The Wastepaper Basket

I couldn’t scan my ticket when I got to Secaucus station. This is my third time taking a train in the US, and my second time being in this specific station. I tried a few times; and who knows how many more it would have taken me if I had been left alone. A quiet, “miss-” pulls me into reality. I realize I’ve been staring at the animation on the turnstyle, holding my hand out in a tentative hover that suggests the attitude of a frightened child offering breadcrumbs to a fierce-eyed chicken.

I finally comprehend the animation. I’m holding my ticket upside down.

I look at the gentleman on my right. We’re both tired.

“I appreciate it.” I say in a way that sounds less passive aggressive than you would think. The gate opens- we each march away in our opposing directions and I remember; I’m wearing a stupid hat.

I bought this stupid hat myself, a straw cowboy hat with plastic indigo beads. I saw it in a shop a month before, and regretted not doing everything I could to take it home. Finding the exact hat in a store across the country felt like a sign. This summer I wore it religiously. It goes with absolutely nothing, and somehow, absolutely everything. I look like Rango the cartoon lizard in this hat. I’ve gotten many compliments wearing it.

But I didn’t want to wear it today. I’m moving again, for the last time in at least a few months. My move includes three bags, all of which are stuffed to the brim and have no room for a completely squish-responsive hat.

Rita is the only one of my bags that has a name. She’s a rose pink samsonite hardshell, and only earned her name after our third trip together. Rita has a name for two reasons: I love the idea of having a suitcase with a personality, and I made up a name on the spot to make a pretty girl smile. I’m not sure why I did this– I’m not sure why I thought it would impress her. And yet it did. Rita was bought for a spring trip to Alaska, and has carried me along to Wales, London, Maine, New York, and Jersey. Rita is now taking me back to New York. There’s a feeling of failure in this retraction. Not that living in Jersey has ever been a dream of mine.

I moved to jersey as a very informal au-pair to a lovely attorney and her pre-teen son. I swore I would never do a home stay after london, and never take care of kids again. But after weeks of volunteer work, my money has finally run out. International plans that I had mapped, budgeted, and embarrassingly bragged about suddenly plummeted into nonexistence. The job I had counted on to buoy me to Ireland, Yorkshire, Prague, Germany, and New Zealand fell through. 

(Author’s note: I think everyone saw this coming but me. No one has said “told you so,” and all loved ones have acted appropriately surprised, and my wounded pride loves them for that)

The online job gone, I turned around and broke my promise. The position was a 30 minute train ride from the city. I was assured room and board in exchange for bi-weekly babysitting, basic animal care, laundry, and dishes, all with guaranteed weekends off. I’d have time to get a part time job; I’d even have time to work on the novel. On those free weekends I’d run around the city looking for work, all with the promise of a warm bed waiting for me. We talked about my other au-pair jobs– how my time was important to me, and from experience I’ve found it’s good to set a clear schedule ahead of time. We’d feel it out, we both said. Be home when the son comes home from school. Clean up after the animals, be here for supper. We agreed on a two-week trial run.

I almost wrote about Jersey. I tried to start typing about three different times. The way things have now ended, with tearful hugs and promises of visits, it feels wrong to dive into the mess that was New Jersey. I’m still trying to find the balance of telling stories and dishing out gossip pieces.

I’ll allow some gaps to remain– it was nothing as promised. I was needed badly, and reminded that everywhere I turned. When I left my aunt’s house over a week ago, she said she secretly hoped this new position would fall to pieces so I’d be forced to live with her instead. I liked visiting Aunt Kess– I liked drinking wine with someone who looked liked my mother, but a version that wouldn’t cry if I got a tattoo. I liked being used as a human jungle-gym by my 9 year old cousin. I liked a man of the house that made efforts to be inviting, who spoke softly and smiled at his wife. 

Huguenot New York is almost two hours from NYC. It’s nestled in the hills, dotted with wineries, barns, coffee shops, slivers of highway, and maple trees. When autumn comes it’s going to feel like it. It’s going to demand to be orange and spicy and warm and it’s going to use your grandmother’s voice to tell you to put on a sweater. I know all this in my bones and I’m about ten minutes away from my station. I travelled backwards on my ride to Jersey, and now that I really am going backwards, I’m aimed in the right direction. But it all feels horribly non-linear, and I was hoping to have broken the curse. No more changing my mind. No more running back to family. No more houses that turned too angry, too anxious, too oppressive. Maine. Jersey. NYC. It felt right.

If you’re already feeling like an idiot, I’ve got a tip– don’t wear a cowboy hat.