The long line of passengers queued up and paid little attention to the show as the lead character entered rotating door stage left. He placed one hand against the wall; rotated one hundred and eighty degrees and slid down as far as the ground would let him go. Their trips had yet to begin; his at long last was over. Their challenges lay ahead. His challenge was just to find peace in a world of endless corners and curbs. What they supposed was a truckload of no ones fault but his own, carried a small brown tapered bag. Their eyes dismissed him into attention-less mind spans while his sighs flew free into the marbleized cathedral of destinations. Had he been a Broadway show poster against the wall they might have paid notice or a cab they might have hailed for a ride. But no one, neither liberal nor conservative, faint of heart, or sad sack sucker paid notice to his final countdown. Five thirty on Friday night in a bus station is not the place to make charitable contributions, no matter how loud of a bell you hear ringing, or how bare of a hat you find lying in front of you. It would take a police escort to move him away; but that was perhaps at least an hour or two gone at best. They already noticed him, but with the crowds this time of night, no security wanted to make a scene. Scenes upset people. People minding their own business prefer their lives to be scene less. They might like to listen to their I-pod’s and move on reading papers about people they will never meet or take the time to know. What Giuliani calls a safe town, is also a good place to die alone under print.