Home was a given path about twice yearly. Often there was money for a bus. If I could get home, my Dad would regularly slip me a few bucks, ensuring that I returned to the unit on time. The Port Authority bus station grew all too familiar. Every route from the Northeast funneled through New York City.
Military police regularly patrolled the Port Authority. They occasionally checked my leave papers. MPs knew the uniform regulations, for all branches of service. I knew better than to put a fancy break in my cap, or anything drawing attention.
The military experienced a love-hate relationship with the public in the sixties. We didn’t have much in the way of stolen valor in my day. But I did see one obvious character, breaking up the monotony of the long wait. He wore major insignia and three stripes…sort of a creative sergeant-major. I asked myself, “Where’s an MP when you need one?” Glory-be, a pair of MPs showed up and immediately zoned into that situation! Usually they called in a backup of civilian police. My uniformed friend disappeared quickly.
There always seemed to be a layover in Port Authority, adding needless travel time. If you haven’t ridden a long distance Greyhound in a while, the seats were designed to punish the wayward souls that must ride them. Muscles tense throughout your body. Stretching relieves the aches, and that is exactly what I wanted to do on my usual two hour delay.
I wore my class-As. The jacket provided sufficient warmth for a cooler night. Port Authority had a stuffy smell. I needed to stay awake for the next bus departure. I thought there were some restaurants nearby the door. So I ventured outside.
Darkness engulfed the bus station perimeter. My eyes adjusted. Nothing caught my eye, so I ventured forth. I walked about twenty paces when I though I heard something behind me. Listening, I could tell someone definitely walked behind me. Halfway from the safety of the door behind, and the street ahead, the pace behind me quickened.
I reached into my jacket. Heel…toe…180 degree swivel, in an about face, I directly stared at the man following me. He stopped on a dime, not being used to a military maneuver. It gave me the element of surprise I needed. With my hand remaining in my coat, I asked, “How can I help you?” I know enough about city life, to know everyone gives extra distance at night, unless they are up to no good.
He apologized for approaching too close. His demeanor seemed a bit too controlled, as he sized up the situation. If I wasn’t packing…I wasn’t backing. Being in uniform, it was a safe bet that I could and would shoot straight. He said, ” I am going to your right.” He moved slowly and deliberately, disappearing into the night. I moved to the left, returning toward the door.
I slipped into the safety of the stuffy station….thinking that ‘most of the time we bring trouble upon ourselves.’ My foolishness deserved a robbery or beating. I took my clenched empty fist out of my uniform. He bought the ‘Make My Day.’ The mistakes we walk away from…become life lessons.
