Letters of Transit

I came bouncing up the stairs to my apartment Friday afternoon all set to start the holiday weekend when I made the mistake of looking at my mail.

I had spent most of the afternoon in Manhattan for a real-world meeting my supervisors.

I’ve been working with these people for a while, but we’ve always communicated through Slack or on the phone, thanks to the damn Covid.

It felt good to finally put the faces to the voices.

I took the express bus and from the city. It’s more expensive, but it’s also more comfortable, more convenient and more relaxing, especially in light of increasing crime, including a mass shooting last week at a subway station just 40 blocks from my house.

An older gentleman at my bus station on Shore Road told me the express bus has been extremely crowded following the shooting, which is hardly surprising.

We chatted about life in the city, why someone would do something like that, and then masked up and got on board the X27.

I met up with supervisors at a French restaurant in Chelsea, and it almost felt like we were back in the pre-plague days, before masks and social distancing--except that we were eating in one those massive wooden sheds that sprung after the pandemic came to town.

This was Good Friday, so being a good Catholic boy, more or less, I skipped meat and went for the mussels, which were tasty, but a bit awkward to eat.

I caught back home at around 2:30pm and when I stepped off the bus, I saw the same older gentleman I had seen going into the city. We had managed to take the same buses to and from Manhattan.

We both laughed at the coincidence, and I walked into my house feeling pretty good about the world.

Let Me See Your Papers

And then I saw the damn mail.

It appeared to be the usual mix of junk and bills, but there was one that looked spookily official.

Of course, I immediately thought the worst. I was being served with a subpoena, a summons or a lawsuit.

Whatever it was, I was convinced it was going to be horrible news.

I hemmed and hawed a bit before I finally pulled the envelope open and found my brand-new passport.

I had been worried about this thing not arriving in time for my trip to Ireland in August, but here it was, less than four weeks after I had shipped out the paperwork.

I was so certain that I had filled out the filled out incorrectly and that I’d have to go down to the passport people and beg them for mercy and now and now here was in my hands—atrocious photo and all.

I was still so twisted that I kept looking the passport over convinced they had gotten my name wrong, but--big surprise--they hadn’t.

I had sent out the passport application on the same day I mailed in my taxes, and I was hoping for a nice refund to put toward my vacation.

However, the state taxes and my accountant’s bill wiped out anything I had gotten from the feds. But I got my passport, so I figure it was a split decision.

I spent today celebrating Easter with my sister and auntie and then tomorrow I’ll be attending a Zoom meeting with niece and sister to discuss our Ireland itinerary.

I’ll sure I’ll find other things to worry about.