Port Authority Bus Terminal

Marcus moved across the departure hall like a snail, slowed down by tiredness and the rucksack on his back that contained all his life; to make matters worse he had gum stuck to his shoe that made his foot catch on the linoed floor with every step he took. He looked around wearily for the door that lead to his bus there were so many doors, so many possibilities. He wondered if he'd ever been so scared in his whole life. This was Port Authority Bus Terminal, 1989 - the template for run down, dirty transport hubs around the world. Cardiff bus station or Kings Cross had seemed bad but they paled into insignificance compared to this metropolitan monstrosity. There were gangs of men on every corner, all watching him like hungry thrushes waiting to swoop on their prey. There were women who smiled at him but Marcus was just about worldly wise enough to know those smiles weren’t for free. If Marcus had been scared at stations back home, then it was nothing to the sheer terror he felt now. He needed the toilet, needed to clean his teeth, but the restrooms would surely be a trap, a dead end, easy for the predators to ambush. They'd be disappointed with their find, the rucksack was full of dirty clothes that had seen better days, his Walkman was more a crawlman playing Green by REM more than a fraction too slowly, while his wallet had just a few dollars and a credit card that had reached its limit. One last bus journey to Boston, one last flight back to Heathrow and he'd be home and safe. But the last few obstacles seemed the toughest, the last hurdles the highest. He stifled a yawn, put his rucksack down and sat on the floor next to it hoping he'd found the right door. He closed his eyes for only a second, tiredness washed over him but he wouldn’t sleep till Brooklyn, if the bus went through Brooklyn.

‘Hey rich kid where you from?’

Marcus heard the voices, but hoped they weren’t speaking to him. He opened his eyes to see a gang of youths coming close to him. He tensed, this was it. He’d worried about this the entire trip. He was resigned to it, they could take what they wanted, he wouldn’t put up a fight.

‘Where you from?’

‘Britain.’ Marcus mumbled, Experience taught him that no one had even heard of Wales so saying Hirwaun was a waste of time. He thought of his little village back home, it was well whiter than white, He was 14 when he saw his first black man in the flesh but here were a gang of all different shades, all different colours.

‘England?’ The questioner smiled.

‘Sort of.’ Marcus said, he didn’t want to argue.

‘Tea and the Queen.’ The questions said. Marcus smiled, he realised it was his first smile in about 24 hours.

‘Do you know the queen?’ Another boy asked.

‘No, not personally.’ Marcus said.

‘What?’

‘No I don’t.’ Marcus repeated.

‘And Elton John? Do you know Elton John?’ What a weird person to ask about Marcus thought.

‘No it’s a big place you know.’

‘What?’ Marcus realised that they didn’t understand his accent.

‘It’s a big place. Britain, I don’t know anyone famous.’ He said trying to sound like the queen. The gang had spread out a bit, a few had lost interest but a few were sitting down. They were just normal boys, his age, just hanging around, nothing to be afraid of.

‘Do you really spend 5 days watching Crick-Ket? ‘ Marcus looked at his new interrogator. It was a girl, she had short hair and looked like a boy but the dimples and smile gave her away.

‘Yes I do.’ Marcus said returning the grin.

‘Wow!’

They asked a whole stream of questions until eventually it was time for the bus. Marcus stood up, thanked the crowd for keeping him company. Each one wanted to shake his hand and the girl went on tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek. Marcus felt like a film star as he got on the bus with a smile as broad as Broadway.

The smile was soon wiped off his face though because as the Greyhound trundled out of the Terminal, he realised that someone had swiped his Walkman.