak a word of English and has no idea what to order. He was trying to ask for chicken soup, I think, which of course, they didn't have. He then decided on Fries, but when asked what size, he replied "One." I had to step in--no one else was helping him. I did my best, and he wound up with a small order of fries and a cookie. I have no idea if that was what he really wanted, but it was the closest I could come to interpreting for him. I have no idea what language he was speaking. Maybe a middle eastern dialect of some sort.

Well, after that, I ordered my food, and went to the restroom while they made it, and when I came out he was waiting for me. Walked back to the bus with me. As we continued our journey, he tried to converse all the way back, asking "how old you?" and "You babies?" and "You marry?" (I'm not sure if that was a proposal, but it was starting to look that way, because he started blowing me kisses at that point.) Then he wanted to change seats to sit in the empty one next to me. It was getting way too friendly. And despite that he guessed my age to be twenty or twenty-five, earning him brownie points--or maybe he just didn't know English numbers--I wasn't ready for a lifetime committment. I finally conveyed that I was tired, and pretended to sleep for the rest of the ride, praying he wasn't going to get off the bus at the deserted and unmanned bus station where I had left my car.

He didn't. We hit rain, then fog as thick as peanut butter. I got off the bus alone, and my car was there waiting to greet me. Then I rushed home to my longsuffering dogs (Sally stayed with my firstborn, while Wrinkles stayed home and my secondborn tended to her.) They missed me so much! I picked up Sally and got home and it felt sooooooo to good sink into my own sofa and relax.

I'm not a great traveler. Road trips, where I do the driving are really my forte. Mass transit of any kind doesn't go well. I don't know if I seem approachable or what, but if there's a nut or a needy traveler on my plane, train or bus, they always gravitate straight to me. I remember one time on a bus with my friend Laurie (aka "Bugs) when we got off to smoke (back when we both did) and a man made a beeline for us and said, "I am soooo happy I kiss thee ground! I just get out of prison today! Sixteen years!" Another time I was at a fast food joint on the way to somewhere, when a man who was stuggling with a job application scanned the faces of every patron, before settling on me and asking "What's the date today?" And I told him and he said, "What's the year?" and I told him, and then he asked "How do you spell burglary?"

It never fails. Troubled people love me. What the heck is up with that?