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NEW YORK STORIES

"The Welcome Wagon" by Paul Smalera



The bus was empty, but of course, I didn’t know that when I sideswiped it with my moving van. No one on West 34th Street even noticed the crash, let alone stopped to gawk.  But the cacophony that resulted from my truck’s attempt to occupy the same space as the idling chartered motor-coach was, in a word, troubling. The crash was so abrupt and violent that I ducked as if I were being fired upon, instinctively hoping my approximation of the fetal position would make the loud, scary noise go away. 

The planned route from my old apartment in D.C. to my new one on Avenue B did not include 34th Street, Midtown or the Lincoln Tunnel. But at the Holland, a toll clerk waved me through without paying. “How kind,” I mused, “must be some new resident complimentary toll pass,” knowing I was wrong before I finished the thought. As I tried to deduce why I was let through, I nearly ran over the cop coming to turn me around. Though my truck would have easily cleared the mouth of the tube just yards in front me, he directed me to the Lincoln Tunnel, where he told me to pay the toll and enter the city of New York. “No commercial traffic,” was his official explanation.

I wanted to tell him that my moving van was as uncommercial as traffic could be. It was the NPR of moving vans, full of items not intended for resale. Did I look like a delivery truck driver, half-crazed, clutching a stack of order slips and a pail of coffee, rushing to unload crates of salamis or cans of pizza sauce or some other raw good that New Jersey makes and Manhattan takes? Definitely not. Those guys know to use the Lincoln. But I had an almost pathological fear of arguing with a cop, so just as I got the balls to start, I noticed that he was already walking back to sit in his car, it being a chilly January Sunday that I had chosen to move here. 

The Lincoln Tunnel is the most majestic of all the Hudson crossings. Hewn from rock, the skyline perched beside it, the tunnel entrance appeared far too tall for my suddenly tiny transport. It’s a triple birth canal into the city, pushing out to Dyer Avenue all of the people and goods it needs to thrive. Including newcomers like me, who, as a Jersey kid a decade ago, took the PATH to the Village every weekend, only to realize, just as I emerged, that I was completely unprepared for both living here and negotiating crosstown traffic.

“This bus,” I thought five minutes later, “is not moving.” Stuck directly behind it for an entire traffic cycle, I tried the poke-my-nose-into-the-lane maneuver, which only caused the flow of drivers behind me to swerve into oncoming traffic as they talked on their cell phones, worked their turn signals and flipped me the finger, one after the next. Stuck in a compromising position, I decided to just hit the gas and go for it. As I entered the left lane, I cut the wheel back much too tightly, as if my GMC were a BMW.

After my truck stopped rocking, a decision lay in front of me. I knew I should pull over, but in front of me was a parted Red Sea of an empty street, the most exquisite green light I had ever seen in my life, and a decided lack of law enforcement personnel. My mind lingered on flooring the gas pedal of my wounded van. But then I pictured my dad, who has never gotten so much as a parking ticket. He was going to help me unload, and I could already see  the perplexed look on his face as the cops hauled me away and impounded my half unpacked wares, all while I tried to yell out where he should set up the bookshelf.

I pulled over right in front of the DMV, closed, unfortunately, so I couldn’t get my new license processed while waiting to meet more of New York’s finest. As I walked toward the bus driver to apologize, his displeasure was apparent. He told me where I could insert my apologies, and even if it were possible to place intangible emotional concepts there, I would’ve still chosen not to do so. As the NYPD filled out forms, I stopped the officer who came for my documents. 

“This is my first day here,” I said. “The stuff in the back is my life. I’m moving here today.” I think about her reply often, because it thoroughly captures the highs and lows of daily life in the city. “Welcome to New York,” she said. Then, without looking up, she handed back my license and added, “Don’t worry about anything. The bus was double parked.”

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