"I'm taking a cab home tonight," I declared as we exited EJ's luncheonette.
"Oooh. Look at you. Taking a cab," said Euro, sweet midwestern thing with a pretty smile.
"Um. Right. This is why I work two jobs." Fake irritation spreading over skin, vocal cords.
Euro laughed. She stood on the sidewalk with Roxie, another peer of ours, and waved me goodbye as I entered a cab on 3rd avenue.
Euro, Roxie, Coetz and I had just finished two plates of cheese fries and a fruity vanilla shake. I also ordered a peppermint tea. When our waitress set it down in front of me, I promised, "I'm going to take this mug." The others half-laughed, quarter-grimaced, quarter-clutched their bags as I eyed the stout treasure, labeled "EJ's Luncheonette" on one of its sides. I told them I collected mugs from diners; they turned away when I placed it in my bag and slapped a hearty tip on the table, slid across the booth and vacated the premises.
They were happy to wave me goodnight.
"Do you take credit cards?" Now too careful to speak slowly, enunciate clearly as I lean into cabs.
"Yes, yes. Get in. Where are you going?"
I gave him my address, buckled my seat belt and sat back.
Joe the Cab Driver, an Indian man in his fifties, showed clear disdain for his fellow drivers.
"Look at them. They are all over the road. All over the road. They aren't getting anywhere, any faster than us. They are crazy." I admired his cadence, rhythm of speaking; his habit of driving 25 miles per hour.
"They are all over the road. Total nuts. I don't know how you do it."
"It is crazy. I drive slow. Safe. They signal: left, right. They are all over the place. They are crazy."
Yes, they are.
"You do want me to turn at 116th correct?" Conscientious Joe the Cab Driver understands the plight of the east-of-Marcus-Garvey-Park resident.
"Yes, that would be perfect, sir." Total score with the "sir." Yes!
"Do you like living up here? Do people harass you?" He turned around to look at me as he asked this. Turned his car onto 106th, not 116th. Wrong way. Screech. Reverse. Turned around in the middle of the street.
I felt very safe.
"I meant to turn on 116th. That okay. That okay. We take Madison, it's quicker." Joe the Cab Driver knows his way around this city.
"That's fine, sir. Don't worry about it." As I watched his meter increase.
Finally, we made it to my street. A usually $12 cab ride cost nearly $20. But what service!
I paid with a credit card. As the receipt unscrolled from within the cab's payment console, he turned around to take a good look at me.
"You, get out of this neighborhood. You are too pretty. You are too kind and nice. Yes, you are too pretty to be living here." Joe the Cab Driver doubles as Joe the Sage.
"You are right, Joe. I am getting out of here." Proud, smiling widely at Joe, who tore my receipt with great fervor and made sure I had all of my belongings. I stepped out of the car.
"Remember, you take a cab wherever you are going. They will harass you. But you are too good. You must get out of this neighborhood. Now go inside. I will watch you as you go to your door." So much concern for a stranger. Joe the Sage Cab Driver triples as Joe the Mother Theresa.
"Thank you, Joe. I'll never forget you. I'll be safe."
"Good. Goodnight, dear."
That night, I dreamt about Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver and imagined a universe where women and cab drivers move freely through an urban landscape, integrated and harmonious.
One day, I will find a Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver candle and pray to it in the dim moonlight of a Queens apartment. I will be pretty. I will be kind. I will be safe. All because of Mother Thereasa Joe the Sage Cab Driver.
Monday, October 27, 2008
How to Spell "I Love You"
I don't ask for much when I go to work.
A little peace and quiet, perhaps. Bands of sun filtering through wired window panes. Tolerable women on the end of telephone lines.
It isn't much, really.
One crisp fall day, when the wind smartly swept my hair every which way, I found myself excited to leave my office for the afternoon. This clear air will take my breath away.
Surely, something captured my breath on the way to the elevator.
Another non-profit shares my office suite. Cheap office space. Sharing. This is Manhattan, after all. No big deal, right? We share a front door. Women rap on this exterior - sharp rattles, a wide wooden board in its frame - they seek someone to speak with about their work, about classes they should take. I answer the door frequently and they push their way in, they ask me about their work, what classes they should take. I send them away without answers. I return to my work, distracted.
