a portrait of martin luther king jr.
if i didn't have to work on martin luther king day, i'd have more time to fix my wreck.
::shucks::
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Panwich Full Moon
Yet when Goody Bathtub and I join forces we inevitably end up at the intersection of “WTF?” and “Beyond Strange.”
Instead, we make an unordinary evening, a night filled with so many aberrations you’re certain it isn’t real, that a rare quality surrounds only tonight. You’re wrong. It will happen again.
We took our dumplings and sesame pancake-sandwich (“panwich,” henceforth) to the long, narrow Sara D. Roosevelt park area. We identified an empty bench as suitable and dined on it al fresco.
To our right, a man with a baseball cap stiffly leaned over his bench, his left leg resting across the bench's dark green slats and his right planted firmly on the ground. “Asleep?” I asked GB. She shrugged. “Dead,” I nodded. Later, a scruffy, duffle-bag carrying man wearing a Gatorade tshirt stood beside Dead Guy and somehow injected life into him. Dead Guy sprung up from his supine position and engaged Gatorade in conversation (about the contents of Gatorade's bag, no doubt). Aha, his name was actually “Rip van Winkle;” we corrected ourselves.
Not to be outdone, a Chuck Norris-clone wearing a black cowboy hat and tattered Red Sox tshirt occupied a nearby bench. An open rolling suitcase lay splayed before him on the pavement. He burrowed through, a squirrel searching for nuts, resituating every shirt and pair of jeans.
“Is that his suitcase?” I asked aloud. Rip van Winkle remained asleep.
“I’m not so sure,” said GB, already overwhelmed by the ambiguously homeless lot around us, and, of course, her scrumptious dumplings.
“I don’t think so. Maybe they belong to whoever he killed.”
He kept searching, touching, handling the plain clothes as though they weren't for his body. A few times he stood and paced in a circle, holding a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Plotting his next move: Do I take the clothes? Do I wear them? Should I leave them here for someone to find? But what about the fingerprints?
I turned toward him between panwich bites and then, suddenly, a large water bottle hurtled in my direction. I saw the flick of his wrist the moment he released it, at me, to kill me. When his water bottle missed its mark (me), he called out, “I didn’t mean to almost hit ya!” I turned back to GB and finished my panwich in silence--for fear that I'd be permanently silenced. (JK!)
But then the king of the evening came along. Mr. Kung Fu, a forty-ish Hispanic man, wore a biker’s outfit—bright yellow tight-fitting top with equally snug biker’s shorts—and slung a messenger’s bag over his shoulder, parked his bike. And if Mr. Kung Fu sounds impressive, his bike trumps his personal presentation: a mountain bike bound in lime green tape and—as a subtle accent—a flickering red brake light fixed just below the bike seat. Mr. Kung Fu was a serious biker.
“What time is it?” he asked, though his cell phone dangled obviously on his chest.
“7:40,” said GB.
“Do you speak French?”
Mumbles in French
We shrugged at each other. “Uh, no,” I said.
“You’re both so beautiful. So beautiful,” he said, turning slightly to conceal his impish smile.
“Thanks.” We both laughed. The implicit question--Who the fuck is this guy?--was the source of the laughter.
“Such beautiful smiles!” He pointed to his cheeks and pressed in, detonating something somewhere, I imagine.
“Ha, ha. Yeah thanks. We’re both models,” I said. A cool look in his direction.
Face lit up. “Really? I can so believe it!”
“I’m just kidding. We’re not models.”
“Oh but you could be. Do you mind if I stay here? Do you want me to leave?”
“You should do whatever you feel like doing.” I did all the talking as GB maintained a supportive silence. I’d really like you to leave, but will you really leave if I tell you to?
“Muchos gracias.”
“De nada.”
“So you speak Spanish.”
“I don’t.”
People walk by unfazed. They thought GB and I were best buds with the colorful Mr. Kung Fu. Or they didn’t think.
“See this? Do you like this?” Pointed to his leg and made a muscle.
“Your calf muscle?” I asked.
“No, the color.”
“Of your skin?”
“Yes.”
“You know, it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white. Like Michael Jackson says.”
“Mike Tyson?” Confused look.
“No, Michael Jackson. He died recently.”
“Oh right.” Silence. “Do you think those kids were his?”
GB looked at each other. “No.”
Quick pause, but then he too took to burrowing through his own bag.
“Do you want a cigarette?” He pulled three empty boxes of Marlboro Reds from his messenger bag.
“No thanks.” GB shook her head.
“Hey, do you mind if I sit here?” Motioned to the bench adjacent to our cozy dining area. “I won’t touch you or anything,” he continued.
But he almost touched GB when he reached out and told her she was very beautiful.
“You must know that you’re so very beautiful. Those eyes. Do you see those eyes?” He wanted my opinion.
“Yes, I’ve seen her eyes.”
“They are so wonderful. They’re like this.” He motioned to his own face with an unspecific gesture.
“Yes, just like that.”
“Thailand, China, Singapore, the Phillippines…” He rattled off a list of Asian (or Asian-seeming, perhaps) countries, hoping very hard that GB would nod her head to one of them.
"Do you like her?" he asked me.
Confusion across my face.
"We like each other," said GB.
“Are you married?”
“Yes, I am,” she said, without batting an eye.
“He must be a very lucky guy.”
“He is,” she said.
“I think I could fight him.”
“Maybe you could. I doubt it though,” I said.
He gnarled the fingers of his right hand into a claw. “I know Kung Fu.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
“Yes. I am sure I can beat him. You should tell him that I’m protecting you.”
“I will do that,” GB said and looked at me with her special eyes.
“Well, I think we’re gonna get going now.” I said.
“No, I can leave.”
“No, really. We’re leaving.”
And we left.
As we exited the park, we turned and watched Mr. Kung Fu steer his bike toward some guys who appeared to be his friends. But maybe he thought they, too, wore pretty eyes and sweet facial expressions.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Fourth Jonas: Greenbeard
I'll never forget the first time I saw him.
Flushing, Queens. A bone-chilling morning on Main Street. Blondie bought us ear muffs in Sunnyside. Warmed, too, by our anticipation of the Lunar New Year Parade.
We lined barricades. Carved out spaces between children and elderly awaiting festivities.
Performers, multi-national flag-carrying uniforms passed by us. Kids karate-chopped wood blocks up and down the street.
And then he appeared.
His clogged feat danced across frozen macadam in graceful circles. Twirls, if you will. The delicate cloth of his many-colored skirt/dress billowed as he turned, revealing red-orange-yellow socks, tights. Choreography from a rainbow ballet.
Greenbeard would prove to be the true Grand Marshal of this parade. Around his neck, a pineapple procured from a Canal Street vendor, perhaps. In his hand, a small drum. Other decorations (fruit? flowers?) dangled from his ostentatious hat, highlighting the deep rouge of his cheeks and, of course, the newgrass green of his beard. A colorful celebrant of the Lunar New Year, he was.
The next day I visited the parade in Chinatown with Goody Bathtub.
Three USO ladies sang songs off-key before the parade officially began. At some point, they each jumped into a vehicle and waved evenly at the crowd as they creeped forward. Out from the recesses of Mott Street he danced. Sprightly skipping beside Miss USO, matching her wave and smile with each step.
She thought we were cheering for her. We were blinded by his beauty. And shining bald head.
And then, when he approached us, we wanted to reach out and touch him, hold his hand: the fourth Jonas (better than the Bonus). One man had the opportunity to twirl with him, but Greenbeard's awe-inspiring dance moves and fashion sense rendered the passerby speechless. Typical fan.
I thought I would never see Greenbeard again. He's moved on to bigger and better things. More colorful garb and revised facial hair in a parade-happier city.
My friends, Greenbeard is with us.
I happened upon the Pride Parade this afternoon, around 12th Street. Several blocks uptown, Goody Bathtub alerted me to Greenbeard's presence. "He's coming. He's coming!" I exclaimed. People turned around, intrigued.
A few moments later, perched upon a car, Mama Jean, tubby in her own right, opened her denim button down and exposed her rolling side, tired-looking breast.
Where is Greenbeard? I wondered, knitting my brow. Has he two-stepped out of the parade?
But then! There he was. Beard fuzzier than I had remembered. No Chinatown tchotchkes to speak of. But a new accessory twirled beside him: a white dog with newgrass green highlights.
