What Truth
The reward, he could barely stand it waiting for the reward, a reward, any reward, would be a juicy fried rib eye for breakfast. How it would sizzle. He could barely stand it, there, I don't mind saying that again. I can see him thinking about it, pretending like he is thinking about nothing at all. He fools a lot of people with that blank stare but he isn't fooling me. A rib eye was all he could think about. Red meat juice dribbled down the chin of his imagination. One more thing competing for space with meat was the subtle difference between another thing coming and another think. Oh how once he laughed that good natured laugh. Were his lips exercising the dance of condescension? Did he misunderstand something very important that day when he mistakingly reduced his worldview to one constrained by verbal conjugation. The boy with nothing to do and no friends nearby had woefully uttered, I'm boring, when what he had meant to say was--I'm bored. But the truth was, the truth is, the boy was right the first time. He is boring. The man wondered if the meat would still be fresh. He was faint now, even the thought of bloody meat did little to revive him. He would wash it down with the juice of carrots and beets and radishes and celery and jalapeno and ginger and lemon and garlic. It wasn't a new diet, exactly. He was boring. It would take a trick or two to resolve the damage done by not realizing it sooner.
...more recent posts
The Indignant Pine
(It seems that this post from yesterday got deleted by mistake while posting today which puts today's post actually below this)
The cat came in through the window carrying a baby bunny, but not cradled gently, rather in her jaws clamped piercingly tight on the bunny's neck. The cat laid the bunny down gently on the wood floor and galloped happily to the kitchen where the food and water was always fresh and plentiful.
The man stared out the window at birds on the lawn below the freely swaying boughs of pine. The birds and the boughs described for him a movement that otherwise he would question, as the mountains in the background were dauntingly still. How could something be so still? Could a man become a mountain? The sun imprinted versions of itself across the walls of the room and by its color he could guess the time of day and even the temperature outside. This could be a skill. If for example he ever lost some primary connection to the outside world this guessing acumen might prove useful.
The cat was galloping again. It seemed her loud high stepping was an exaggeration. A prideful “look at me I've got blood on my tongue” noisemaking. She was taking her time with the beheading. The wound slowly grew during the day to become something to which the man could offer no more tolerance. I cannot tolerate this beheading was a sudden emotion that came out of nowhere. It was the wound. The wound was offensive.
The man was outside now. He had approached the pine (table nine, bunny rare), and on his cardboard tray the bunny still sufficiently dead, rested. Excuse me he interrupted the raucous pine, but who ordered the bunny? Before the pine at table nine could glean his meaning he flung the bunny, at the same time turning away so he could not see its trajectory. He was a coward in this respect. The bunny flew like it never had in life, an inexperience that ended badly, an ignominy beyond death, and it crashed with a thwap, the sound as best the man could describe it was thwap. To this day whenever the man hears that noise he is reminded of bad endings. The pine had complained to management and the man, blackballed, never worked in restaurants again.
(It seems that this post from yesterday got deleted by mistake while posting today which puts today's post actually below this)
The cat came in through the window carrying a baby bunny, but not cradled gently, rather in her jaws clamped piercingly tight on the bunny's neck. The cat laid the bunny down gently on the wood floor and galloped happily to the kitchen where the food and water was always fresh and plentiful.
The man stared out the window at birds on the lawn below the freely swaying boughs of pine. The birds and the boughs described for him a movement that otherwise he would question, as the mountains in the background were dauntingly still. How could something be so still? Could a man become a mountain? The sun imprinted versions of itself across the walls of the room and by its color he could guess the time of day and even the temperature outside. This could be a skill. If for example he ever lost some primary connection to the outside world this guessing acumen might prove useful.
The cat was galloping again. It seemed her loud high stepping was an exaggeration. A prideful “look at me I've got blood on my tongue” noisemaking. She was taking her time with the beheading. The wound slowly grew during the day to become something to which the man could offer no more tolerance. I cannot tolerate this beheading was a sudden emotion that came out of nowhere. It was the wound. The wound was offensive.
