The girl, the bull, and the shuttle bus.
(a short story by Wylde A. — July 2017)
*- Part 1/2 -*
I am standing in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge when I first see the girl. It is not really the girl, but rather a picture of her statue defiantly facing the golden metal bull. The bull symbolizes Wall St.’s strength. The girl, I wasn’t sure. The Colombian saleswoman expresses to me, in Spanish, that it represents “our collective resistance against Donald Trump.” I know the girl’s statue was not there the last time I came to New York and so I am intrigued about this new element. The print itself is captivating, and I want to get my hands on it. I haggle my way to paying five dollars less and walk away with a wooden print too big for my carry-on luggage. Day one, I have officially bought the one souvenir I allow myself to purchase per trip, and we haven’t even made it to the Statue of Liberty yet.

The actual statue is smaller than I imagine, but I’m usually off when it comes to guessing how tall or far or long anything is. The girl stands with her hands curled into fists propped on her hips. Her dress is blown backwards, frozen, as statues tend to be. Her gaze, however, looks paused, as if captivated in a snapshot, right before getting back to shining her power on whoever stands on her way. She is standing directly in front of the iconic golden metal bull, and she is beautiful.
Josue suggests that we kiss her and so Julia, our third mate, takes a picture of us kissing the girl on the cheek. The girl deserves all the love.
She is our heroine.
The bull, on the other hand, is unapproachable, but it receives most of the crowd’s attention. We disregard it and carry on for another block towards the port.
I am happy to ignore the bull. It is a monster of a statue, massive and attractive, but I don’t get why it is important. Most importantly, why is it here? I do not understand what it represents so I am happy to ignore it.
It seems that I am the only one, however. The bull is surrounded by a crowd, like a television sale on Black Friday. There are people being raised to climb the bull, children crawling under the bull and even a crowd hugging the bull’s butt. Somehow it feels that the girl is timeless, yet the bull is the one that will be there forever. What a pair.

Josue insists that the story of the penitent man be told as well. The penitent man is to spend seven days and seven nights on his knees hoping to generate a butterfly effect around the world. Every visitor to New York City will notice him bent low, as if to kiss the stone floor, blockading the bulls rage against the little girl’s might. We wondered if he is hungry so we leave two protein bars at his feet and “moment” with him.
By “moment” I mean to say that Julia recites a few yogi mantras on his name and Josue kneels with him for few seconds. I, on the other hand, stare at the penitent man wondering to myself what his penitence is for. I am sure Josue and Julia would call this exact moment something else, but what else would I call sharing a moment with somebody else in this way other than “momenting”? Maybe “staring”? I am not sure.

It must be the camera around Josue’s neck that gives our “tourist” status away.
“Oh you’re looking for the free ferry? Right this way!”
I find it a little odd for a free ferry to have tour guides but the young woman with red lipstick takes us right up to her buddy in front of the port’s main entrance. His name is L.A. and he immediately shows us how the Statue of Liberty comes as a package deal, which includes the seven main attractions along the Hudson, and how it could all be ours for $35 American dollars each, but we better hurry, for in twenty minutes the driver of the shuttle bus was leaving to take us to the ferry, and this was her last trip of the day.
We had been played earlier when a group of b-boys made Josue a part of their aerobics show. We were skeptical, so I point to the tickets L.A. is holding and ask “Hmm… what about this student discount? We could get each ticket for $30.” Josue catches on. He asks “Can you do it for $75 total?” Julia reaches in her backpack for the money and pulls out $75 so fast that L.A., has no choice but to say “Here you go. Hurry” and we follow the young woman with the red lipstick right to the shuttle bus.

It is a small bus, yet there are empty seats. Only an extended family of eight from India, and a mother and daughter from Venezuela occupy this vehicle, so we take the back row and keep talking as loud as one does when walking the streets of New York City. An extra thirty American dollars in our pockets was something to be celebrated, but not too loudly. I suggest that maybe everyone else in the bus paid full ticket price. Maybe the shuttle driver would hear us and start laughing quietly knowing that the tickets only cost ten dollars or so. Who knows? So Josue turns around and starts making conversation with the mother and daughter while Julia and I look out the window and talk about what we see.
A few minutes later we arrive at the pier. Our driver, a large woman with a long and tired face starts rolling her shoulders, gets out of the driver’s seat and starts walking towards a group of cars in the distance. She mumbles something about the ferry leaving without us.
I see her leave and I think to myself “How brave of her, to claim her clock-out time with her bare hands; to stick up for us when justice is due” While driving she had been complaining to herself about having to wait for us to round up her party of passengers. She said she was doing this out of the kindness of her heart so how brave for this lady to wrestle an explanation for us.
She is our heroine.
We realize we have to do our part to figure out what went wrong so Josue assigns roles: Julia and I are to stay in the shuttle to prevent it from leaving, and he will go outside and talk to somebody about getting our money back.