I did what any die hard fan would do: record the moment.
Uh ... that's me screaming "Oh my God! Greenbeard." (Note: I made up the name Greenbeard. His name might be Henry. Yes, Henry Beard.) Have you ever seen the Jonas Brothers walk onstage? Tweens throw themselves at them. Yell, scream, kick. Greenbeard evokes my inner Tween. He is the Jonas Brother that never was--better looking and more talented than all of the blessed Jonai.
Let's celebrate Greenbeard's Pride! And look forward to the next parade!
Do you have questions about Greenbeard? I do.
- Is his beard really green all the time?
- Parades seem to be his primary vocation. What does he do between parades as a day job? Do you think he might be a freelance writer? Or telemarketer? Maybe he's a dance instructor. Or FIT student.
- Does he own any other clothes? Clothes that aren't dresses/skirts and/or colorful?
... Stupid question. Who twirls in skorts? Duh.
UPDATE: An intrepid googler found this photo of Greenbeard at the Mermaid Parade. And this video of Greenbeard in a summery two piece. Apparently he does own other clothes.
What are your questions about Greenbeard?
Flushing, Queens. A bone-chilling morning on Main Street. Blondie bought us ear muffs in Sunnyside. Warmed, too, by our anticipation of the Lunar New Year Parade.
We lined barricades. Carved out spaces between children and elderly awaiting festivities.
Performers, multi-national flag-carrying uniforms passed by us. Kids karate-chopped wood blocks up and down the street.
And then he appeared.
His clogged feat danced across frozen macadam in graceful circles. Twirls, if you will. The delicate cloth of his many-colored skirt/dress billowed as he turned, revealing red-orange-yellow socks, tights. Choreography from a rainbow ballet.
Greenbeard would prove to be the true Grand Marshal of this parade. Around his neck, a pineapple procured from a Canal Street vendor, perhaps. In his hand, a small drum. Other decorations (fruit? flowers?) dangled from his ostentatious hat, highlighting the deep rouge of his cheeks and, of course, the newgrass green of his beard. A colorful celebrant of the Lunar New Year, he was.
The next day I visited the parade in Chinatown with Goody Bathtub.
Three USO ladies sang songs off-key before the parade officially began. At some point, they each jumped into a vehicle and waved evenly at the crowd as they creeped forward. Out from the recesses of Mott Street he danced. Sprightly skipping beside Miss USO, matching her wave and smile with each step.
She thought we were cheering for her. We were blinded by his beauty. And shining bald head.
And then, when he approached us, we wanted to reach out and touch him, hold his hand: the fourth Jonas (better than the Bonus). One man had the opportunity to twirl with him, but Greenbeard's awe-inspiring dance moves and fashion sense rendered the passerby speechless. Typical fan.
I thought I would never see Greenbeard again. He's moved on to bigger and better things. More colorful garb and revised facial hair in a parade-happier city.
My friends, Greenbeard is with us.
I happened upon the Pride Parade this afternoon, around 12th Street. Several blocks uptown, Goody Bathtub alerted me to Greenbeard's presence. "He's coming. He's coming!" I exclaimed. People turned around, intrigued.
A few moments later, perched upon a car, Mama Jean, tubby in her own right, opened her denim button down and exposed her rolling side, tired-looking breast.
Where is Greenbeard? I wondered, knitting my brow. Has he two-stepped out of the parade?
But then! There he was. Beard fuzzier than I had remembered. No Chinatown tchotchkes to speak of. But a new accessory twirled beside him: a white dog with newgrass green highlights.
I did what any die hard fan would do: record the moment.
Uh ... that's me screaming "Oh my God! Greenbeard." (Note: I made up the name Greenbeard. His name might be Henry. Yes, Henry Beard.) Have you ever seen the Jonas Brothers walk onstage? Tweens throw themselves at them. Yell, scream, kick. Greenbeard evokes my inner Tween. He is the Jonas Brother that never was--better looking and more talented than all of the blessed Jonai.
Let's celebrate Greenbeard's Pride! And look forward to the next parade!
Do you have questions about Greenbeard? I do.
- Is his beard really green all the time?
- Parades seem to be his primary vocation. What does he do between parades as a day job? Do you think he might be a freelance writer? Or telemarketer? Maybe he's a dance instructor. Or FIT student.
- Does he own any other clothes? Clothes that aren't dresses/skirts and/or colorful?
... Stupid question. Who twirls in skorts? Duh.
UPDATE: An intrepid googler found this photo of Greenbeard at the Mermaid Parade. And this video of Greenbeard in a summery two piece. Apparently he does own other clothes.
What are your questions about Greenbeard?
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Why I Love Queens
It's been a long time. Sorry. You probably forgot about me, but I don't mind.
I wanted to tell you why I love Queens. There's a few reasons. Luckily, the "reasons" are "photos."
People Are More Inventive
Wherever there's fruit outside, there's bound to be a surprise. Because of cryptic signs with fun punctuation (above) or newly created species of tomatoes (below), shopping for produce never bores me.
This rule of inspired sign-making applies to flowers, too. Outside of the frame, there's also Dragon Daisies and Siberian Tiger Roses. Next time I'll be sure to photograph them.
Your Niche is Here
OK, so maybe you're a human being in the market for a decent, affordable haircut. I'm sure there's plenty of places in this neighborhood where you can find that kind of thing. But check out Vicky's--they preen pigeon coifs, too.
And if you're happy with the hair on your head, you might consider grooming elsewhere. Luckily, this place (below) specializes in exactly what you're looking for. I'm sure.
Did I mention collectibles? I should. They're important. And highly findable in this borough. The lady in the window obviously scored !Best Prices! on a !Collectible! or !two!--her smile says it all. Gave up a few limbs for a prime place behind toy cars and manga.
Sidewalks Are the Utilitarian's Utopia
In the above photo, two girls scoot across the street, narrowly avoiding death by speeding SUV. I've (almost) seen it happen. For them, the sidewalk is a safer place to ride their Razors.
When I was younger, I flew kites at the beach. When I say "younger," I mean "23." Anyway, in Queens, children don't have that luxury. The sidewalk becomes for them what the beach was for me: a liberating kite-flying haven. "Little one, run with it! Go!" I heard adults call after him, as he pushed into women with three-wheeled carts and cane-wielding elderly gentlemen.
If you don't have a scooter or a kite, or football, baseball, or Skip-It, you might use the sidewalk as storage. See below for tips.
Everything's The Right Price
Wow, a burrito's only #0.99!? I mean, $0.99? Amazing. And check out the lunch special at the Korean BBQ. Available 7 Days != !
Everywhere you'd ever want to shop even accepts EBT cards, as does the deli depicted below. You can buy all the Irish foods you never wanted or knew existed, and if you're lucky, you might even get green eggs and ham. DEAL written all over it.
I Know How Late I'll Be To Work Because I Can See the Train Across the Borough
But isn't it beautiful?
And below, an accurate photographic description of what Manhattan looks like every Monday morning.
Most of All, I Love Queens Because It's All About Prevention
You can't make this up. Face masks actually grow on trees.
Swine Flu? Fuggetaboutit!
Really, I do love Queens.
Here's why:
Sunnyside Gardens
Staggering Views AKA I Can See The Sky
The Best Reason of All
If you find yourself so-over mundane Manhattan, take that train underwater and visit us. Or at least get your Brazilian done here (way marked down, I hear).
I wanted to tell you why I love Queens. There's a few reasons. Luckily, the "reasons" are "photos."
People Are More Inventive
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
Your Niche is Here
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
And if you're happy with the hair on your head, you might consider grooming elsewhere. Luckily, this place (below) specializes in exactly what you're looking for. I'm sure.
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
Did I mention collectibles? I should. They're important. And highly findable in this borough. The lady in the window obviously scored !Best Prices! on a !Collectible! or !two!--her smile says it all. Gave up a few limbs for a prime place behind toy cars and manga.
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
Sidewalks Are the Utilitarian's Utopia
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
When I was younger, I flew kites at the beach. When I say "younger," I mean "23." Anyway, in Queens, children don't have that luxury. The sidewalk becomes for them what the beach was for me: a liberating kite-flying haven. "Little one, run with it! Go!" I heard adults call after him, as he pushed into women with three-wheeled carts and cane-wielding elderly gentlemen.
