Sunday night, Bill and I are watching the Emmys. Besides being a charter bus driver, he’s also a SAG/AFTRA member in good standing. It’s been something to watch. I’m enjoying it, mainly because Bill is enjoying it. It’s a nice ending to a good day. Bill went to bed last night, earlier than usual, and was in pain with his back. I gave him 2 melatonin to try to help him get some sleep and he woke up feeling good.

While he slept I watched Civil War on HBO. It was better than I expected. I had heard about it when it came out earlier this year but wasn’t interested in seeing it. Perhaps if there was still a movie theater in Hoboken I would watch it but the theater was shut down by the pandemic, and then taken over by a church, the kind that sings ‘My God is an awesome God’ and drivel like that. You know, soulless.

Civil War was certainly compelling, so much so that it was in my dreams last night. On Friday night while going to sleep I dreamt I was on top of one of the towers of the George Washington Bridge. It was startling enough to disrupt my drifting off to sleep that I tossed and turned until Morpheus came back.

Today was a bike ride to North Bergen. No need for the Brazilian Carnival Whistle today. The handlebar buzzer did the trick and people were mostly attentive. I made it back in time for Bill. He had mentioned an exhibition at the Hoboken Terminal, “Meet Our Rail Fleet: Past and Present”.

Not only is Bill a member of SAG/AFTRA in good standing as well as being a charter bus driver, he is also a bus nut, someone who gets quite excited about buses. And now we can include trains. We made it to the station and hopped on an old stationary train. Bill asked me if my father rode trains like this car we were in and it certainly wasn’t.

My father’s car was a commuter car and the car we were in was more like a comfort for the upper classes heading down the shore. Wicker chairs with cushions. My father’s car usually had a bar car which was where he could be found from time to time. Then he was getting behind the wheel and driving home, my mother in the passenger seat.

I was in the back seat from time to time, occasionally hiding in order to surprise him when he got behind the wheel. Shocking him into sobriety? It may have worked since we always came home unscathed. Physically speaking of course.

The ride home was not the white knuckle ride that was the usual morning trip to the train station. That was terrifying. He usually left later than he should have and if he missed the Teterboro station then it was an even more hair-rising ride to the Wood Ridge station. Racing a train at 7:30 in the morning. It gets your heart beating faster than a double shot of espresso.