One particular day a woman seeking work, who takes classes stood beside the elevator bank. I recognized her from around our shared suite. A forty-something, tall, slightly heavy-set woman. Bernadette.
We exchanged smiles.
"I already pushed the button. I think it's coming," she reassured me.
"Ah. Okay." I swung my bag over my shoulder and stepped back toward the wall beside Bernadette.
She took out her red Palm phone-computer-video device and it rang out some dance-trans music tune. After thirty seconds or thirty endless hours of "LaLaLaLaLa Epilepsy Hoedown," waves of laughter blurted from her, forcing her into a doubled over position.
"Oh my god, Oh my god. This is too funny. Too funny." Continuation of "Epilepsy Hoedown." Hands slapped knees.
I smiled. Where is this elevator?
"Girl, you have got to see this. You have GOT to see this. Do you want to see this?" Bernadette posed many questions and, before I could respond, showed me her phone.
"Look at that, girl!"
She thrust it into my face. I looked. I had to. I couldn't look away.
"It's a penis bouquet!"
All shapes and colors (brown, pink, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet), bulbous heads and crude un-circumcisions. Shafts arranged as flower stems in an elegant vase. An FTD special.
"Ha .... ha."
She expected a larger reaction.
"Isn't that amazing, girl?" The elevator arrived on our floor, the tenth, from down the block, another city.
Thank god. "Yes, that's something." Worried, conscious to accept her share.
We entered the elevator, where three twenty-something females stood blank-faced. Bernadette stood close to the door.
"I'm going to have to thank my friend. She just made my day."
I laughed, smiled, disappeared into the perforated grey wall of the mobile cube. The other women had no idea how my day had been made by this experience.
At floor eight, a balding man of forty-or-so joined us in this ever shrinking space. We plunged downward to the lobby. But Bernadette hadn't yet forgotten about her bouquet.
"Oh, girl, I'm going to have to tell my husband that this is the only kind of bouquet I want from now on." Bern shook her head, proud.
"Good idea," I chimed.
The balding man turned slightly - had he received this message too? - while the catatonic trio bored holes into the elevator door.
It opened, we filed out. Suddenly I heard "Epilepsy Hoedown" all over again, beginnings of a conversation.
"Girl, you are never going to believe what Shelly sent me. Damn..." And then she was gone.
Through the lobby, out the double doors, into the calm cool breeze, I shoved my hands in my pocket, strode down 43rd street, and smiled again, breath completely taken.
(PS - Click here for the special arrangement. Not safe for work. Or children. Or most adults.)
A little peace and quiet, perhaps. Bands of sun filtering through wired window panes. Tolerable women on the end of telephone lines.
It isn't much, really.
One crisp fall day, when the wind smartly swept my hair every which way, I found myself excited to leave my office for the afternoon. This clear air will take my breath away.
Surely, something captured my breath on the way to the elevator.
Another non-profit shares my office suite. Cheap office space. Sharing. This is Manhattan, after all. No big deal, right? We share a front door. Women rap on this exterior - sharp rattles, a wide wooden board in its frame - they seek someone to speak with about their work, about classes they should take. I answer the door frequently and they push their way in, they ask me about their work, what classes they should take. I send them away without answers. I return to my work, distracted.
One particular day a woman seeking work, who takes classes stood beside the elevator bank. I recognized her from around our shared suite. A forty-something, tall, slightly heavy-set woman. Bernadette.
We exchanged smiles.
"I already pushed the button. I think it's coming," she reassured me.
"Ah. Okay." I swung my bag over my shoulder and stepped back toward the wall beside Bernadette.
She took out her red Palm phone-computer-video device and it rang out some dance-trans music tune. After thirty seconds or thirty endless hours of "LaLaLaLaLa Epilepsy Hoedown," waves of laughter blurted from her, forcing her into a doubled over position.
"Oh my god, Oh my god. This is too funny. Too funny." Continuation of "Epilepsy Hoedown." Hands slapped knees.
I smiled. Where is this elevator?
"Girl, you have got to see this. You have GOT to see this. Do you want to see this?" Bernadette posed many questions and, before I could respond, showed me her phone.
"Look at that, girl!"
She thrust it into my face. I looked. I had to. I couldn't look away.
"It's a penis bouquet!"
All shapes and colors (brown, pink, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet), bulbous heads and crude un-circumcisions. Shafts arranged as flower stems in an elegant vase. An FTD special.
