This story was a drill for my Reporting/Writing 1 class at Columbia University. I liked it so much I decided to share!
What’s worse: Being trapped in the Port Authority Bus Terminal or being a pigeon? The question could spark a lengthy debate. Does Port Authority smell like urine today? Is it a decrepit, fat pigeon or an attractive, athletic pigeon? How long will this last?
Whatever conclusion the debate yields, one thing is certain: Being a pigeon trapped inside Port Authority Terminal is worst of all.
So you can imagine my empathy for the gray-and-white speckled bird I spotted on the third floor of Manhattan’s best-known (and perhaps most loathed) bus station. Not unlike the grouchy throngs of humans congregated near the large orange “301”s and “312”s, this little guy did not want to be there. Based on the lack of a ticket clutched in his talons or tucked under his wing, however, it seemed that unlike everyone else, Mr. Pigeon wasn’t going anywhere.
Port Authority reminds me of a medieval castle. At the bottom is the dungeon, where prisoners while away tortuous hours with only broken, muddy tiles and darkened departure screens for company. It’s truly miserable. Thirty-two stairs up, visitors are greeted by the glass encased Hudson News, ATMs, and pay phones no one uses – the sitting room, if you will. Another 26 stairs brings one to the magnificent inner court, featuring metal sculptures made from tractor parts, possibly commissioned by Rube Goldberg or Dr. Seuss. Once one tires of the high ceilings, ice cream shops, and fractal pattern art, he or she may proceed up two more flights to the parapets.
In a real castle, this is where owls and dragons are released, and fair maidens await their journeying lovers. In Port Authority’s case, this is where people are released (and wait for their journeying lovers), and where pigeons try desperately to escape.
My pigeon friend shivered, rippling his feathers from head to tail like a perfectly executed crowd wave at a Yankees game. He strutted, bobbing his head rhythmically, over to door 300. The gate agent ignored him. Mr. Pigeon continued, unabashed, to the next gate; his unspoken plea for an exit went unheeded, and he skittered past a bus-sized line of passengers, none of which gave him so much as a hello. Determined, he took a quick flight to gate 304, where he received the same lack of response.
The cosmopolitan crowd waiting for the bus to Livingston, New Jersey, didn’t seem to notice the bird, but they did notice me, watching the bird. Perhaps they were as fascinated by me as I was by the pigeon. Before I could coax a gate agent to let the little guy outside, a very frustrated Mr. Pigeon flew off down the hall. It seems that even the most uninteresting of people was worth more attention than a lonely bird in the Port Authority station.