Our Uber slowed as we pulled up to the curb at the Eighth Avenue entrance to Penn Station. The flow of travelers arriving and departing resembled a massive beehive with its workers coming and going through a handful of entrances. At this point, I had forgotten what silence sounded like. Weeks of airports, train stations, client dinners and hotel conference rooms had taken their toll. My body moved, but my mind lagged behind, like luggage left on the airport carousel. My two fellow travel warriors rode beside me in the black UberX. Peter was riding in the front with his thoughts buried deep in his iPhone trying to manage his teenage daughters who were starting their days. Cathy sat next to me and had been holding up on this grueling project more than I.
She looked at me with a gentle smile, put her hand supportively on my shoulder and said, “We’re almost done, Doug. Hang in there.” Her calm demeanor was a breeze of fresh air that calmed my anxious soul as the car came to a stop.
“Let’s GO People!” Peter yelled, shattering any sense of calm I had started to develop, as he exited the car. “We’ve got 10 minutes to get to the freakin train!”
I looked toward our driver and our eyes found each other in the rear view mirror. “Enjoy your day,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, his eyes two calm pools in a city of noise. I hung there for a minute, pulled in by his presence as my lips moved to say “Thank you” but my voice failed to deliver.
For that moment, the world outside softened and fell away. I was standing on a grass covered bluff where the land met the sea, wildflowers swaying under a soft wind that moved like breath: steady, rhythmic, in and out. The surf below rolled toward the horizon with a patient certainty. Bees wandered among the blossoms, content with their small destinations. Above them, an eagle drifted through the turquoise sky, not chasing anything, just letting the current carry it higher.
It was a beautiful moment where I felt revived. It was a kind of peace I had been longing for: motion without urgency, progress without hurry.
“Jesus, Doug!” Peter’s voice broke through the spell. “Can you pay the man and get the fuck out of the car?”
I blinked and the cliff dissolved. Peter was outside, holding the door open, while a bright yellow Taxi behind us blared its horn in irritation.
“Get a room if you’re gonna stay there forever, moron!” the driver shouted, punctuating the moment with all the poetry New York had to offer. This was the city. No time for daydreaming, no mercy for hesitation.
I swallowed. Cleared my throat and said “Thank you,” finally getting the words out while breaking the gravity of his gaze. I grabbed my overstuffed backpack and stepped onto the curb.
It was one of those rare exchanges that linger far longer than they last, a few seconds that feel like they rewrite something in you. I wondered how many quiet sages were driving strangers through the city, trading wisdom for five stars and a tip.
I slung my backpack over my right shoulder and winced. Years of carrying too much weight without proper support, physical and otherwise, had left their mark. I opened the Uber app, gave him five stars, and tipped before I could forget, then looked up just in time to collide with another traveler.
Hot coffee splashed across his hand, then the floor.
“Hey, asshole, get your head outta your ass and watch where you’re going!” he barked without breaking stride, disappearing into the maw of the station that swallowed commuters whole.
Welcome to New York, my inner voice reminded me. No time for weakness. Stuff happens. Move on.
“Come on Doug!” Cathy called, holding the ancient wooden door leading into the station. She looked worn from the long journey we’d traveled together. Her hair was a bit frizzy from one too many foreign hotel hair dryers, her clothes unrecoverably creased from too many suitcase folds and her eyes heavy from the fatigue of late nights, client dinners and endless travel. This was the last leg of our project and we all felt the weight of the finality from it.
I tucked my phone into my pocket and hurried through the door. The station was a cathedral of motion — marble floors polished by decades of footsteps, beams running overhead like the ribs of a long snake, and the air trembling with the rhythm of arrivals and departures. This was a place we’d been through many times in our illustrious careers. A crossroads of so many lives and journeys.
We were down to eight minutes and I should have kept moving, but that lingering smell from the splash of coffee had taken hold. It inspired a familiar ache that tugged at me. It was the need for something warm and grounding to anchor me before our journey to our next destination. I veered from my colleagues, drawn toward a tired Starbucks tucked into the corner.
