No exit: My 9/11 memories
GUEST COLUMN BY AMY PHILLIPS PENN — The Hampton Jitney was packed. It was a Friday in the summer, and I had just flown in from Florida to spend time with friends.
I had grown up summering in East Hampton, and had watched the Hampton Jitney grow from one tiny van into an industry, and a prestigious and competitive one at that.
I boarded the bus at the airport connection, and it was tightly packed with passengers who had settled down with copies of Hamptons Magazine and bottled water, since boarding in Manhattan.
Since there weren’t many choices, I didn’t even bother to look for any familiar faces that would be fun to catch up with. I squished in next to a man in his twenties, who was sprawled over the seat. He acknowledged my presence by curling up to the window, and going back to sleep.
He dozed on and off, and when he was more alert, we began to talk. We covered a variety of subjects, but the odd part was that we never exchanged names, not even first names. This was so not the Hamptons way.
I liked him immediately.
He seemed content with his life, and that attribute is very contagious to be around. He told me that that he was looking forward to a dinner party that his parents were giving that night. He was going to park cars, which was announced with the same degree of pride as if he were the guest of honor. He then moved on to discussing his job; he was working for a brokerage house.
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