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
Everything's The Right Price
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
I Know How Late I'll Be To Work Because I Can See the Train Across the Borough
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
And below, an accurate photographic description of what Manhattan looks like every Monday morning.
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
Most of All, I Love Queens Because It's All About Prevention
You can't make this up. Face masks actually grow on trees.
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
Really, I do love Queens.
Here's why:
Sunnyside Gardens
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
Staggering Views AKA I Can See The Sky
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
The Best Reason of All
 |
| From Why I Love Queens |
If you find yourself so-over mundane Manhattan, take that train underwater and visit us. Or at least get your Brazilian done here (way marked down, I hear).
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Just Because I'm a Woman I Should Know All "The Rules"
As a 24-year-old, single, middle-class, college educated, white female I have a lot of responsibilities. To recognize my own privilege, to do the best I can to give back to my community and the world at large, and, you know, other things too.
The most important?
Knowing the ins and outs of everythingweddings.
Can you imagine life without this knowledge? Without bridal shower etiquette and appropriate gift-buying guides, our society would be in a hot, chaotic mess. Gee, would anyone even bother getting married? Oh, goodness gracious! Perish the thought!
I don't know anything about weddings and don't care to know much about them. I know, so weird. It's like, I'm not even 24 or single, with a bevy of attractive, accomplished female friends who will, in the next few years, send me invitations with too many cards, envelopes inside.
I don't mind the marriage concept on its own, but just because I know people who are getting married, I'm suddenly responsible for having expertise on a subject I have zero experience with. Can I get a test prep book?
What I Should Know By Now Just Because I'm a Woman
- What to buy and how much to spend (A place setting? What if she doesn't get the 7 of 8 she's requested? What if she ends up eating on paper plates and your one place setting for a few months, and decides she never really liked the pattern on the cereal bowl or creamer? What if she decides against plates altogether?)
- What to wrap, what to not wrap (What if I don't want anyone to see what I've put in the wishing well? What if I've put a spell on the well item that will make all of the bridal party members single-for-life if they view my gift? Sing it with me, "I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale.")
- What kind of bow would look best for the "hat" the bridal party will assemble (The one the cat abused most with his tiny claws, for sure.)
- What to write in the engagement, bridal shower, and wedding cards ("Like I said last time, I really hope this works out for you...")
- How much attitude to give the overconfident (yet single) members of the bridal party when I'm met with empty niceties ("Thanks, it was SO nice. Your directions to this restaurant were ... great.")
What am I missing? There are things that I don't yet know that I'm supposed to know about. How terrifying. Aren't you scared for me?
I think Dolly Parton might consider rewriting "Just Because I'm a Woman" to go something like this:
I can see you're disappointed
by the way you look at my wedding bingo sheet.
And I'm sorry that I'm not
the woman who screams at every gift she meets.
Yes I've made my mistakes
but was it my wishing well gift?
My everyday china is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman
Now I know that I'm no angel
If that's what you thought you'd found
I am just a victim of
a sparkled invitation.
Yes I've made my mistakes
but listen and understand
My opinion of weddings is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman
*****
Truthfully, it has nothing to do with lacking savviness. It's a form of knowledge I refuse to integrate into my "things I care about" brain-folder.
So I guess most of you are going to invite me to your wedding(s), right?
The most important?
Knowing the ins and outs of everythingweddings.
Can you imagine life without this knowledge? Without bridal shower etiquette and appropriate gift-buying guides, our society would be in a hot, chaotic mess. Gee, would anyone even bother getting married? Oh, goodness gracious! Perish the thought!
I don't know anything about weddings and don't care to know much about them. I know, so weird. It's like, I'm not even 24 or single, with a bevy of attractive, accomplished female friends who will, in the next few years, send me invitations with too many cards, envelopes inside.
I don't mind the marriage concept on its own, but just because I know people who are getting married, I'm suddenly responsible for having expertise on a subject I have zero experience with. Can I get a test prep book?
What I Should Know By Now Just Because I'm a Woman
- What to buy and how much to spend (A place setting? What if she doesn't get the 7 of 8 she's requested? What if she ends up eating on paper plates and your one place setting for a few months, and decides she never really liked the pattern on the cereal bowl or creamer? What if she decides against plates altogether?)
- What to wrap, what to not wrap (What if I don't want anyone to see what I've put in the wishing well? What if I've put a spell on the well item that will make all of the bridal party members single-for-life if they view my gift? Sing it with me, "I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale.")
- What kind of bow would look best for the "hat" the bridal party will assemble (The one the cat abused most with his tiny claws, for sure.)
- What to write in the engagement, bridal shower, and wedding cards ("Like I said last time, I really hope this works out for you...")
- How much attitude to give the overconfident (yet single) members of the bridal party when I'm met with empty niceties ("Thanks, it was SO nice. Your directions to this restaurant were ... great.")
What am I missing? There are things that I don't yet know that I'm supposed to know about. How terrifying. Aren't you scared for me?
I think Dolly Parton might consider rewriting "Just Because I'm a Woman" to go something like this:
I can see you're disappointed
by the way you look at my wedding bingo sheet.
And I'm sorry that I'm not
the woman who screams at every gift she meets.
Yes I've made my mistakes
but was it my wishing well gift?
My everyday china is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman
Now I know that I'm no angel
If that's what you thought you'd found
I am just a victim of
a sparkled invitation.
Yes I've made my mistakes
but listen and understand
My opinion of weddings is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman
*****
Truthfully, it has nothing to do with lacking savviness. It's a form of knowledge I refuse to integrate into my "things I care about" brain-folder.
So I guess most of you are going to invite me to your wedding(s), right?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Extraordinary Coffee Cart Man
Bright sunlight glistens off the steel exterior of the 43rd street and 5th avenue coffee cart. Back in the day, when I took a different subway to work, I frequented another shiny silver box for coffee and plain doughnuts (by 6th avenue). I never liked the men (2) who worked in there. They were cold, indifferent, uninterested in my eager-beaver smile and soft expressions of gratitude.
The days of burnt coffee and bad service are over.
(Um, they aren't, but whatever.)
I tried the 43rd and 5th cart one day to see what he was like. Would he make me feel inferior? Or - worse - ordinary?
"Hello dear, how are you today?" He greeted me as if we were old friends, as if I'd always bought my cheap, disgusting, bowel-shaking coffee from him. I hadn't. He didn't mind.
The next time, he was just as warm and so was I.
"I am so well, sir. How are you today? Keeping warm in there?" I looked up at him with a big smile, radiating heat, I'm sure.
"Yes, because you are so hot."
Pardon? "Thanks! Have a nice day!"
We continued this for many days and then I gave him a Christmas card with rub-offs. Wait, scratch-offs. I got the idea from the television, a New York Lotto commercial.
"You know, I won $15 on your tickets!" He told the next time I saw him.
"Oh, I am so glad. You really deserve it." Nodding my head, smiling as if he just told me war is over.
There wasn't a line behind me. I lingered.
"You are very, very nice."
"Oh, please. Thank you. You are very good at your job! Best in the city."
Day 1:
"I'll just have a small coffee today." In a hurry.
"No, you will have a medium. Half/half and two sugars?"
"If you insist, yes." Coy smile.
"Now, what do you want here?" A quick glance around his inventory.
"What do I want?" Confusion.
"From here?" He gestured at his array of pastries, doughnuts, and bagels.
"Well ... oh, I don't really want anything."
"You have something! Please!" His brown bag was open, ready.
"Okay, I'll have a plain doughnut." Meek, mild, boring.
"That is all?"
"Yes. That is all."
"Okay, that will be $1."
"No, it shouldn't be!" I pushed $2 over the lip of his window. "Have a nice day!"
Day 2:
"Hmm, I'll have a bagel with cream cheese and a medium coffee."
"What else do you like?"
"I don't like anything." Shaking head.
"You must. Pick something." Again, gesturing.
"Okay, okay. Plain doughnut."
"Very good. $1." It should be closer to $4.
"Fine, here is $1."
He nodded at me, a sweet smile taking over his face.
Day 3:
"Ah, I haven't seen you in a while!" It had been a day or two since I stopped to see him.