"Ha .... ha."
She expected a larger reaction.
"Isn't that amazing, girl?" The elevator arrived on our floor, the tenth, from down the block, another city.
Thank god. "Yes, that's something." Worried, conscious to accept her share.
We entered the elevator, where three twenty-something females stood blank-faced. Bernadette stood close to the door.
"I'm going to have to thank my friend. She just made my day."
I laughed, smiled, disappeared into the perforated grey wall of the mobile cube. The other women had no idea how my day had been made by this experience.
At floor eight, a balding man of forty-or-so joined us in this ever shrinking space. We plunged downward to the lobby. But Bernadette hadn't yet forgotten about her bouquet.
"Oh, girl, I'm going to have to tell my husband that this is the only kind of bouquet I want from now on." Bern shook her head, proud.
"Good idea," I chimed.
The balding man turned slightly - had he received this message too? - while the catatonic trio bored holes into the elevator door.
It opened, we filed out. Suddenly I heard "Epilepsy Hoedown" all over again, beginnings of a conversation.
"Girl, you are never going to believe what Shelly sent me. Damn..." And then she was gone.
Through the lobby, out the double doors, into the calm cool breeze, I shoved my hands in my pocket, strode down 43rd street, and smiled again, breath completely taken.
(PS - Click here for the special arrangement. Not safe for work. Or children. Or most adults.)
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Sunday, October 05, 2008
This is Harlem, Denzel.
9:30 AM, Sunday morning: Bopping along to Common at New York Sports Club, it hits me. A ton of bricks, too loud crashing down making rubble on the sponge-like gym mat. Last night on 7th Avenue. What a trip.
It's really Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard but that's about 100 syllables too many for most people to mouth. When we call it 7th, we forget it's Harlem.
We're talking about Harlem. Just south of 125th, more American than ever with the newfound presence of American Apparel.
9:30 PM, Saturday night: I'm watching Titanic on TBS. Rose and Jack have just had sex in the buggy. That sweaty palm outline! The trembling! Rapture!
Text message from a friend who wants to meet up for a drink. Do you want to go to Minton's on 118th and 7th?
Yes. Wait - text message language. ys its nr my place so taz kul.
I don't really text like that (in fact, I'm not even sure what that says, do you know?). I'm proving Jamie Lee Curtis' point. I'm whispering ever illiterate.
10:15 PM: I walk out to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd and turn left, walk the three blocks to 118th.
This is going to be an easy walk. How could something crazy and fascinating happen in a mere three blocks? Genuine thoughts, my heels clicking on cement and broken glass.
Between 119th and 118th, I see a gentleman facing the curb, a van blocking his body from streetviews. The legs of a scaffolding monster separate us. I quickly glance toward him and back to the sidewalk ahead of me.
Pssst. Pssst. No. Someone turned on a faucet. Where? I turn around. The gentleman holds himself, his crotch, his thing and whizzes all over the van.
"Get overe here you! You wanna feel it! You wanna touch it! I want you to feel it. Right now. GET BACK HERE."
His urine still streaming as he screams toward me. Nobody on the street turns around. I am invisible and completely obvious at once.
I walk faster, I don't turn around. Clickclickclickclickclick across the street toward Minton's, on the west side of Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd, just inside 118th. As I escape from his calls, I think about what happened to me and JaneAusten (JA) Friday afternoon in Crown Heights/Bed-Stuy.
On Classon Avenue. Just past Fulton Street. JA crossed the street briskly talking of books, of good recipes we enjoy, of family members. All warmly, as JA is quite warm, very sweet, smiles well. As we step onto the sidwalk, a young man on a bike yells at us, "You betta give me a blow job! Yeah!" Emphasis^10 on "blow job," there.
"He was totally talking to us." Who else could he be talking to?
"What about the woman who walked out of the house?"
I looked at JA, eyes wide, soft voice. "I don't think so, honey."
"Oh, this place is not for us." Great assessment, JA!
CLASSOFF, baby.
As usual, I am early for my Saturday evening engagement. Sounds from tat-tattat-tattering cymbals and steal-the-show snare drums skitter out the open front door of Minton's and meet me on the street. I smile at the loud jazz music, as women breeze by me on their way into the joint.
Now, there's no one on the street except for me and a man hunched over the hood of a car. He's closer to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd. I stare forward, my back pressed to the bar's exterior.