Everyone else decides to follow Josue outside, except for the Venezuelan duo. I “moment” with them. Earlier, Josue had turned to me and said where the ladies were originally from. I had considered asking them something important right then, but I instead opted for saying “Yo soy venezolano también,” that I was Venezuelan too, smiled, and gone back to chatting with Julia. I thought I had something very important to ask, but important for whom? I realize I now have a second chance and I decide to try again and ask in a more polite way.
She tells me that she lives in Pittsburgh and has been for the past year. I keep digging and she shares that she had the chance to leave Venezuela sooner, but the reason for not leaving sooner than 2016 was her tough-headedness. Her daughter on the other hand had spent time in the states with her father and prior to moving to Pittsburgh was more than ready to make the permanent change.
Her daughter is about the same age I was when I first moved to the United States. Back then, I remember saying to my parents that I too was more than ready to move to the states. It too had spent time abroad and was thrilled for such a big change. I doubt I had any influence on my parents’ decision, but I few months later we landed in Miami without plans for return. But that was thirteen years ago. Was the newest parental wave of Venezuelan immigrants pursuing the same goals my family was way back when? Was the girl in the shuttle as thrilled about such big change as I was way back when? I guess “momenting” works after all.

*- Part 2/2 -*
A black BMW van pulls up. It looks like an armored truck. One of the passengers in the back seat is our heroine, the shuttle bus driver. She steps down and I start clapping. Nobody joins but I keep on clapping anyways. I want her to know that her efforts have not gone unnoticed.
“I am taking you all back to the port,” the lady driver says, fuming. We are all to go back and speak to the person who sold us the tickets. No one had taken responsibility for sending the ferry thirty minutes ahead of schedule and there was nothing we could do about it today. The decision had taken place already and we were to head back to the port’s main entrance in the southern-most tip of Manhattan. No apologies, no explanations, no culpables. But most importantly, not money back guaranteed until tomorrow.
We start driving back. I find it a little odd that we had to take a shuttle bus. “If we were gonna board a ferry, why had we left the port’s main entrance to begin with?” It is way too late to rationally wonder out loud but the thought does not go unnoticed. I start to regret our change of plans, but I hear from our shuttle bus driver how much more regretful L.A. was going to be for wasting her time. She calls him and yells at him over the phone for a good minute. She yells how hard she’s gonna kick his ass when she gets there. She yells at somebody else. She yells at the side view mirrors. She yells to breathe.
As soon as we arrive at the port’s main entrance, we realize the place is deserted: L.A. and the girl with the red lipstick are gone. Josue and I immediately assume our roles. Julia, on the other hand becomes our translator. The black BMW van had followed us back so she stands between both vehicles making sure nothing gets lost in translation. As the de-facto gate keeper she is the first to notice the very friendly man. The Friendly man has a big friendly smile and is dying to fulfill his penitence. He approaches Julia and with his friendly smile starts ordering everybody off the shuttle bus.
The Friendly man is helpful, but in the way angels are helpful in bible stories: unapologetic, blameless, and always carrying a big sword. I catch on.
I cut him off and ask him if he has any money. He looks taken aback and with a sly smile says “I have a wad of cash in my pocket.” I ask if he could give us that money for the tickets and, justly, he starts explaining that even though he had a big wad of cash in his pocket it would be improper for him to start doing the right thing someone else was entitled to. He says, “Let me see if I can make you understand where I’m coming from. Why would I give you the money back for something I did not sell to you?”
He explains that he is employed by nobody, but I insist further. This ticket business at the very least has to be his part-time job. “If you don’t work for this shuttle bus company, what are you doing here?”
At this, the Friendly man laughs with a smile big enough to bite the shuttle bus in half and says “I am just a man, a man who loves to help; A man in a red Chargers t-shirt.” His smile never fades.
“Isn’t that a superhero t-shirt?” I point out “That’s the Flash.”
He laughs even wider now. “See? I don’t even know what this shirt is! I’m not from around here and I don’t even know what this shirt even is. I’m just a friendly man in a thunder t-shirt!”
My question deflated everything around him but his smile so I stare down at it hoping it fades away. Instead, the Friendly man looks around and in the same breath as his last sentence, asks Julia where she’s from. Without pausing, she answers “Me? I’m not from around here! I’m from the planet Mars. I’m just a girl from Mars in a white t-shirt!”