“Are you freakin kidding me??” Peter yelled as I moved in that direction. “We are out of time! We’ll see you on the train, if you make it.” He turned back towards the stairs to the train muttering, “I guess I’m covering your part of the proposal. More commission for me,” as he waded into the sea of travelers.
“I’ll make it!” I yelled back as I stepped up to the counter.
A young man in a green Starbucks apron looked up with the kind of bright energy that can only come from not yet knowing what a career does to people. “What’s it going to be?”
“Can I get a Grande Pike Place with a splash of skim and 2 pumps of classic syrup, please.”
“Coming right up.” He rang the order and disappeared to the carafes, his movements quick and earnest like a young puppy bounding to fetch a ball.
An older, heavier man stepped in behind the register, his apron stained, his accent thick. He studied me for a moment before asking, “Did you tip him?”
I blinked. “Uhhh, no. I haven’t paid yet.” I replied.
“I know you didn’t pay, buddy. I’m ringing you up.” His gaze narrowed like a zoom lens, “But did you tip him?”
“Still a no. I would normally do that after I pay for the coffee.” I answered.
He stared at me as if I’d missed something important about how the world worked. I felt like I was being put on trial for paying even more for my already ridiculously expensive taste of comfort.
Then, with a resigned sigh, he brought about my verdict, “Okay, $6.43.”
I handed him a twenty from which he quickly made change. Some coins, a ten and three ones that didn’t quite look right. They were waxy, oddly decorated and brightly colored.
What are these?” I asked, holding one up.
“They’re the new currency. C’mon buddy. Get with the program.” He waved me off and shuffled toward the back, already done with me.
My coffee had appeared on the counter, silent and unannounced. I wanted to argue about the bills, but the urgent wind of time pressed against me, pushing me toward the train. I stuffed two of the bills into the overflowing tip jar next to the register and kept the last as a reminder of something I needed to look into more deeply. I picked up my coffee and turned toward the concourse.
My stomach rumbled as I walked past the zombie hordes of travelers who slow-shuffled in place while watching for their track announcements that would set them on their way. I picked up my pace and set course for the track twelve escalator where I thought I saw Peter and Cathy descend.
The escalator was packed with long faced, half-awake, morning commuters. I had no choice but to stand and ride, inching downward while my anxiety pulsed louder and harder beneath my ribs.
I lifted the coffee to my lips for a sip of solace. “Yech!” The brew was bitter and sour like it has been sitting there for days. No milk. No sugar. Just bitterness in a paper cup. I’ve never understood people who take it black. Life’s bitter enough, I like my coffee smooth and sweet. But at this moment I realized that those who take it black are never disappointed like I had just become.
At the bottom of the escalator, the herd dispersed. I scanned the platform for Peter and Cathy. Nothing. The train was already pulling in, brakes shrieking, doors whooshing open. Then I saw it: a small news kiosk tucked under the stairs, stacked with newspapers and a little table of creamers and sugar packets glinting like gold in a river pan.
I raced over to claim my treasure. I popped off the lid of my coffee ready to fix the wrongs that young, eager barista made. But I stopped surprised, seeing the liquid inside swirling with that silky, brown creaminess that only the delicate blend milk and coffee can create. I tasted it again. The richness rolled over my tongue and my taste buds danced as the sweetness I longed for finally found me. Maybe it was never missing, I was just too distracted to realize it.
The train’s warning bells blared, sharp and urgent. The doors were closing. Instinct took over. I darted for the nearest car, squeezed through as the rubber edges kissed my jacket, and stumbled into the aisle. The train lurched forward and I exhaled, a small victory. That last minute win was a feeling I had known too many times before.
I found an empty window seat in a three-seat row and set my backpack in the next seat, guarding it like it was my territory. I pulled out my phone, to share my “I made the train AND got my coffee” triumph with my colleagues. No signal—nothing. Figures.
