king of the road

There's a psychoanalytic construct known as Thanatos that derives its origins from Greek mythology. It is believed that this so-called "death drive" impels us to engage in risky and self-destructive behavior, which ultimately equates with our desire for death. This drive is in direct opposition with the concept of Eros or the life/love force. The two are said to create a balance to which we navigate throughout our lives. One might postulate that taking a greyhound bus every 2 weeks is a means of enacting Thanatos but sometimes its even more devious, more sinister than simply the will to constantly take in the recycled air and the smell if illegally smuggled baba ganoush.

It should stand as no surprise to those who read the greyblog that I have had my fair share of obstactles when it comes to the relatively 'simple' feat of riding the bus. I've had delays and customer service incidents, but none have been more harrowing then the realization that I had erronously misplaced ticket while already at Port Authority. While ticket fares purchased online are relatively cost effective, buying a ticket at the station is not. My first experience with this situation involved furious phone calls, a 10 dollar fee and a lot of rattled nerves. Solutions were formed, promises were made.Life quickly went back to normal.

This past Sunday as I prepared to embark on my journey, jokes are made about the whereabouts of my ticket. The present company, myself included, all had a good laugh at my expense/folly. I made a remark about "learning from my mistakes," as I patted my ticket that fit snuggly in my left coat pocket. As if a scene from a film, I shook it gingerly to make sure it was there. Sadly, life does not offer a screen shot warning us of oncoming peril, no close up shot as a cue to prepare us with a sense of forboding.

As I leer in awe of the new fish tanks at the Staten Island ferry, I am oblivious to the world as I read and listen. It is not until I am on the uptown 1 when I realize that the ticket is gone. Again. My first reaction is one of shock, as if the universe (or our roving, invisible director) is in on the joke, and how I will quickly retrieve my belonging. No such luck. I quickly become one of those people on the subway who is feverishly looking through my bag, indicating to all in my proximity that something is not quite right. I am checking my pockets repeatedly and once again patting myself down as a habit every 15 seconds hoping that somehow the ticket will mysertiously reveal itself. The contents of my overnight bag is now overflowing onto places they have no right being-the floor of the filthy subway, encroaching upon my fellow subway riders, etc. Around 18th street I have accepted the fact that it is gone, thrown into the void of mass transport where some lucky (arguable?) fuck can now ride gratis to our nations capitol.

The time for mourning has concluded by the timeI arrive at the station, although the endless thoughts about how better to spend this wasted 23 dollars will swirl around in my mind for the duration of the afternoon. Lori is the first person dialed but is unavailable leaving me to discern who among my friends and family I'll have to burden this process upon. My first few candidates strike out.
This leaves me a good ten minutes where I am sitting on the floor of Port Authority with my phone plugged into the wall reading a book. I have resigned to my fate, realizing that my carefully time constructed day has gone awry and that I am now completely at the mercy of someone else's ability to gain access to the Internet. This, along with my spot on the floor, is an overall humbling experience. It is a reminder that we are all just a few slippery steps away from being the people we silently stop to look and wonder "what exactly are they doing over there?"

It is in this self-actualized, existential moment I recognize my Thanatos and suddenly realize that this is no way to live.