Manhattan Transit Hub

Author: John Dos Passos (USA)
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: Three seagulls fly among the broken wooden walls, on the broken crates, orange peels, and decaying cabbage stalks. The ferry, following the current, crashes into and swallows the river, slowly sliding into the dock, green waves rippling with foam. The hand winch chain creaks. The door rolls up, men and women push past through the gaps, squeezing across the wooden walkway at the ferry crossing, emitting a stench of feces, like apples being pressed into a juice press. A nurse extends her arms holding a basket, the posture resembling holding a urine pot, pushing open the room door. The room is stuffy and dry, the walls painted green, the air mixed with the smell of iodine and alcohol, and faint sourness wafts from the other baskets placed against the wall. She sets down the basket in her hand, pouts, and glances over. A newborn baby twists its body like a worm in cotton gauze. At the ferry crossing, an old man plays the violin. His face is like a monkey's, with wrinkles piled together. From the cracked leather shoes, it's clear he has seen much hardship. Bade, Coubanin sits with his back to the river, on the railing, watching the old man. A breeze blows through the hair exposed under the tightly fastened hat brim, and dries the sweat on his temples. He is very tired, with blisters on his feet. But when he sees the ferry leave the crossing, splashing the water and creating fan-shaped waves, he feels a warmth, and instantly his whole body becomes cheerful. "Hey, friend, how far is this ferry from the city?" he asks a young man standing beside him, wearing a straw hat and a blue and white striped tie. The young man gives him a disdainful glance, taking in everything from Bade's deformed shoes to the red wrist sticking out from his worn cuffs, from his thin turkey-like neck to his eager eyes under the broken hat brim. "It depends on where you're going." P3 "How do I get to Broadway? I want to go to the city center." "Go east, turn onto Broadway after one block, and keep going. As long as you go far enough, you'll reach the city center." "Thank you, sir. I will do that." The violinist passes through the crowd with a hat in his hand, the wind tousling a few strands of gray hair around his bald head. Bade sees the old man's face turn toward him, his black,-like eyes staring at him from the wrinkled sockets. "No money," he grunts, then turns his gaze to the sharp, wide river. The ferry crossing barrier is closed, the cracked dock leaning, and the iron chain clanks. Bade is pushed out of the waiting room by the crowd. He walks between two coal carts, across the dusty streets toward the yellow trolley. His knees tremble. He plunges his hands deep into his pockets. He eats at a lunch cart along the street. He stiffly approaches a swivel chair and stares at the price list for a long time. "Scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee." "Double fried?" the red-haired man behind the counter asks, wiping a freckled forearm with his apron. Bade, Coubanin sits down. "What?" "Scrambled eggs. Single or double fried?" "Of course, double fried." Bade puts his hands on his head and sits listlessly beside the counter. "You look distracted, buddy," the man says, breaking the eggs into a sizzling pan of oil. "I came from somewhere else. I walked 15 miles this morning." The man from his front teeth: "Looking for work in the big city?" Bade nods. The man flips the eggs to the other side with a, plates them, adds some bread and butter to the edge of the plate, and pushes it toward Bade. "I have some advice for you, buddy, free of charge. First, shave, get a haircut, brush off the grass seeds from your clothes, and then you can show up. That's how you find work around here." "I'll work hard. I'm a good hand," Bade mumbles, chewing his food. "That's all I have to say. That's it," the red-haired man says, then goes back to the oven.