Portrait of a Lost City
Good places can often seem rough under the dimmest of lights. Funny how rough places never look good under the brightest of bulbs. Bridgeport train station is a far cry from the majestic grandness of the great rail stations of North-East America - Grand Central in New York, Union Station in D.C, and 30th St Station in Philly. This place is sketchy. I know if they could swing it, commuters from the valley and border towns like Shelton, Trumbull, Derby, Monroe would avoid Bridgeport. Local news stations would actually have to report Good News if it wasn't for the shootings and fires and car chases this city offers.
- Does this train go to White Plains?
- No, I think you might have to transfer at Stamford.
From one rundown hole to another I think. This pimp and his catatonic whore.
- Anything you can offer to help us get there?
- No sorry mate, I work for a living. I have my own pimps to deal with.
His face says he wants to hit me. I think I could take him. He's not the toughest looking pimp I've come across. Trust me, when you live in Bridgeport, you'll be amazed at how frequent you'll see them. The other night I went to the gas station to pick up some milk for the apartment. It couldn't have been past 6:30 in the evening. There she was. Strutting her massive fur coat covered body, up and down the East Main St./Huntington Tpke crossroads. Standing over by the entrance to the shop was her boss. Gold chain to match a few teeth. In total plain sight. If you can imagine, its becoming more and more frequent. The city started cracking down on all the rub and tug joints. I doubt it's for the right reasons. Somebody forgot to get an envelope, I suspect. The older this city gets, the more often it does its dirty deeds out of the shadows.