10:20 PM: Denzel wanders up to me and says something, nonsense. "Goodnightyou whatyou what. What." He wears a tan fatigue tshirt with moderately baggy jeans; a du-rag and a baseball cap turned backwards.
I spring from my casual stance and step toward the center of the sidewalk, a getaway pose, hands outstretched as if to say I didn't bring my weapons with me this time.
"No, what you doing?! You afraid of me because I'm a black man. You white women always so afraid of black men."
"Um. I don't know you, and I'm not sure why you're trying to talk to me, that's all. We're the only ones on the street and I don't know you." Very convincing.
"Well you'll excuse me, I'm a little drunk here and I had to walk that crazy old man into his house over there."
"Oh, okay." No really, Denzel.
"My father is co-owner of this place." He stays about four feet away from me throughout our conversation, smiles every now and then.
"Oh yeah? I've never been here before." Nervous, concealed well behind constant smile.
"Yeah where you at?"
"Oh, me? Where am I at? Well I live in this neighborhood, a few blocks away actually."
"That's cool."
"Yeah. There's a lot of whites up here. It's weird."
"What you talkin about? Don't you know you're white?" Very observant, this Denzel.
"Yeah, I know I'm white, but this neighborhood is historically black. Seems fucked up for whites to take it over." I cross my arms over my chest because I'm cold.
"Listen to me, as long as we can still build our things, I think it's okay." What a sage, this Denzel proves to be. "Wait, a second, you afraid of me? What's the matter with you?" Not limited to sage-like wonders, Denzel is also a master of reading body language.
"But what the fuck is up with American Apparel up there? Wait, what?" I uncross my arms, realizing his attention to cues. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Okay. Good. Yeah, that place is whack."
"Serious whack."
We start to discuss the economy and issues of national and global importance. I'm finding Denzel to be a fine conversationalist.
"My cousin lives down in Georgia and says they don't got no gas."
"Fucked up! What? Is that in the newspapers?" Outraged!
"Nah! You know, they don't report on that kind of thing." Denzel is onto the ways of the media.
"That's really annoying. What's even crazier is that people here think it's just not going to affect them, because we live in this bubble that is New York City."
"You're so right about that. Man, what the fuck. It's gonna hit us too, and then, well, then we'll just see what happens."
10:30 PM: My friend walks up to Minton's at last and looks at me askew.
"Oh hi! I've just been chatting with this gentleman here for a little bit now."
Denzel continues chatting about the economic downturn and misfortune of his family members in southern states.
My friend seems skeptical of Denzel. I'm not.
"I think it's terrible that we don't know about what's happening in certain communities in this country. So insulated."
"It is. You're right about New York too." Denzel smiles crookedly, shuts his eyes for a brief moment.
My friend looks at Denzel, then me, then says, "Um, let's go inside."
"Bye Denzel." He takes my hand for a moment and looks me in the face, nods goodbye.
Well, I didn't say Denzel, but he might have liked it if I had.
It's really Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard but that's about 100 syllables too many for most people to mouth. When we call it 7th, we forget it's Harlem.
We're talking about Harlem. Just south of 125th, more American than ever with the newfound presence of American Apparel.
9:30 PM, Saturday night: I'm watching Titanic on TBS. Rose and Jack have just had sex in the buggy. That sweaty palm outline! The trembling! Rapture!
Text message from a friend who wants to meet up for a drink. Do you want to go to Minton's on 118th and 7th?
Yes. Wait - text message language. ys its nr my place so taz kul.
I don't really text like that (in fact, I'm not even sure what that says, do you know?). I'm proving Jamie Lee Curtis' point. I'm whispering ever illiterate.
10:15 PM: I walk out to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd and turn left, walk the three blocks to 118th.
This is going to be an easy walk. How could something crazy and fascinating happen in a mere three blocks? Genuine thoughts, my heels clicking on cement and broken glass.
Between 119th and 118th, I see a gentleman facing the curb, a van blocking his body from streetviews. The legs of a scaffolding monster separate us. I quickly glance toward him and back to the sidewalk ahead of me.
Pssst. Pssst. No. Someone turned on a faucet. Where? I turn around. The gentleman holds himself, his crotch, his thing and whizzes all over the van.
"Get overe here you! You wanna feel it! You wanna touch it! I want you to feel it. Right now. GET BACK HERE."
