Incident on a Cross-town Bus (en route to Macy’s)

In two short months, Lifelongnewyorker will mark seven years living in Alabama.  Despite this tenure in the warmer and redder regions of the country, Lifelongnewyorker holds to her name.  The city is the city is the city and, though changes will be noted, it will never be alien.

Except for the incident on the cross-town bus.

Because I’m older, richer and busier than when I was younger, I take cabs in New York now, especially to get cross town.  I also walk when properly shod, and continue to take the subway when it makes the most sense.  It made the most sense last night when I bought a $10 Metrocard and took the 4 express to Crown Heights to have dinner with the Abandoned One.  It was nice to note a few improvements in city life: illuminated, easy-to-read street signs in midtown.  Signage on the subway letting you know how long before your train arrived.  And it was nice to see that some things don’t change, like how easy it is to not swipe the card properly.

This morning I left my hotel on Park just south of Grand Central and walked in the crisp autumnal air to the event I was attending at Baruch College, on 24th & Lex.  Originally I was planning to return home tomorrow but I have to take a train to D.C. instead to participate in a press conference on Friday.  I packed enough to tide me over, but I packed my “casual nonprofit/academic” garb, not business wear.  I know enough though about DC to know I would really need a suit or a dress and jacket.

So I hatched a plan: In the two hours between my morning event and my next afternoon call, I would use the remaining dollars on my Metrocard to grab a crosstown bus to 6th Avenue, then transfer to an uptown bus, hit Macy’s, get a suit and return to my hotel with time to spare.

What could go wrong?

I find the bus stop at 23rd and Lex and soon enough spy a bus heading westbound.  I do notice that it’s a “select” bus, and wonder what exactly that means, but dismiss the thought.  The bus stops, I get on, I put my card in the card reader and move the the back. But I don’t get far, because the bus driver is calling me.  “Ma’am.  Ma’am.  You can’t use the card on this bus.”

What?  I’m confused and, worse, I feel like a tourist.  He says something about needing to pay in a machine, and having a receipt and that I need to get off or I will get a $150 fine.  Have I been gone that long?  Is this what happens in Trump’s America?

I do what I’ve learned to do in the South: Be polite, charming and confused. ” Oh, my,” I say, “have I been gone that long?”  It turns out that this is a special kind of bus on busy routes where onboarding is speeded up by having people swipe their card before they get on the bus.  He points out the blue machines.  That’s where you pay, he said, and you get a receipt — one that looks like any receipt you’d get anywhere — and flash that at him while you board.  Bonus: You can board front AND back.  Then — and here’s the tricky part — you’re supposed to be ready to flash it when you leave to some kind of inspector who, if you don’t have it, will slap you with a $150 summons.

My bewildered display of charm melted the driver’s heart.  “Okay,” he said, finally. “Stay on and, if they stop you, tell him I’ll be your witness.”  Alrighty.

So I get to Macy’s.  It’s already decorated for Christmas and it’s overheated and really crowded.  Not the right conditions to get in and out.  I take the escalator and not that this is not the Macy’s I’m used to.  The Herald Square Macy’s clearly has its eyes on tourists with Euros and other currencies to burn.  On the second floor, there are little boutiques for very expensive shoes — you know, the ones with the red soles and the pricetags north of $700.   Several of these suites exist, tucked like chapels into the sides of the cathedral of commerce.  Around me are shoppers, spending money, browsing the really  pricey stuff and the sales racks.  For a week now, I’ve been acutely aware of the impact of the election on people.  They’re sad, close to tear, shellshocked.  Or, they’re normal looking people I pass on a hiking trail or sit next to on the plane, and I wonder, “Are they Trump voters or not?”   Here those thoughts hold no sway.

And yet.  And yet, it never really goes away.  I arrive on the 5th floor and, before heading to the suits, move toward racks of dresses that look tailored and businessy, the kind of thing you could wear under a suit jacket for a press conference.  I see one that interests me and reach my hand out towards the hanger to get a closer look.  My eyes fall on the label: Ivanka Trump.  Instantly, I pull my hand back as if from a hot stove, and a slight gasp escapes my throat.  I look around to see if anyone noticed, and wonder if the sales people see this all the time.

So, off to the suits, to find a second, sadder reminder of the unexpected.  I find racks and racks of what can only be described as “Hillary” suits.  Long tunic-y coats, designed for generous coverage over the hips.  In teal and burgundy and green, white and black.  Some are jackets, some are sleeveless.  But there is no doubt that style mavens and Macy’s buyers thought they were going to be the new thing,  like Jackie Kennedy’s pillbox hat.

I bought a suit skirt and contrasting jacket.  It will read “suit” and I’ll be able to use it again.  I did not buy pants, or a pantsuit.  I did not go for the tunic jacket.  I did not choose teal or purple or blue or burgundy.  I chose black, which matched my mood.

 

 

 

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