“I believe so, sir.”
“I’ll take that one.”
“Yes, sir, and thank you for using…”
“Just connect me.”
Another ring as he patched me through. This time a female voice picked up, sounding considerably less enthused about her job than Lucas.
“New York University. How may I direct your call?”
“Yes, hi. By any chance, do you have a student shuttle service?”
“Yes, we do,” she said, and yawned audibly. “It’s not officially sponsored by the university, but we do facilitate student-to-student commuting.”
“Can you tell me which students have registered cars leaving today?”
“I’m sorry, we don’t offer that information over the phone. The listings are posted on the bulletin board at the Office of Student Activities.”
“And where is that located?”
“Sixty Washington Square South.”
“Can you tell me the cross streets?”
“Just a moment.” I heard the rustling of papers, then a sharp curse, mumbling in the background, something about a paper cut. “Hello?”
“Still here,” I said.
“The OSA is located on West 4th between LaGuardia and Thompson.”
“Thanks.” I hung up before she could say “You’re welcome.”
Heading west on 11th and then south on Broadway, I stopped at a bodega and bought an oversized Yankees T-shirt for five dollars. I ducked into a coffee shop that reeked of moldy gyros, went into the restroom and changed. My ripped clothes went in the trash can, buried under a pile of wet paper towels.
I winced and rolled up my pant leg to gauge the wound. My empty stomach lurched. An angry red gash ran across the side of my thigh, dried blood congealed around it.
Just yesterday I was sitting at my desk at the Gazette, and now here I was in a restaurant bathroom looking at a gunshot wound. Thankfully it looked like the bullet had just grazed the surface. I mopped the wound with wet towels, biting my lip at the pain.
This wasn’t possible, I kept telling myself. Any moment I’d wake up in bed.
Please, just wake up.
I reached the OSA at five minutes of nine. Most self-respecting college students would still be asleep, tired from a night of post-finals partying or wasting time before the start of their summer jobs. Hopefully I’d find at least one that bucked the system.
I walked up the steps and opened the front door, but then stopped. What if they had newspapers inside? It was a safe bet that students-encapsulated in their own private bubbles-hadn’t read today’s front page, but a registrar or another administrative figure might care about current events.
I had to keep going. Standing motionless on the steps was suspicious. I didn’t have a choice. My options were perilously few. This was my Plan B. There was no Plan C.
I took a deep breath, pressed the latch down and pulled the door open.
A cold blast of air-conditioning greeted me. Several students sat on a green couch held together by electrical tape, reading magazines they didn’t seem very interested in. The room had the sterile vibe of a doctor’s office combined with the comfort of the backseat of a New York taxicab.
I approached a portly guy pretending to read Harper’s Bazaar, his eyes lingering on the well-endowed redhead across the room instead of last summer’s fashion trends.
“’Scuse me,” I said. He lowered the magazine and leered. “Do you know where they post the student shuttle listings?”
“No, sorry.” He picked the mag back up and commenced fake reading.
“They’re down the hall to your left. Right before the registrar’s office.” I turned to see the redhead smiling at me. She was reading a paperback with the cover torn off. The word Desire was visible on the spine. I pointed down the hall she was referring to, and she nodded.
“You can’t miss it,” she said. “The red tickets are for day trips, blue are for overnighters. Where you headed?”
“Uh, home,” I said. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said, her eyes wide, as though expecting more conversation.
I grabbed a student newspaper and followed the hallway, hiding my face behind the pages as I passed a row of offices. Scraps and postings covered the light blue walls, hanging desperately on bent thumbtacks and staples. I casually glanced at a few. Table and chair sets for sale. One used rug, green. Three Siamese kittens looking for a home.
Then I found it. A wooden rack with about two dozen slips nestled inside, half red, half blue. A name was printed on each. Underneath the name was the student’s destination. Underneath the destination was the date and time each student was departing campus, along with how much money they expected their passenger to contribute. Most asked for gas, but some expected meal money and/or room and board in case a hotel stopover was needed.
I started with the blue batch, which were apparently longer trips. Three were driving to California, two to Seattle, some miscellaneous trips to Idaho, Nevada and Oregon. I considered Oregon for a moment, debated taking a chance at going home. No way. The cops would be waiting for me to contact my parents. Luckily I had no intention of doing so.
Looking through the last of the blue slips, my heart sank. The next trip was leaving three days from now. No good. Time was running out.
I replaced the cards, smiling at a heavyset woman who lumbered past me with a stack of manila folders under her arm.
I took the batch of red slips, which were for shorter, day trips. If I didn’t find what I was looking for here, the Path to New Jersey was a possibility. I really didn’t want to be anywhere near New York, but getting out of the city was priority number one.
As I went through the red batch, my hopes began to sink. Nobody was leaving today. The phrase Plan C echoed in my head, but unlike Plans A and B the words rang hollow.
Kevin Logan
Leaves 5/28-12:00 p.m.
Montreal-gas, meals
Samantha Purvis
Leaves 5/30-10:00 a.m.
Amarillo, Texas-gas, E-Z Pass
Jacob Nye
Leaves 6/4-3:00 p.m.
Cape Cod-gas
Then, right as I was about to give up, I saw the second-to-last slip.
Amanda Davies
Leaves 5/26-9:00 a.m.
St. Louis-gas, tolls
At the bottom of the slip she’d left two phone numbers-apartment and cellular-for interested parties.
I checked my watch-8:57 a.m. Amanda Davies was leaving in three minutes.
I dashed outside, through the waiting room and past the redhead, hurtling down the block where I stopped, breathless, at a pay phone. My leg was aching and my ribs throbbed.
Tune it out.
Sweat, once dried on my skin, was now oozing from my pores. I picked up the receiver-my watch read 8:58- and reached into my pocket for change.
In my palm lay a dime, two nickels, three pennies, and multicolored lint. I didn’t have enough money for a goddamn phone call. I took a breath, debated for a moment, and dialed 1-800-COLLECT.