The man was outside now. He had approached the pine (table nine, bunny rare), and on his cardboard tray the bunny still sufficiently dead, rested. Excuse me he interrupted the raucous pine, but who ordered the bunny? Before the pine at table nine could glean his meaning he flung the bunny, at the same time turning away so he could not see its trajectory. He was a coward in this respect. The bunny flew like it never had in life, an inexperience that ended badly, an ignominy beyond death, and it crashed with a thwap, the sound as best the man could describe it was thwap. To this day whenever the man hears that noise he is reminded of bad endings. The pine had complained to management and the man, blackballed, never worked in restaurants again.
An Ecological Perspective
Alex Carp considered the laundry. With pinpoint imaginative precision and without moving from the bed he could see every article of dirty clothing in the house, and determine by what was lacking on his bedside table what remained in the pockets of those articles. He was certain the dirty laundry existed in only four rooms. In his mind he sorted the laundry. He approached a state bordering titillation as he imagined the hot soapy suds and the swirling mechanics of the machine as it went to work on the red clay and chainsaw oil staining his work pants on the floor of bathroom number one. Those pants were so dirty he wondered if they should not be a pile unto themselves. But when he considered the quality of most of the clothing littering the four rooms he realized it would not matter so much what got washed with what.
From days past in laundromats observing the cleanliness of others he could see how getting white clothes really white could be a matter of pride for some, a job well done and he was on board with that, jobs well done, yet for him and his things white it was a bit too late and he therefore took his own measure of pride as he realized how much water he was saving by simply reducing his loads to one hot and one cold. White things, if you could really call his white things white, could comfortably coexist inside the machine with darker things.
Goodness, this would be quite a day indeed. Oh the things he would get done now that he had the laundry all sorted out. A task so long put off he could not remember when his clothing had last been clean.
Alex looked across the room at the dresser. There could be some clean clothes in there. If he sorted through all the girly things he could perhaps find another day's worth of clean clothing. Or better yet if he wore for another day his dirty clothing how much more ecologically sound would that be? He could, as he saw it, if he really put his mind to it, save the world, at least in a measure commensurate to his negative affect on it. But then when he started adding up his negative contributions to the world ecology he began to doubt that simply wearing dirty clothes would be enough. He had after all just recently sprayed gasoline on the driveway to kill weeds growing through the gravel. Alex, admittedly not a scientist, could still postulate that gasoline leaching into the soil was probably not a good thing, and that just wearing dirty clothes for another day might not be enough to counterbalance that.
If however, he did not bathe for a week, did not do laundry for another week, did not leave the property in search of groceries but subsisted on every edible can and box in the cupboards, he could then possibly earn enough ecological credit to counterbalance the gasoline leaching.
Alex felt the lifting of a burden from his shoulders. Oh how much he would get done today now that he could reasonably justify not doing so many of the things he had first considered doing.
Alex Carp considered the laundry. With pinpoint imaginative precision and without moving from the bed he could see every article of dirty clothing in the house, and determine by what was lacking on his bedside table what remained in the pockets of those articles. He was certain the dirty laundry existed in only four rooms. In his mind he sorted the laundry. He approached a state bordering titillation as he imagined the hot soapy suds and the swirling mechanics of the machine as it went to work on the red clay and chainsaw oil staining his work pants on the floor of bathroom number one. Those pants were so dirty he wondered if they should not be a pile unto themselves. But when he considered the quality of most of the clothing littering the four rooms he realized it would not matter so much what got washed with what.
From days past in laundromats observing the cleanliness of others he could see how getting white clothes really white could be a matter of pride for some, a job well done and he was on board with that, jobs well done, yet for him and his things white it was a bit too late and he therefore took his own measure of pride as he realized how much water he was saving by simply reducing his loads to one hot and one cold. White things, if you could really call his white things white, could comfortably coexist inside the machine with darker things.
Goodness, this would be quite a day indeed. Oh the things he would get done now that he had the laundry all sorted out. A task so long put off he could not remember when his clothing had last been clean.
Alex looked across the room at the dresser. There could be some clean clothes in there. If he sorted through all the girly things he could perhaps find another day's worth of clean clothing. Or better yet if he wore for another day his dirty clothing how much more ecologically sound would that be? He could, as he saw it, if he really put his mind to it, save the world, at least in a measure commensurate to his negative affect on it. But then when he started adding up his negative contributions to the world ecology he began to doubt that simply wearing dirty clothes would be enough. He had after all just recently sprayed gasoline on the driveway to kill weeds growing through the gravel. Alex, admittedly not a scientist, could still postulate that gasoline leaching into the soil was probably not a good thing, and that just wearing dirty clothes for another day might not be enough to counterbalance that.
