Active Adults

April 17, 2006

The romantic setting of a New York City loft in an industrial neighborhood was getting dry and dusty in the spring sunlight and crisp, cement-factory breeze, so Deborah and I conspired to escape. We packed a few essentials into a couple of bags and then hopped the subway to Port Authority for a bus ride to southern New Jersey.

Port Authority is always a dizzying mess of commuters on a Friday afternoon, but the added dollop of holiday evacuees made it impossible not to get lost in the slush. We wandered up and down a few escalators, got sidelined in the eddies near the store entrances, and ricocheted through a parade of rolling suitcases before falling into line outside Terminal 319. We shuffled to the idling bus, choked on the fumes for a moment, and finally plopped into our seats and rode nonstop to Toms River before changing to the local bus.

I'd ridden the bus to my parent'’ house once before, for my father’s seventieth birthday last month, but I still wasn't confident I'd recognize the stop. As we boarded, I told the bus driver where we were going. He grunted and impatiently waved me along, then shook his head.

"Was the bus driver giving you attitude?" Deborah asked.

"Sure seemed like it."

"Why?"

"Because he's a bus driver, I guess."

"I'm sure you'll recognize the stop," Deborah assured me. Still, as we lurched along old Route 9, past low-slung salty shacks with blistering paint, sandy parking lots, garden outlets, Wawas, marine supply stores, churches, pizza parlors, and antique shops, everything looked alike.

"Watch for the volunteer fire departments," I told her. "They always have the name of the town on them."

When we crossed into Barnegat, Deborah was right. I recognized the stop by the white picket fence and antique store. "This is it," I said, and we hopped off where we were supposed to.

My parents’ home isn't far from the bay, and there are plenty of streams, lakes, and sandy trails in the nearby Pine Barrens to enjoy, but we had to stick around the house until my sister and her boyfriend arrived from Pennsylvania. There's not much to do in my parents’ gated retirement compound; non-members aren't given access to the clubhouse. But Deborah and I were eager to get outside and went for a walk in the sun, around the newly constructed neighborhood. The houses are all similar in style, and although no two adjacent houses are allowed to be painted the same color, the residents are strictly limited in the colors they can choose: white, off-white, antique white, and so on. With additional regulations regarding the number of lawn ornaments allowed, the neighborhood has a very sterile, orderly appearance. Cars are kept in garages, and a single young tree sprouts in each front yard.

"I think you're getting some sun," Deborah said as we walked. She held her arm up to mine. "Yeah, you're definitely getting some color."

"I better not get too much color," I said, "or I'm liable to get arrested around here."

After a weekend away from the city, it was disconcerting to be seated next to a Jersey boy obsessed with inner city slang on the bus ride back to New York. We almost missed the bus, and when we boarded, the only two seats available were in the back row. Deborah and I squeezed into them and tried, impossibly, to ignore the kid in the bright white, oversized polo shirt as he fiddled with the wide flat brim of his Yankees cap and mumbled into his cell phone.

"Yo, waasup? Yeeayuh—jus' chillin'—word?—wuh-urrrrd—a'ight. Oh you at you boyfriend's house? A'ight, I call you later. Muuuaahhh."

As soon as he finished one call, he made another, taking off his cap and putting it back on several times during each one. Whenever he lost a signal, as he did from time to time while cruising up the Garden State Parkway, he obsessively hit redial until he was reconnected: "A'ight. Yeeeay-uh—wuh-uuurd—"

We pulled into the gate and followed the kid, still on his phone, off the bus and into the terminal, which was buzzing with at least as many people as there had been on Friday afternoon when we left. We'd only been away for a few days, but it was impossible for me not to feel like a tourist, out of step with the pace as I awkwardly navigated the crowd and followed Deborah to the subway. I bruised my thighs by walking into the turnstile without swiping my Metrocard first. "Oh yeah, duh," I muttered, feeling disoriented and already missing the clean air and quiet.

"Here," said Deborah, handing me her card. "Use mine."

The L train was the final leg of the trip, and we relaxed into two empty seats with a sigh. A short, ponytailed magician was in the car with us. "That's the guy I was telling you about," I whispered. I'd seen his act before.

"Oh no," said Deborah. "I don't want to see."

The magician sped through a handful of bush league tricks before pulling out a container roughly the size of a tissue box from his modified baby carriage. He opened a drawer and turned to show everyone it was empty.

"This is it," I said, "Watch."

The magician closed the box, pretended to dig out some magic powder from his pocket, and sprinkled it on top. Then he pulled it open to reveal a fat black and white rabbit squished inside. He closed the box and returned it to the gold-trimmed red velour baby carriage with the rest of his magical knick-knacks. "Oh no," Deborah said again. "Poor thing." As horrified as she was by what she imagined was a shitty life for a rabbit, she couldn't stop laughing.

"Wasn't his act everything I said it was?" I asked.

"And so ends our trip," she replied.