"Yes, I know. I've been at Starbucks." I laughed, he smiled. A gay time, we had on 43rd.
"What will it be today then? Anything you want."
"Alrighty. A medium coffee is all." One who shoots for the stars, clearly.
"What! Come now, you must have something else."
"A plain doughnut?"
"That is all? It's so small! What else you like?"
"... I don't know?" Again, confusion.
"Anything here! Anything." I shook my head. "Okay, I put this one in for you." He held out a large glazed danish.
"Sure, that's fine."
"You like this one?"
"Yeah, it's great. How much is all this?" He dropped it in the bag and shook his head.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. For you, I don't charge anything."
"How do you make a living doing this?"
"The money does not matter. It warms my heart to give it to you." He clasped his hands and brought them to his chest.
"Okay. Thank you sir."
"You are welcome. You have a wonderful weekend."
Yes, a wonderful weekend at the gym, on the treadmill. What generosity brings: unprecedented weight gain, diabetes, and an inexplicable hankering for doughnuts at 9:30 am.
The days of burnt coffee and bad service are over.
(Um, they aren't, but whatever.)
I tried the 43rd and 5th cart one day to see what he was like. Would he make me feel inferior? Or - worse - ordinary?
"Hello dear, how are you today?" He greeted me as if we were old friends, as if I'd always bought my cheap, disgusting, bowel-shaking coffee from him. I hadn't. He didn't mind.
The next time, he was just as warm and so was I.
"I am so well, sir. How are you today? Keeping warm in there?" I looked up at him with a big smile, radiating heat, I'm sure.
"Yes, because you are so hot."
Pardon? "Thanks! Have a nice day!"
We continued this for many days and then I gave him a Christmas card with rub-offs. Wait, scratch-offs. I got the idea from the television, a New York Lotto commercial.
"You know, I won $15 on your tickets!" He told the next time I saw him.
"Oh, I am so glad. You really deserve it." Nodding my head, smiling as if he just told me war is over.
There wasn't a line behind me. I lingered.
"You are very, very nice."
"Oh, please. Thank you. You are very good at your job! Best in the city."
Then it began: an onslaught of free pastries.
Day 1:
"I'll just have a small coffee today." In a hurry.
"No, you will have a medium. Half/half and two sugars?"
"If you insist, yes." Coy smile.
"Now, what do you want here?" A quick glance around his inventory.
"What do I want?" Confusion.
"From here?" He gestured at his array of pastries, doughnuts, and bagels.
"Well ... oh, I don't really want anything."
"You have something! Please!" His brown bag was open, ready.
"Okay, I'll have a plain doughnut." Meek, mild, boring.
"That is all?"
"Yes. That is all."
"Okay, that will be $1."
"No, it shouldn't be!" I pushed $2 over the lip of his window. "Have a nice day!"
Day 2:
"Hmm, I'll have a bagel with cream cheese and a medium coffee."
"What else do you like?"
"I don't like anything." Shaking head.
"You must. Pick something." Again, gesturing.
"Okay, okay. Plain doughnut."
"Very good. $1." It should be closer to $4.
"Fine, here is $1."
He nodded at me, a sweet smile taking over his face.
Day 3:
"Ah, I haven't seen you in a while!" It had been a day or two since I stopped to see him.
"Yes, I know. I've been at Starbucks." I laughed, he smiled. A gay time, we had on 43rd.
"What will it be today then? Anything you want."
"Alrighty. A medium coffee is all." One who shoots for the stars, clearly.
"What! Come now, you must have something else."
"A plain doughnut?"
"That is all? It's so small! What else you like?"
"... I don't know?" Again, confusion.
"Anything here! Anything." I shook my head. "Okay, I put this one in for you." He held out a large glazed danish.
"Sure, that's fine."
"You like this one?"
"Yeah, it's great. How much is all this?" He dropped it in the bag and shook his head.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. For you, I don't charge anything."
"How do you make a living doing this?"
"The money does not matter. It warms my heart to give it to you." He clasped his hands and brought them to his chest.
"Okay. Thank you sir."
"You are welcome. You have a wonderful weekend."
Yes, a wonderful weekend at the gym, on the treadmill. What generosity brings: unprecedented weight gain, diabetes, and an inexplicable hankering for doughnuts at 9:30 am.
Monday, January 05, 2009
The Saddest Thing I've Ever Heard
Dunkin Donuts on 36th and 8th avenue. Saturday, 10 am.
Managed by people from India and/or Southeast Asia.
Not crowded.
I buy a bottle of water, sit down to read. I'm hardly a customer.
A black man sits down at a table one row behind me. My back is two him, but I hear him rummaging through his carpetbag.
One brown Dunkin Donuts worker walks over. "You have to leave now. You've been sitting here, and now you have to leave."
"Man, I'm looking for something in my bag." Hisses as he says it. This man is not overtly homeless, not even ambiguously so, but he hasn't bought anything in the store. I saw him come in and sit down while I was standing in line with my $1.50 Aquafina.
The DD worker walks away. The man behind me says, "Fuck you. Imma fuckin' kill you" loud enough for me to hear, but the worker doesn't. He is unaffected, perhaps a survival strategy. A few seconds later, the manager ambles over, his hands clasped behind his back, relaxed.
"My friend, you cannot sit here now. You have to leave." Yellow, orange, brown shirt tucked into his high-waisted khaki pants, walks by me, is now in my peripheral view.
"Why you sayin' that!" Hands -- fists -- bang onto the dark pink table.
"Because you are not a customer. This seating is for customers."
"Customer! What the fuck do you think I am? I am a fucking customer!"
"Sir, you need to buy something here to be a customer at this Dunkin Donuts."
My eyes bore holes in the rear wall. And then he says it. He goes there.
"I've been a customer at Dunkin Donuts longer than you and your damn family have been in this country."
And then I start crying and do not turn around.
The manager walks back to his counter, eyes turned downward, and tends to his customers who are urgent and worried and unsympathetic as they order their coffees and breakfast sandwiches.
I'll never forget this. For me, that statement says (almost) everything about race politics in America today. We are not post-race. There is considerable work to do.
Managed by people from India and/or Southeast Asia.
Not crowded.
I buy a bottle of water, sit down to read. I'm hardly a customer.
A black man sits down at a table one row behind me. My back is two him, but I hear him rummaging through his carpetbag.
One brown Dunkin Donuts worker walks over. "You have to leave now. You've been sitting here, and now you have to leave."
"Man, I'm looking for something in my bag." Hisses as he says it. This man is not overtly homeless, not even ambiguously so, but he hasn't bought anything in the store. I saw him come in and sit down while I was standing in line with my $1.50 Aquafina.
The DD worker walks away. The man behind me says, "Fuck you. Imma fuckin' kill you" loud enough for me to hear, but the worker doesn't. He is unaffected, perhaps a survival strategy. A few seconds later, the manager ambles over, his hands clasped behind his back, relaxed.
"My friend, you cannot sit here now. You have to leave." Yellow, orange, brown shirt tucked into his high-waisted khaki pants, walks by me, is now in my peripheral view.
"Why you sayin' that!" Hands -- fists -- bang onto the dark pink table.
"Because you are not a customer. This seating is for customers."
"Customer! What the fuck do you think I am? I am a fucking customer!"
"Sir, you need to buy something here to be a customer at this Dunkin Donuts."
My eyes bore holes in the rear wall. And then he says it. He goes there.
"I've been a customer at Dunkin Donuts longer than you and your damn family have been in this country."
And then I start crying and do not turn around.
The manager walks back to his counter, eyes turned downward, and tends to his customers who are urgent and worried and unsympathetic as they order their coffees and breakfast sandwiches.
I'll never forget this. For me, that statement says (almost) everything about race politics in America today. We are not post-race. There is considerable work to do.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
What New Year's Eve is All About
Happy New Year!
Great, glad to get that formality out of the way.
It is this time of year, in this city, that makes me wonder why I don't live in a cabin near the middle of nowhere, Montana. They're all out there, the crazies, lurking about, searching for new hosts to infect.
Lucky me, I found myself, vulnerable, in Times Square this afternoon. My favorite place on earth!
Doctor's appointment. Nothing routine, nothing earthshaking or noteworthy. Good doc sent me to Rite Aid to pick up a prescription. Two blocks away. Quick and easy, right?