His urine still streaming as he screams toward me. Nobody on the street turns around. I am invisible and completely obvious at once.
I walk faster, I don't turn around. Clickclickclickclickclick across the street toward Minton's, on the west side of Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd, just inside 118th. As I escape from his calls, I think about what happened to me and JaneAusten (JA) Friday afternoon in Crown Heights/Bed-Stuy.
On Classon Avenue. Just past Fulton Street. JA crossed the street briskly talking of books, of good recipes we enjoy, of family members. All warmly, as JA is quite warm, very sweet, smiles well. As we step onto the sidwalk, a young man on a bike yells at us, "You betta give me a blow job! Yeah!" Emphasis^10 on "blow job," there.
"He was totally talking to us." Who else could he be talking to?
"What about the woman who walked out of the house?"
I looked at JA, eyes wide, soft voice. "I don't think so, honey."
"Oh, this place is not for us." Great assessment, JA!
CLASSOFF, baby.
As usual, I am early for my Saturday evening engagement. Sounds from tat-tattat-tattering cymbals and steal-the-show snare drums skitter out the open front door of Minton's and meet me on the street. I smile at the loud jazz music, as women breeze by me on their way into the joint.
Now, there's no one on the street except for me and a man hunched over the hood of a car. He's closer to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd. I stare forward, my back pressed to the bar's exterior.
10:20 PM: Denzel wanders up to me and says something, nonsense. "Goodnightyou whatyou what. What." He wears a tan fatigue tshirt with moderately baggy jeans; a du-rag and a baseball cap turned backwards.
I spring from my casual stance and step toward the center of the sidewalk, a getaway pose, hands outstretched as if to say I didn't bring my weapons with me this time.
"No, what you doing?! You afraid of me because I'm a black man. You white women always so afraid of black men."
"Um. I don't know you, and I'm not sure why you're trying to talk to me, that's all. We're the only ones on the street and I don't know you." Very convincing.
"Well you'll excuse me, I'm a little drunk here and I had to walk that crazy old man into his house over there."
"Oh, okay." No really, Denzel.
"My father is co-owner of this place." He stays about four feet away from me throughout our conversation, smiles every now and then.
"Oh yeah? I've never been here before." Nervous, concealed well behind constant smile.
"Yeah where you at?"
"Oh, me? Where am I at? Well I live in this neighborhood, a few blocks away actually."
"That's cool."
"Yeah. There's a lot of whites up here. It's weird."
"What you talkin about? Don't you know you're white?" Very observant, this Denzel.
"Yeah, I know I'm white, but this neighborhood is historically black. Seems fucked up for whites to take it over." I cross my arms over my chest because I'm cold.
"Listen to me, as long as we can still build our things, I think it's okay." What a sage, this Denzel proves to be. "Wait, a second, you afraid of me? What's the matter with you?" Not limited to sage-like wonders, Denzel is also a master of reading body language.
"But what the fuck is up with American Apparel up there? Wait, what?" I uncross my arms, realizing his attention to cues. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Okay. Good. Yeah, that place is whack."
"Serious whack."
We start to discuss the economy and issues of national and global importance. I'm finding Denzel to be a fine conversationalist.
"My cousin lives down in Georgia and says they don't got no gas."
"Fucked up! What? Is that in the newspapers?" Outraged!
"Nah! You know, they don't report on that kind of thing." Denzel is onto the ways of the media.
"That's really annoying. What's even crazier is that people here think it's just not going to affect them, because we live in this bubble that is New York City."
"You're so right about that. Man, what the fuck. It's gonna hit us too, and then, well, then we'll just see what happens."
10:30 PM: My friend walks up to Minton's at last and looks at me askew.
"Oh hi! I've just been chatting with this gentleman here for a little bit now."
Denzel continues chatting about the economic downturn and misfortune of his family members in southern states.
My friend seems skeptical of Denzel. I'm not.
"I think it's terrible that we don't know about what's happening in certain communities in this country. So insulated."
"It is. You're right about New York too." Denzel smiles crookedly, shuts his eyes for a brief moment.
My friend looks at Denzel, then me, then says, "Um, let's go inside."
"Bye Denzel." He takes my hand for a moment and looks me in the face, nods goodbye.
Well, I didn't say Denzel, but he might have liked it if I had.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
