Side Quests & Survival

I had two missions in life: survive my trip to New Jersey to visit my friend and save enough money to go to Florida’s Nintendo World before society collapsed into full dystopia. Both seemed equally impossible.

New York City wasn’t exactly a utopia, but at least it had an unspoken agreement with its citizens—keep moving, keep your head down, and don’t make eye contact with the subway rats. So when I decided to take a solo trip to Jersey, I knew I was testing fate. Nothing good ever happened when someone voluntarily crossed the Hudson.

I took the cheapest route possible: a budget bus that looked like it had already seen a fair share of crime scenes. The driver had the energy of a man who had nothing to lose, which explained why we were weaving through traffic like we were in Fast & Furious: Port Authority Drift. Meanwhile, the guy next to me smelled like a mix of cigarettes and regret. He was also definitely asleep with his eyes open.

The bus finally wheezed its way into Newark, and I stepped off, immediately greeted by the distinct scent of pollution, car exhaust, and crushed dreams. My friend Nate had recently moved here for work and had sworn it wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t convinced.

“Yo, you made it!” Nate grinned, clapping me on the back as I tossed my bag into his car.

“Barely. That bus ride took years off my life.”

“Yeah, that’s the Jersey way.”

We drove to his apartment, which was in what I assumed was a “good” part of town, meaning there were only mildly threatening potholes instead of full-on sinkholes. The night was supposed to be chill—catch up, eat some overpriced takeout, and not get mugged.

But the thing about New Jersey? It has a way of testing you.

We were walking to a convenience store when we saw a guy selling “designer cologne” out of his trunk. Except the “Gucci” label was peeling off. Then, some guy in a tracksuit tried to convince us to buy knockoff AirPods. A few blocks later, a raccoon with the confidence of a mob boss stared us down.

“Jersey wildlife is built different,” I muttered.

The store itself was sketchy in a way that made me question my life choices. The fluorescent lights flickered just enough to make it feel like a horror movie. The cashier looked like he had been through several wars.

“What can I get ya?” he asked in a tone that suggested he was dead inside.

“A water bottle and whatever snack won’t kill me.”

He chuckled. “Bold of you to assume.”

I grabbed a bag of chips that may or may not have been expired and pulled out my card, only to realize my bank account was looking real End of Days. Between rent, groceries, and my Nintendo World savings, I had about three solid dollars left to my name.

Nate paid for the snacks with a sigh. “You really think you’re gonna afford that Florida trip?”

“Yes.”

“Bro, you live like you’re on hard mode.”

“Listen, I don’t need luxury—I just need enough money to get there and not starve.”

He laughed. “Okay, but why Florida, though?”

“Because Nintendo World is opening, and I refuse to let capitalism crush my dreams before I get to throw a banana peel at someone in real life.”

He considered this. “Fair.”

The rest of the night was relatively uneventful—until I tried to sleep on his couch and was rudely awoken by what I thought was a ghost but was actually just Nate’s neighbor screaming at his PlayStation at 3 AM.

By the time I got back to the city, I had two realizations:

1. New Jersey was, in fact, an experience.

2. I really needed to save more money.

So I made a new budget plan. No more takeout. No more unnecessary purchases. Every penny would go toward my Florida fund.

Three days later, I got an email: “Congrats! Your rent is increasing!”

I screamed into my pillow.

This was fine. Everything was fine.