No. Not quite.
I should note, for all you non-New Yorkers, that it snowed throughout the day. And that ordinarily annoying throngs of tourists looking for a Starbucks became exponentially more annoying in our charming winter wonderland. They walked, five abreast at least, and because of the inclement weather, could not see in front of themselves, and because they could only orient themselves in relation to the M&M Store, found themselves disorganized, confused, discombobulated on 8th avenue and 49th street; their maps flew out of their gloved hands, under their Ugg'd feet.
Ugh is right.
All I wanted was my drug. All I got was a healthy dose of insanity.
Alongside 15 other irritable people, I stood near the back of the store, the pharmacy pick-up window/counter/corner. I leaned against a stack of 12-roll toilet paper packages and observed. My prescription wouldn't be ready immediately.
A large-ish white woman of 65, Roberta, shifted her weight between her stubby legs and cane. Next in line, and yes, Brenda, one of the pharmacists at the cashier asked for her name.
"Roberta Roberts. Yes, I called it in earlier today. Two hours ago. Yes, you should have it. Oh, it's not done? Why isn't it done? I called it in two hours ago or so. I was told it would be done. Wait a second, who did I talk to? I demand to talk to the person I spoke with."
Brenda said nothing. She rolled her eyes.
"What, you're just going to stand there? You're not going to do anything for me? How dare you. How dare you stand there and not find out who spoke to me." Her cane fell to the floor.
"Ma'am, you're going to have to talk to someone at the other window." Brenda. Done with this day 20 minutes ago.
"Where is the other window?"
Brenda gestured to the "Drop-off" window about 15 feet away. Roberta looked to the window, stumbled a bit over her cane (Who put this here! Who moved this!) and turned back to Brenda. No steps toward the window.
"I'm not moving. Whoever talked to me can come over here. I'm not going anywhere."
Meanwhile, Yessica, the other pharmacist with the dreaded task of confronting customers, tended to other patients. Matthew's prescription was ready.
"Sir, I'll take you over here" -- pointing to the register Roberta loomed before -- "just swipe your card here." Yessica meant business.
Matthew did his best to contort his body around Roberta's wide frame so that he could swipe his credit card and be on his way. Roberta didn't seem to care that he was ready to leave. It was as if her feet were cemented to the floor.
Somehow Matthew completed his transaction, though he may have pulled a muscle in the process. After he left, another pharmacist spoke to Roberta about her pills.
She told her a story about her health insurance, how she needed the pills today December 31, before something kicked in or kicked out, or erupted and spilled lava into Times Square. Wait, those are my thoughts.
"Yeah, you should have the blood pressure medication and the clonazepam. Clonazepam, I need my Clonazepam. Lately, I've been needing it more and more."
Clonazepam, I know what that is.
As if hearing my thoughts, Roberta called to the pharmacist, "Clonazepam is also known as Klonopin," because, obviously, they wouldn't have known what medication to give her. Oh, Clonazapam ... fancy birth control?
This lady NEEDS her Klonopin.
Brenda took the next customer, another contortionist, as Yessica picked up Roberta's prescription and directed her to the register next to the one she's been guarding for 20 minutes.
"The prescriptions come out to $13, ma'am." Patient but impatient, Yessica stared at Roberta, her white plastic "Happy New Year" top hat tipped slightly, reflecting flourescent light beams.
"Wait! Wait! Wait!!! I have this." Roberta unplucked a bottle of dishwasher detergent from the crook of her arm. She could have easily stole it, but Roberta and I are not the same person.
Yessica rang it up. "Your total is now $17."
"NO! NO! NO! You have to take it off! You shouldn't have done that! Why did you do that! I have a coupon." From the depths of her left coat pocket, Roberta extracted 900 scraps of paper.
Yessica called for a manager. Brenda stepped out for a drink or hard drugs.
Roberta found the coupon and gave it to her.
"You don't have to undo it now. You don't have to. Don't undo it."
Yessica canceled the manager request. The manager also stepped out for a drink or hard drugs apparently.
"Okay, ma'am, you're getting a little bit fiesty now. I don't know why you're acting that way. Just hold on a minute. You don't have to get so riled up. Your total is now $13.89."
Right, complete the transaction. Give her the damn pills!
"Wait wait wait!! You have to undo it. I can't pay this way. I can't. I can't pay with my card. I have a card, see, and I can't pay for the soap with it." Roberta held out her MasterCard.
"You can pay in cash, ma'am, for the soap."
"Oh." Five minutes passed as Roberta fished out $0.89 from her change purse.
"Thanks. Your total is now $12." As Yessica said this, she started to put the soap and pills in a Rite Aid bag.
"No! No! I need that to be double bagged and give me the pills." Stuffed them into the pocket of myriad curiousities.
Roberta couldn't figure out how to swipe the card, as if she had never been to a store in the past 5-10 years, as if she had never been to this very Rite Aid or harassed these very pharmacists ever before. Yessica swiped the card for her.
Finally, five hours later, Roberta left and we all felt the store's atmosphere deflate. Ahh. Sanity.
I hope you didn't run into Roberta before she took her Klonopin. Drink and take pills responsibly.
Great, glad to get that formality out of the way.
It is this time of year, in this city, that makes me wonder why I don't live in a cabin near the middle of nowhere, Montana. They're all out there, the crazies, lurking about, searching for new hosts to infect.
Lucky me, I found myself, vulnerable, in Times Square this afternoon. My favorite place on earth!
Doctor's appointment. Nothing routine, nothing earthshaking or noteworthy. Good doc sent me to Rite Aid to pick up a prescription. Two blocks away. Quick and easy, right?
No. Not quite.
I should note, for all you non-New Yorkers, that it snowed throughout the day. And that ordinarily annoying throngs of tourists looking for a Starbucks became exponentially more annoying in our charming winter wonderland. They walked, five abreast at least, and because of the inclement weather, could not see in front of themselves, and because they could only orient themselves in relation to the M&M Store, found themselves disorganized, confused, discombobulated on 8th avenue and 49th street; their maps flew out of their gloved hands, under their Ugg'd feet.
Ugh is right.
All I wanted was my drug. All I got was a healthy dose of insanity.
Alongside 15 other irritable people, I stood near the back of the store, the pharmacy pick-up window/counter/corner. I leaned against a stack of 12-roll toilet paper packages and observed. My prescription wouldn't be ready immediately.
A large-ish white woman of 65, Roberta, shifted her weight between her stubby legs and cane. Next in line, and yes, Brenda, one of the pharmacists at the cashier asked for her name.
"Roberta Roberts. Yes, I called it in earlier today. Two hours ago. Yes, you should have it. Oh, it's not done? Why isn't it done? I called it in two hours ago or so. I was told it would be done. Wait a second, who did I talk to? I demand to talk to the person I spoke with."
Brenda said nothing. She rolled her eyes.
"What, you're just going to stand there? You're not going to do anything for me? How dare you. How dare you stand there and not find out who spoke to me." Her cane fell to the floor.
"Ma'am, you're going to have to talk to someone at the other window." Brenda. Done with this day 20 minutes ago.
"Where is the other window?"
Brenda gestured to the "Drop-off" window about 15 feet away. Roberta looked to the window, stumbled a bit over her cane (Who put this here! Who moved this!) and turned back to Brenda. No steps toward the window.
"I'm not moving. Whoever talked to me can come over here. I'm not going anywhere."
Meanwhile, Yessica, the other pharmacist with the dreaded task of confronting customers, tended to other patients. Matthew's prescription was ready.
"Sir, I'll take you over here" -- pointing to the register Roberta loomed before -- "just swipe your card here." Yessica meant business.
Matthew did his best to contort his body around Roberta's wide frame so that he could swipe his credit card and be on his way. Roberta didn't seem to care that he was ready to leave. It was as if her feet were cemented to the floor.
Somehow Matthew completed his transaction, though he may have pulled a muscle in the process. After he left, another pharmacist spoke to Roberta about her pills.
She told her a story about her health insurance, how she needed the pills today December 31, before something kicked in or kicked out, or erupted and spilled lava into Times Square. Wait, those are my thoughts.
"Yeah, you should have the blood pressure medication and the clonazepam. Clonazepam, I need my Clonazepam. Lately, I've been needing it more and more."