The train began to pick up momentum, the wheels clacking in a low metallic rhythm. I glanced out the window and froze. Across the platform, another train was boarding — their train. Cathy and Peter stood on the opposite side, scanning the cars for me. I banged on the glass, but the sound died against it. They couldn’t hear me.
“Great job, Doug. Wrong train,” I muttered.
The words sat heavy in the air. A slow wave of failure rolled through me, dull and familiar. I sank back into the seat and let it take over. It had been tight enough just making the right train, and now I was hurtling toward God-knows-where without them. All because I couldn’t resist the comfort of this warm cup in my hand. The sweet kiss of pleasure had outweighed the call of responsibility. Again.
I stared at the lifeless cup, searching for reason in the folds of its molded plastic lid. The irony wasn’t lost on me: the reward I sought was sweet, but the cost on my day was quite bitter.
I closed my eyes and sifted through all the possible explanations. They could carry on without me; they were capable enough. Still, I’d left them short-handed. If I were sick or injured, it would make sense. But distracted? Chasing comfort? How would they explain that one?
Time softened around me, the way it does when you’ve already lost what you meant to keep. When I finally opened my eyes, the gray of the tunnel had dissolved into light. The city was gone.
Outside the window, green fields unfurled to the horizon, dotted with wildflowers swaying in the breeze. My train was joyously gliding across the beautiful countryside.
“Where the hell was I heading?” I wondered. I’ve been on more Amtraks than I can count and I know almost every pathway out of New York, but this was different. I looked down at my now cold cup of coffee and the strange waxy dollar bill the coffee guy handed me. Did they slip me some sort of hallucinogen?
The train started to slow. A stop was coming up. An older, sharply dressed man hastily rose from his seat. “Thank God,” he said in exasperation, “I got on the wrong damn train. There’s one heading back on the other side at this station.” He looked directly at me as he continued, “Who the fuck schedules two trains heading completely opposite directions on parallel tracks?”
He was right. This was my moment. I could go back, catch the next train and maybe still make the meeting. 15 minutes late, tops. I could run from the station and make up some time. Peter and Cathy could cover for me. Tell them I’m old and can’t keep up. They’d like that.
I grabbed my bag and joined him at the door. “It’s not just you.” I said, taking another sip of my coffee. It tasted like shit again - cold and bitter.
“It’s going to be a close one, my friend,” he said, “The return train leaves in two minutes: up and over.”
The doors opened like a starter’s pistol. We were off to the races. He bolted ahead with surprising speed for a man his age. I followed close behind, the rhythm of our footsteps echoing like a beating war drum across the station. I slam-dunked my coffee into the garbage next to the stairs. To hell with comfort, grow up Doug.
“We may have taken the wrong train,” he called over his shoulder, “but it’s never too late to go back!”
He was fast — maybe too fast. Making quick decisions he’s made his whole life to at the speed he had obviously run his life. We crossed the overpass, the countryside stretching out in the sunlight. Outside the station, people strolled along the paths, moving at half our pace, pausing to admire the view.
“Get the FUCK out of the way!” he barked, “Real men coming through!”
I couldn’t help but smile. I liked this guy. Even though he was older, he reminded me of a younger me — all drive, no rest, determined to beat the clock.
We hit the downward escalator and began slaloming between people who were just casually riding along, lost in their own worlds.
“I don’t know what the hell is the matter with people today,” the old man quipped. “There’s no suffering. Everyone is so weak. They just want the easy life. Not me. I take on every challenge. I’ve had my fair share of pain, and look: I’m still here. Always will be. Ain’t nobody slowing me down,” he finished saying as he reached the end of the escalator.
I paused for a moment, his words colliding with something deep inside my chest. I looked out into the countryside unfolding beyond the platform, glowing in the late morning light. Above it, I saw the eagle of my earlier vision soaring, even higher this time, its cry cutting through the air — fierce, free, unhurried. I swear I heard it call my name.
The bells began to ring. The train was about to depart.
The old man sprinted toward the doors.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t.