Member-only story
Greyhound Bound
White line fever
“You gotta be kidding me,” I almost yelled at our bus driver. He’d just informed all the passengers that the last stop was right where we were — at Port Authority, 42nd Street, and 8th Avenue in New York.
In the Casting Networks job description for this background extra work, the listing specifically stated that the set would be in Newark, New Jersey, and that people who couldn’t self-report, would be ferried to and from the set by a bus that would leave from and return to Varick and Canal Street, where I’d ridden and locked up my bike.
I’d just finished working three 13 to 15 hour days, and was in no mood to take a subway at 1 AM to retrieve my bike, given that the listing stated clearly I’d be dropped off at Canal and Varick.
I continued ranting at the bus driver: “I know it’s not your fault, but this is bull shit. My bike is downtown where you’re supposed to be stopping. What the fuck?” I might add that oddly, I was the only person dissatisfied with the changed destination. Everybody was off the bus except me and the driver.
Resigned to my fate, the driver surprised me — offering that he was on his way to Brooklyn to dump the bus — and he had no problem dropping me where I should have been dropped in the first place. Relieved at his benevolence and already in the front, I plopped…
