Comfort Station

10:00 A.M

Carolina weiss, onetime russian countess now A & E mechanic, boarded the 42nd Street Crosstown bus, westbound, at Second Avenue, the southern threshold of the fashionable Upper East Side, where every terrace is haunted by reminders of the past. Nervously she extended a one-dollar bill toward the driver, who by sheerest coincidence just happened to be Fred Dingbat, who not very long before had turned the face of his giant GM city bus from eastward to westward, and who, having left the mighty United Nations Building, where men from one hundred twenty-six nations pace the corridors and worry about their own personal problems, had set out upon the crosstown trek across mighty 42nd Street, where (/• backwards from 6:00 A.M. chapter).

Fred gazed upon the bill which had just been extended toward his right ear by Carolina Weiss, onetime Russian countess now A & E mechanic. Six and one-eighth inches long by two and five-eighths inches wide, the bill in question was a medium green in color on the back and a much darker green on the face. The face, dominated by the face of George Washington, also contained across the top the legend FEDERAL RESERVE NOTE, and beneath that THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. With a numeral “1” in each corner, the bill was clearly a one-dollar bill, or in common parlance a “single.” Beneath the wording THE UNITED appeared the warning “This note is legal tender for all debts, public and private” and beneath the word AMERICA appeared, in bright green, the serial number: D70570627C. The serial number also appeared on the lower left, along with an indecipherable signature, that of the Treasurer of the United States. On the lower right was the information “Series 1963 A” and the perfectly legible signature “Henry H. Fowler,” that being the name of the far-seeing then-Secretary of the Treasury. The numeral “4” appeared for no apparent reason four times on the face of the bill, possibly a further hint that Paul McCartney of the Beatles died in 1966 and was quietly replaced by the winner of a look-alike contest.

Fortunately, Fred Dingbat didn’t see the back of the bill, which is much more complicated even than the front and would take much longer to describe. But if he had ...

No. Carolina Weiss, nervously, extended the bill face-side facing Fred’s face only.

To which Fred replied, “Lady, we don’t give change, lady. Don’t you read the outside of the bus?”

Disconcerted, but nevertheless pleased that the driver had somehow been aware of her former noble status — else why call her “lady”? — Carolina said, in pretty confusion, “Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t usually travel by this means of conveyance.”

“If you people are going to go on slumming expeditions,” Fred announced savagely, “you’re going to have to expect to take the rough with the smooth. Now, I have a schedule to maintain — are you coming along on this voyage into the unknown or aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes!” Carolina cried. “I must! I must!”

“Well, I don’t give change. You need coins or token.”

“You see,” Carolina explained, “for the first seven years of my marriage, I thought everything was—”

“If you don’t mind, lady,” Fred declaimed imperviously, “I’d appreciate it if you’d limit your reminiscences to internal monologue. You’re not supposed to talk to the driver while the vehicle is in motion, and as of now this vehicle is in motion.” Then he winked and said, “I won this bus in a crap game with Vincent Impelliteri, far-seeing then-Mayor of this mighty metropolis. Interested?”

“You can keep your reminiscences buttoned up too, young man,” Carolina replied, with the kind of haughty grandeur that goes a long way toward explaining the Russian Revolution.

Annoyed, Fred operated the mighty omnibus in a forward manner in a way so abrupt as to cause Carolina to lose her balance and totter backwards three tottering steps into a green plastic seat, which fortunately happened at the time to be unoccupied. Sitting there, shaken by her experience, Carolina paused a moment to catch her breath and reorganize her shattered thoughts.

“You haven’t paid your fare yet,” Fred reminded her, not unkindly, having now regretted the impetuosity which had produced his impetuous behavior of a moment before.

“Just a minute,” Carolina said. She was still clutching the handle of the valpack containing all of that portion of her worldly goods which she had chosen to take with her on this Grand Adventure, this break with the past, the endless round of misunderstandings, jealousy, petty bickering, which her marriage had at last come down to. If only ...

No. This was no time for reminiscence, not even in the form of internal monologue. This was a time for action.

Opening the valpack and spreading it out along the central aisle of the bus was a matter of a few seconds’ furious activity. Then, shielding her actions from the gaze of curious passengers all about her, Carolina knelt upon the opened valpack and delved into the pocket containing all the money she possessed in the world: two hundred sixty-two thousand eighty dollars, plus her childhood piggybank. Not much, but it would have to be enough, enough for the fresh start with Roland.

It was to the piggybank that Carolina instinctively turned now, in her moment of need. The piggybank was the last reminder of Imperial Russia, the Russia of her childhood: happy days on the Volga, etc. Holding the artifact in her two hands as she knelt there on the spread-eagle valpack in the bus aisle, Carolina thought back to those halcyon years, and a trace of a tear appeared in the corner of one eye. The right one. Speak, Memory! Carolina thought, and clutched the piggybank — named Rosebud, because of its curly tail — to her bosom.

The bus, meantime, had stopped at Third Avenue, where several passengers disembarked and several soon-to-be passengers stepped aboard. It was necessary for all of them to walk the length of the open valpack, and one of the new arrivals commented to his friend, an internationally famous plastic surgeon, “I see they’re finally carpeting the buses.”

“Lumpy, though,” commented the friend.

“What can you expect from a fusion administration?” riposted the first, and both fell to irrepressible giggling.

Carolina, recalled to the present by the people walking on her valpack — and on her ankles, if the truth be known — returned from her reverie and briskly shook some change out of the piggybank, then reverently replaced the latter in its valpack pocket, briskly zippered the valpack shut again, briskly got to her feet, and marched briskly to Fred Dingbat’s side, where she asked, “How much to the Bryant Park Comfort Station?”

Fred gazed upon her. “That’s for men only,” he informed her.

“Let me worry about that, Yarmulka,” she said, employing a Russian term of contemptuous endearment usually reserved for pet mice. “Just tell me how much.” She jingled coins in her hand. “I can pay,” she said. “Whatever it is.”