Clonazepam, I know what that is.
As if hearing my thoughts, Roberta called to the pharmacist, "Clonazepam is also known as Klonopin," because, obviously, they wouldn't have known what medication to give her. Oh, Clonazapam ... fancy birth control?
This lady NEEDS her Klonopin.
Brenda took the next customer, another contortionist, as Yessica picked up Roberta's prescription and directed her to the register next to the one she's been guarding for 20 minutes.
"The prescriptions come out to $13, ma'am." Patient but impatient, Yessica stared at Roberta, her white plastic "Happy New Year" top hat tipped slightly, reflecting flourescent light beams.
"Wait! Wait! Wait!!! I have this." Roberta unplucked a bottle of dishwasher detergent from the crook of her arm. She could have easily stole it, but Roberta and I are not the same person.
Yessica rang it up. "Your total is now $17."
"NO! NO! NO! You have to take it off! You shouldn't have done that! Why did you do that! I have a coupon." From the depths of her left coat pocket, Roberta extracted 900 scraps of paper.
Yessica called for a manager. Brenda stepped out for a drink or hard drugs.
Roberta found the coupon and gave it to her.
"You don't have to undo it now. You don't have to. Don't undo it."
Yessica canceled the manager request. The manager also stepped out for a drink or hard drugs apparently.
"Okay, ma'am, you're getting a little bit fiesty now. I don't know why you're acting that way. Just hold on a minute. You don't have to get so riled up. Your total is now $13.89."
Right, complete the transaction. Give her the damn pills!
"Wait wait wait!! You have to undo it. I can't pay this way. I can't. I can't pay with my card. I have a card, see, and I can't pay for the soap with it." Roberta held out her MasterCard.
"You can pay in cash, ma'am, for the soap."
"Oh." Five minutes passed as Roberta fished out $0.89 from her change purse.
"Thanks. Your total is now $12." As Yessica said this, she started to put the soap and pills in a Rite Aid bag.
"No! No! I need that to be double bagged and give me the pills." Stuffed them into the pocket of myriad curiousities.
Roberta couldn't figure out how to swipe the card, as if she had never been to a store in the past 5-10 years, as if she had never been to this very Rite Aid or harassed these very pharmacists ever before. Yessica swiped the card for her.
Finally, five hours later, Roberta left and we all felt the store's atmosphere deflate. Ahh. Sanity.
I hope you didn't run into Roberta before she took her Klonopin. Drink and take pills responsibly.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Addendum to "I'm Yrs: Wedding edition"
Not to put a damper on celebrations and unions, but remember one very important thing:
A baby changes everything.
A baby changes everything.
This is our fate, I'm yrs: Wedding edition
A lifetime passes as the 1 train pauses at Times Square.
I've just run from the 7 train hoping hard to board the next swift boat uptown. I've got an appointment to keep and am already thirty minutes late as I catapult my body between the open doors.
A thirty-something man, Clark, ushers his sixties-seventies parents, Paul and Joanne, onto the train. I'm catching my breath and listening to music loud enough for everyone to hear. (Secretly, I always hope my Shuffle lands on "Lick it" by L'il Kim or 1 of 2000 Britney Spears I carry with me.) They stand close to one another for a moment before asking a non-homeless bag lady (Fifth Avenue boutiques represent!) to make room for Paul whose liver spots and creek-like wrinkles show in subway light. We begin to move at last.
Before Paul sits, Joanne kisses him a few times on the cheek.
She holds his hand, steadies him as he sits down. He's not the most fragile older person I've seen on the subway, so I smile as they do this, at the thought of this display of synchronized care as if nobody's watching. Clark smiles too. Then, the man, seated and content, grips his wife's hand, he kisses it, and then she kisses the top of his head.
I stop paying attention to the stations we pass, focus on them. I see love, LOVE, love. For Paul and Joanne, it is clear that this is life, this is everlasting. I see Joanne standing there, holding Paul's hand, and the look of safety, pride, and comfort filling his face. They're sixty or seventy years old; they're a young couple of twenty-five.
I'm writing about this -- a topic more sentimental and warm than anything else I choose to spend words on -- because I have friends who will soon take vows, who will soon forge new bonds based on what they've shared and what they've yet to shape.
For you, I am sending my deep, heartfelt wishes that, when some unsuspecting, skeptic like me sees you in the subway in five, ten, twenty-five years, they'll see Paul and Joanne.
I've just run from the 7 train hoping hard to board the next swift boat uptown. I've got an appointment to keep and am already thirty minutes late as I catapult my body between the open doors.
A thirty-something man, Clark, ushers his sixties-seventies parents, Paul and Joanne, onto the train. I'm catching my breath and listening to music loud enough for everyone to hear. (Secretly, I always hope my Shuffle lands on "Lick it" by L'il Kim or 1 of 2000 Britney Spears I carry with me.) They stand close to one another for a moment before asking a non-homeless bag lady (Fifth Avenue boutiques represent!) to make room for Paul whose liver spots and creek-like wrinkles show in subway light. We begin to move at last.
Before Paul sits, Joanne kisses him a few times on the cheek.
She holds his hand, steadies him as he sits down. He's not the most fragile older person I've seen on the subway, so I smile as they do this, at the thought of this display of synchronized care as if nobody's watching. Clark smiles too. Then, the man, seated and content, grips his wife's hand, he kisses it, and then she kisses the top of his head.
I stop paying attention to the stations we pass, focus on them. I see love, LOVE, love. For Paul and Joanne, it is clear that this is life, this is everlasting. I see Joanne standing there, holding Paul's hand, and the look of safety, pride, and comfort filling his face. They're sixty or seventy years old; they're a young couple of twenty-five.
I'm writing about this -- a topic more sentimental and warm than anything else I choose to spend words on -- because I have friends who will soon take vows, who will soon forge new bonds based on what they've shared and what they've yet to shape.
For you, I am sending my deep, heartfelt wishes that, when some unsuspecting, skeptic like me sees you in the subway in five, ten, twenty-five years, they'll see Paul and Joanne.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
True Story: Santa Hates Apathetic Postal Workers, too
Location: Bryant Park Post Office, 43rd Street between 5th and 6th avenues
Time: 9:30 am
Time: 9:30 am
Santa wanted to mail a package to one of his most favorites, Sunny.
Sunny lives in Brooklyn, so Santa thinks, Ho, ho ho, First class for Sunny!
Santa sauntered up to the automated postage machine to avoid the line accumulating with many-parceled-people wearing grim faces. With his bulbous fingers, Santa typed in Sunny's zip code and rubbed his velvet-covered jelly-belly, pulled at his thick white beard a bit while waiting for the computer to print his postage.
But then, a message flickered: No more postage tape. Use the postal clerks to mail your package. Can I help you with anything else?
What the fuck, thought Santa, as he pulled his small package from the scale and filed into the line. No, I don't need anything else. This year's holiday stamps are ass.
Three people ahead of him and machine-head clerks winding down, Santa shifted his weight atop his heavy black boots, comfortable. Last year, Mrs. Claus bought Santa a pair of Earth shoes.
Then his turn came!
A balding man wearing glasses sat behind a scale and a computer. His dark blue cardigan hung loose over his blue-grey official shirt, and together, the shirts melted onto his body, a figure from a wax museum. Peter, his name. Various stamps--First Class, Prority--sat around him, waiting to be held. Expressionless he said hello to Santa. As if he didn't know who he was.
"Ho ho ho, Mr. Postal Clerk, I'd like to send this package First Class."
"Does this package contain anything perishable, fragile--"
"No, no it doesn't. Just First Class, and I'll be on my way. My ride's waiting outside. You know the parking situation on this street."
"Very well. Does this package contain anything perishable, fragile--"
"No." ... A robot?
"Would you like to send this Express or Priority or with insurance?"
"First Class. It's only going to Brooklyn."
"Okay. That will be $2.70."
Santa pulled out his debit card and swiped it. No cash back this time.
"You know, I tried to use that APC machine to send this," Santa looked up at Peter, busy with his empty stare, vacuous. "Ahem, the machine said it didn't have any tape to print the postage."
"Oh. Really. Well."
Santa waited for him to say, I'll let someone know, or You should tell someone on the floor that it's out, or It's too bad this Post Office isn't run by a group of monkeys on Klonopin.