At this, his friendly smile finally cracks. He laughs. The Friendly man laughs like people who have just talked their way into cheaper tickets laugh, and he gives our Martian a high five.
The patriarch of the family from India returns and says “Everybody is getting their money back!” He collects the rest of his family off the bus, and they go on their way. The Venezuelan mother and daughter are finally convinced they’re going to get their money back and walk towards Josue, who is leaning against the BMW van, talking to the people inside.
I wonder aloud what is taking Josue so long while the Friendly man continues his chant to get everybody off the shuttle bus. By everybody he means one person.
I let him know that I will not leave the shuttle until I know for sure Josue got the money back. The Friendly man whispers his hopes for everything to remain friendly, yet the Friendly man says “friendly” the same way any driver would say “traffic”. Our Martian heads over to investigate and the Friendly man follows her.
I look through the back window. It seems that Josue is catching up with an old mate from high school. However, when the Venezuelan ladies are a few steps from the van, the man behind the BMW wheel yells, “I am NOT giving money back to NOBODY else!” The Venezuelan ladies stop in the middle of the street and rethink approaching the van.
Josue always says how Julia and I speak better Spanish than he does, but out of the three of us he’s the only one whom others introduce themselves to in Spanish. Josue waits a pre-planned number of seconds and, speaking back to their conversation’s original Spanish, he calmly says “Vale, ellas necesitan su dinero más que los de India. Tienen su cita con la oficina de inmigracción para arreglar su pasaporte mañana. No pueden regresar mañana por su dinero. También…” and this is where he leans in “…están aquí con permiso.”
I don’t know how, or even if, Josue knew that the man behind the driver’s seat was also an immigrant who knew what it was like to deal with immigration offices and foreign visas, but immediately something clicked behind the driver’s eyes and, without any other words, he pulls out the money and returns it to the ladies.
Julia insists in telling how at that exact moment she turns around and sees my face, but not the rest of my head, sticking out of the back window. She claims I acted “as a perfectly annoying little brother would,” and yelled across the street “DID WE GET THE MONEY BACK YET?!” She didn’t know what to do about that, so she just shrugs and shakes her head as if to say “What is wrong with you?”
Some signals, like a shrug, can be easily misinterpreted. I take it for “What, I don’t know. What are we talking about?” so I say OK in the way journalists respond to live witnesses talking about their side of the story and stick my head back inside. I close the window back up, quickly, as if trying to contain all the air from leaving, lock the driver’s side door and close the shuttle bus’ gate, effectively barricading myself inside. Where are the emergency exits?
“DUDE, can you tell your FRIEND to get off the shuttle bus?!” the Friendly man with a friendly smile yells at Josue. I have not seen him raise his voice until now. I have to admit, it is funny. Josue ignores him so the Friendly man walks back and sees what I’ve done.
There is no turning back. Our Martian starts laughing and pulls out her phone to take a picture. The Friendly man has a personality change and, I imagine, secretly hopes I have found those emergency exits right about now.
The shuttle bus driver, we all realize, has been sitting safely in the back seat of the BMW van this entire time. It wasn’t a position of power, but a physical representation of one of those places where people go to count their breaths.
All that counting must have given her superpowers, because as soon as Julia starts laughing, she appears out of thin air outside of the closed gate and starts screaming, “gEEEt the FUCK off of MY bus! I will BEAT your ass, get the fuck off my bus now! Ope — da FUck?! HELLLL NO! Open this DAMN door! This is MY shuttle! You gon’open this door RIGHT now! I’ma KILLLLL you!”
I gaze at her, and pause, as in frozen in a snapshot. She is charging on towards the door with a rage that would have made the golden bull seem two and a half feet tall.
A moment later, Josue shows up. I ask if he got the money back and he nods, so I open the door. The shuttle bus driver helps the door fold itself in half, and rages towards me. She demands me to step off her bus, or demands my head to sever itself from my body. I can’t remember. I step back.
She stares at me like she wants to hit me, but I show that I won’t let her. She seems like she wouldn’t mind trying anyways. So I finally ask her, “Are you gonna touch me?” She pauses, looks back at the Friendly man, and reconsiders.
She steps aside, and I walk safely off the bus.
Are we skipping? Julia, Josue and I are walking arms-over-shoulders in front of the port’s main entrance, cheering. Fifteen American dollars is something to be celebrated. As it turns out, Josue was the first to get the money back, thirty dollars per ticket at that. He was actually the first one who talked with L.A. on the phone, and had even taken a picture holding our tickets, as evidence. Tomorrow morning, L.A. was going to have to reimburse his boss for that money.
As it was, Josue had only stayed with the driver of the BMW van to make sure everyone else got their money back too. Our ecstasy is mixed with a few casual looks over our shoulders, but our skips and screams are nothing short of victory. We are unstoppable.
Our celebratory parade meets the old crowd gathered around the bull.
It seems that its statue has not ceased to be of importance. It occurs to me that the golden bull must have golden balls, and we see a mother and her three children crouching under its hind legs holding its biggest asset in their hands.
We get in line, we turn the camera on, and we take our picture with the bull’s balls.

(This story was written by Wylde A. on July 2017, published here with their permission. The author would like to thank Julia and Josue for being incredible travel buddies and terrific human beings.)