"Here's your receipt. Have a nice day. Next." Peter's on a roll.
And that was that.
Santa stepped off the counter, beyond the queue, and onto 43rd street. A trail of sparkles behind him, he snapped his fingers and Rudolph & co. skipped out of the parking garage across the street.
He mounted the sleigh and called out to the miserable work-a-day people, "Merry Christmas to all, and may the Bryant Park Postal Station burn in Hell!" He sored, up, up high above Grand Central and then the Chrysler building. Everyone on the street suddenly smiled and jumped for joy, threw flaming trash cans into the Post Office windows and celebrated in the streets.
The end.
I swear, I saw this happen this morning.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Faith Hell and her Follower(s)
Whoa.
So, a baby does change everything.
(link--> post about how amazing this song is. Check out her blogger profile. And it says "view complete profile" at the bottom but I'm concerned about what waits on the other side of the link.)
So, a baby does change everything.
(link--> post about how amazing this song is. Check out her blogger profile. And it says "view complete profile" at the bottom but I'm concerned about what waits on the other side of the link.)
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Brown Paper Bags for All: amNY Revised
Stop me if you've heard this one before:
Two women deliver lunches to homeless people. Two out of six recipients say, "Stop. Wait. I don't eat meat," and request peanut butter & jelly or nothing at all.
Heard it before?
Yeah, I hadn't either. Until today. (A baby changes everything.)
This morning, JA and I woke up willing to serve the world. We strapped on our Pumas, assembled sandwiches (on whole wheat bread, to be sure), and headed toward the 7 train with the explicit purpose of feeding the foodless.
A cold morning, no doubt, but it neither withered our spirit nor softened our spunk as we strode to the subway, with high hopes of finding a particular homeless woman, a small, aging Asian woman, Melinda, who spends her days in the Times Square-Port Authority tunnel.
"She's not there," said JA as we approached the foot of a sprawling incline leading to the Great Bus Terminal.
"Wait, she's up there, I know she is," I said.
"I hope so." JA, who, at this moment is writing about this very event, swung her bag closer to her body as we hiked up the hill.
"She's there! She's there! I can see her on her stool!" I was thrilled and nearly ran toward Melinda, whose head hung low over her kneecaps.
Last weekend, as I walked through this tunnel with bags of holiday cookies to dispense, I stopped by Melinda, knelt beside her, nudged her knee. "Melinda? Would you like some cookies?" She smiled back at me - a wide, brimming smile - and nodded her head. I placed the cookies in her hand and continued walking.
Now, as we approached Melinda, I noticed another homeless person sitting no more than five feet from her. Jeffrey's bag of possessions lay a few feet from him, his legs out and directionless.
"JA, should we give one to him?" A whisper, close.
"Of course." She was certain.
"Hi Jeffrey. I have a sandwich and banana and granola bar here for you. Would you--"
He cut me off. "I don't eat meat." His quick response sent a shiver down my spine and made me step back for a moment.
"Oh. Okay. Well, I have peanut butter. Would you like that?" Searching through a green bag for a brown bag marked "Peanut butter & Jelly."
"Yeah. Are you with a church?"
I looked at JA, who was inching closer to Melinda. "Um, ... no. Thanks. Have a great day, Jeffrey."
He smiled a crooked smile of few teeth. Perhaps he can't eat meat. Then again, Jeffrey appeared as a man of principle, a stalwart on issues of animal cruelty.
JA bent down to Melinda. "Excuse me? We have lunch for you." Fresh-faced, sweet and smiling.
Her pained effort to lift her head said everything. JA and I looked at each other.
"Here you go, we brought this for you, Melinda." I knelt beside her, too. Bony hand extended, gripping mine for more than a few seconds. We looked into each others eyes and I smiled. That smile radiated from her face, and I was happy to see her gaze held high as we left her behind, on her small chair; behind, with her legs bent into acute angles, angles that make her as small and forgetful as possible; behind, with only a sandwich, a banana, a granola bar, and a small juice box to get her through today, the next day and who knows how long.
"Let's go to Washington Square Park," I said, and we did. We found only one homeless person - to my great surprise - asleep under a thick sleeping bag. I placed a brown bag on his stack of belongings and hoped very hard that he wasn't a vegetarian.
JA and I walked past the Picasso sculpture by NYU on our way to Sara D. Roosevelt Park on Houston and Chrystie. How did he do it? How did he build this gigantic sculpture out of concrete? How was it shaped and structured and molded and brought here, to this very place? The thoughts of a well-fed, well-clothed, well-housed person.
At the next part, we ran into a one-legged man in a wheelchair, Raymond.
"Is he doing his business?" JA asked. We walked slower, hoping he would finish.
Raymond gladly accepted our lunch and as we walked away I thought I saw him putting it in the trash. But no! Raymond waved his bag toward a man across the street. "Look at what I got! You want some?"
"Raymond, we can go give him a bag too," I called out and we crossed the street to his friend.
A cigarette heavy with ash hung from his lip. John Jacob stood beside a garbage can, his hands now at his hips.
"Hi John Jacob, would you like a sandwich? We just gave one to Raymond over there and I think he wants to share his with you."
"I do not eat meat." The ash dangled as the cigarette expired. Serious visage.
Here we go again. "Sure, John Jacob, we can help you with that. We've got a peanut butter sandwich right here for you. You have a wonderful day now." Eyes locked on his. Smile. A gaze held, shared for more than a few moments. "Thank you," he said.
We handed our last two sandwiches to a couple of men with parked shopping carts filled with green bottles. "Thank you thank you thank you," they called after us.
And when we were done, we went to Whole Foods. And from there, we baked cookies. We had a normal day. But it wasn't a normal day. All we talked about were the people who we chose and didn't choose to feed; Melinda and her sharply folded knees tucked under her little bench, what little she has, how old she is, and which one of us is bringing her food on Christmas eve; how we value each other as humans, how we assume someone without food would eat anything given to him regardless of its contents, and how wrong we are about the lives of others; how we can't do this every week; how in order to engage in sustainable solutions while retaining the integrity of a respectful, genuine interaction between two people we must dig deep, engage, work hard at working together.
We talked and talked and talked for hours about our morning. A normal day? I hope so.
Two women deliver lunches to homeless people. Two out of six recipients say, "Stop. Wait. I don't eat meat," and request peanut butter & jelly or nothing at all.
Heard it before?
Yeah, I hadn't either. Until today. (A baby changes everything.)
This morning, JA and I woke up willing to serve the world. We strapped on our Pumas, assembled sandwiches (on whole wheat bread, to be sure), and headed toward the 7 train with the explicit purpose of feeding the foodless.
A cold morning, no doubt, but it neither withered our spirit nor softened our spunk as we strode to the subway, with high hopes of finding a particular homeless woman, a small, aging Asian woman, Melinda, who spends her days in the Times Square-Port Authority tunnel.
"She's not there," said JA as we approached the foot of a sprawling incline leading to the Great Bus Terminal.
"Wait, she's up there, I know she is," I said.
"I hope so." JA, who, at this moment is writing about this very event, swung her bag closer to her body as we hiked up the hill.
"She's there! She's there! I can see her on her stool!" I was thrilled and nearly ran toward Melinda, whose head hung low over her kneecaps.
Last weekend, as I walked through this tunnel with bags of holiday cookies to dispense, I stopped by Melinda, knelt beside her, nudged her knee. "Melinda? Would you like some cookies?" She smiled back at me - a wide, brimming smile - and nodded her head. I placed the cookies in her hand and continued walking.
Now, as we approached Melinda, I noticed another homeless person sitting no more than five feet from her. Jeffrey's bag of possessions lay a few feet from him, his legs out and directionless.
"JA, should we give one to him?" A whisper, close.
"Of course." She was certain.
"Hi Jeffrey. I have a sandwich and banana and granola bar here for you. Would you--"
He cut me off. "I don't eat meat." His quick response sent a shiver down my spine and made me step back for a moment.
"Oh. Okay. Well, I have peanut butter. Would you like that?" Searching through a green bag for a brown bag marked "Peanut butter & Jelly."
"Yeah. Are you with a church?"
I looked at JA, who was inching closer to Melinda. "Um, ... no. Thanks. Have a great day, Jeffrey."
He smiled a crooked smile of few teeth. Perhaps he can't eat meat. Then again, Jeffrey appeared as a man of principle, a stalwart on issues of animal cruelty.
JA bent down to Melinda. "Excuse me? We have lunch for you." Fresh-faced, sweet and smiling.
Her pained effort to lift her head said everything. JA and I looked at each other.
"Here you go, we brought this for you, Melinda." I knelt beside her, too. Bony hand extended, gripping mine for more than a few seconds. We looked into each others eyes and I smiled. That smile radiated from her face, and I was happy to see her gaze held high as we left her behind, on her small chair; behind, with her legs bent into acute angles, angles that make her as small and forgetful as possible; behind, with only a sandwich, a banana, a granola bar, and a small juice box to get her through today, the next day and who knows how long.
"Let's go to Washington Square Park," I said, and we did. We found only one homeless person - to my great surprise - asleep under a thick sleeping bag. I placed a brown bag on his stack of belongings and hoped very hard that he wasn't a vegetarian.
JA and I walked past the Picasso sculpture by NYU on our way to Sara D. Roosevelt Park on Houston and Chrystie. How did he do it? How did he build this gigantic sculpture out of concrete? How was it shaped and structured and molded and brought here, to this very place? The thoughts of a well-fed, well-clothed, well-housed person.
At the next part, we ran into a one-legged man in a wheelchair, Raymond.
"Is he doing his business?" JA asked. We walked slower, hoping he would finish.
Raymond gladly accepted our lunch and as we walked away I thought I saw him putting it in the trash. But no! Raymond waved his bag toward a man across the street. "Look at what I got! You want some?"
"Raymond, we can go give him a bag too," I called out and we crossed the street to his friend.
A cigarette heavy with ash hung from his lip. John Jacob stood beside a garbage can, his hands now at his hips.
"Hi John Jacob, would you like a sandwich? We just gave one to Raymond over there and I think he wants to share his with you."
"I do not eat meat." The ash dangled as the cigarette expired. Serious visage.
Here we go again. "Sure, John Jacob, we can help you with that. We've got a peanut butter sandwich right here for you. You have a wonderful day now." Eyes locked on his. Smile. A gaze held, shared for more than a few moments. "Thank you," he said.
We handed our last two sandwiches to a couple of men with parked shopping carts filled with green bottles. "Thank you thank you thank you," they called after us.
And when we were done, we went to Whole Foods. And from there, we baked cookies. We had a normal day. But it wasn't a normal day. All we talked about were the people who we chose and didn't choose to feed; Melinda and her sharply folded knees tucked under her little bench, what little she has, how old she is, and which one of us is bringing her food on Christmas eve; how we value each other as humans, how we assume someone without food would eat anything given to him regardless of its contents, and how wrong we are about the lives of others; how we can't do this every week; how in order to engage in sustainable solutions while retaining the integrity of a respectful, genuine interaction between two people we must dig deep, engage, work hard at working together.
We talked and talked and talked for hours about our morning. A normal day? I hope so.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Good Christian Men Rejoice (for Pro-Life XMAS Tunes)
What's your favorite holiday tune?
I'll answer that question for you. Not "A Baby Changes Everything."
Have you heard this song? Wait - an aside - where have I been? Why hasn't this blog been updated for over one month?
It's simple, my friends: I've left my material in another borough. Queens is a safer place for this little lady and I'm happy to say it. No longer do people sling their unsavory words, their sexual assaults in my path. I am free of this. For now, at least.
And so I've turned to exploring my observations and yours about Christmas music. Times are exciting.
Honestly, have you heard this "A Baby Changes Everything" song?
Here are the lyrics. I'll give you a few minutes to let them sink in. .... Also, here's a video of Faith Hill singing her song, if you haven't tuned into 106.7 Life FM in the past 4+ months.
OK. This is supposed to be a Christmas song. It's on Faith Hill's Christmas album. Hallelluuuuuuujaaaah, Faith Hill's released a Christmas CD!
It's not a Christmas song, unless Christmas songs are meant to discourage abortions. She begins, "Teenage girl, much too young. Unprepared for what's to come. A baby changes everything." Mary has become your typical American adolescent on block, the BC Bristol Palin (thanks JA for the comparison). Faith Hill reiterates, "A baby changes everything." I think I see where she's going with this.
Then: "The man she loves she's never touched. How will she keep his trust." This struck me. Even Mary dealt with contemporary temptations such as keeping her robe on and learning how to balance motherhood, a career, and a needy spouse. How ever did Mary manage without the worldly recommendations from Cosmopolitan and blogs to guide her?
Faith Hill is right. A baby does change everything. I would have never believed it without her song. I might go out and have one.
And then the ending, the most powerful of powerful, mightiest of mighty! "My whole life is turned around. I was lost and now I'm found. A baby changes everything."
Amazing grace, amazing Faith! I, too, once was lost and now am found, was blind and now I see. Or, I once could listen to Christmas music and now I can't because this song sucks so much I might go deaf. I like the ring of the latter better.
How pro-life is this Christmas song? It's bad enough that it's veiled as a message about Mother Mary (when it's really about Bristol Palin and her ilk). Can you believe she sticks you with the hallelujah-salvation-without-abortion-bit at the end? Incredible.
Thanks, Faith Hell.
A baby changes everything is now my new saying.
"How are you doing today?"
"Well, you know, a baby changes everything."
"It's breezy by the corner store. Why is that?"
"A baby changes everything."
...
"I think the potatoes are on fire. The fire is spreading to the greasy pan, and, oh no, it's engulfed the curtains as well."
"Things happen. Like I said, a baby changes everything."
Put the fire out. Disrupt the phrase with everyday usage.
I'll answer that question for you. Not "A Baby Changes Everything."
Have you heard this song? Wait - an aside - where have I been? Why hasn't this blog been updated for over one month?
It's simple, my friends: I've left my material in another borough. Queens is a safer place for this little lady and I'm happy to say it. No longer do people sling their unsavory words, their sexual assaults in my path. I am free of this. For now, at least.
And so I've turned to exploring my observations and yours about Christmas music. Times are exciting.
Honestly, have you heard this "A Baby Changes Everything" song?
Here are the lyrics. I'll give you a few minutes to let them sink in. .... Also, here's a video of Faith Hill singing her song, if you haven't tuned into 106.7 Life FM in the past 4+ months.
OK. This is supposed to be a Christmas song. It's on Faith Hill's Christmas album. Hallelluuuuuuujaaaah, Faith Hill's released a Christmas CD!
It's not a Christmas song, unless Christmas songs are meant to discourage abortions. She begins, "Teenage girl, much too young. Unprepared for what's to come. A baby changes everything." Mary has become your typical American adolescent on block, the BC Bristol Palin (thanks JA for the comparison). Faith Hill reiterates, "A baby changes everything." I think I see where she's going with this.
Then: "The man she loves she's never touched. How will she keep his trust." This struck me. Even Mary dealt with contemporary temptations such as keeping her robe on and learning how to balance motherhood, a career, and a needy spouse. How ever did Mary manage without the worldly recommendations from Cosmopolitan and blogs to guide her?
Faith Hill is right. A baby does change everything. I would have never believed it without her song. I might go out and have one.
And then the ending, the most powerful of powerful, mightiest of mighty! "My whole life is turned around. I was lost and now I'm found. A baby changes everything."
Amazing grace, amazing Faith! I, too, once was lost and now am found, was blind and now I see. Or, I once could listen to Christmas music and now I can't because this song sucks so much I might go deaf. I like the ring of the latter better.
How pro-life is this Christmas song? It's bad enough that it's veiled as a message about Mother Mary (when it's really about Bristol Palin and her ilk). Can you believe she sticks you with the hallelujah-salvation-without-abortion-bit at the end? Incredible.
Thanks, Faith Hell.
A baby changes everything is now my new saying.
"How are you doing today?"
"Well, you know, a baby changes everything."
"It's breezy by the corner store. Why is that?"
"A baby changes everything."
...
"I think the potatoes are on fire. The fire is spreading to the greasy pan, and, oh no, it's engulfed the curtains as well."
"Things happen. Like I said, a baby changes everything."
Put the fire out. Disrupt the phrase with everyday usage.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver Invites Me In
"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.
"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.
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
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