If however, he did not bathe for a week, did not do laundry for another week, did not leave the property in search of groceries but subsisted on every edible can and box in the cupboards, he could then possibly earn enough ecological credit to counterbalance the gasoline leaching.
Alex felt the lifting of a burden from his shoulders. Oh how much he would get done today now that he could reasonably justify not doing so many of the things he had first considered doing.
Decisive Avoidance
He was trying to decide between the train and the bus or the renting of a car. He wasn't sure exactly what time his meeting would be over or whether or not it would snow, which as he saw it were two important factors in determining his mode of travel. If he got out of the meeting early enough to beat or be on the easy side of rush hour it might be preferable to drive as it allowed the most autonomy, albeit at the expense of having to be awake and in charge of his destiny, where to turn, how fast to go, what to look at, when to pass and when to sit back, and which radio station to listen to. Under ideal conditions and with aggressive driving style it was possible to make the trip between Philly and New York in an hour and a half. There were any number of people he could talk to at the business meeting who could make the quick drive claim, some shaving off enough minutes to imply that under their suits they wore another suit emblazoned with the letter S. If he didn't pull away at times to go to the bathroom or make a phone call or pretend he was doing one or the other, he could be stuck listening to a preposterous geometric progression of braggadocio that led to any variety of grotesque and vainglorious chest puffing behavior, all of it eventually ending with a group of, mostly men, staring blankly forward, at walls or each other, realizing that again they have gone too far too fast. Excuse me I need to take this call, and retreat. The drive could also under not ideal conditions take four hours or more.
If it snowed, well then, the only thing he could think to say about that was crapshit. Onto every life a little snow must fall, sure, but man, crapshit and holy hell, why me, why now, why oh why Lord does it all have to happen to me? He found sometimes that a short bout of controlled histrionics helped him to calm down and think straight if not fly right. In this case however he felt every bit as confused after the histrionics as before and so moved directly to plan B which not to oversimplify included the aggressive handling of a matter by putting it out of your mind.
You could then jump ahead two or more steps and be at the conclusion or on the other side of whatever pesky problem lay in front of you. In this case he saw himself already flown from Chicago to the Philadelphia meeting and surviving that somehow transported to Manhattan where he sat now inside at an establishment of haute gastronomy imagining not only what he would order and drink and how much but what he would say. Hey, (and here he winked across the table at his old college buddy even though winking was not something he was especially trained at) is it haute enough for you? he might say before staring down protectively at his silverware to avoid getting in his eyes the ensuing laughter fueled projectile spew of alcohol and ice. The college buddy's girlfriend would think him charming and would engage him in all manner of interesting conversation to further distract him from the possible catastrophic consequences inherent to his skipping through time without a hall pass. But so far this skipping of the precursory was ok, just being forward in time and avoiding all the necessary preparations, it could work. And in this world which did not yet but very well may exist he could find little to complain about excepting perhaps not so much the size of the portions but that his college buddy would not share his glycerin injected rabbit jowl mousse fricassee. Though, this too was fine, in this world or another, as long as the buddy and the girlfriend laughed at his moose fricassee jokes, of which he had plenty.
He was trying to decide between the train and the bus or the renting of a car. He wasn't sure exactly what time his meeting would be over or whether or not it would snow, which as he saw it were two important factors in determining his mode of travel. If he got out of the meeting early enough to beat or be on the easy side of rush hour it might be preferable to drive as it allowed the most autonomy, albeit at the expense of having to be awake and in charge of his destiny, where to turn, how fast to go, what to look at, when to pass and when to sit back, and which radio station to listen to. Under ideal conditions and with aggressive driving style it was possible to make the trip between Philly and New York in an hour and a half. There were any number of people he could talk to at the business meeting who could make the quick drive claim, some shaving off enough minutes to imply that under their suits they wore another suit emblazoned with the letter S. If he didn't pull away at times to go to the bathroom or make a phone call or pretend he was doing one or the other, he could be stuck listening to a preposterous geometric progression of braggadocio that led to any variety of grotesque and vainglorious chest puffing behavior, all of it eventually ending with a group of, mostly men, staring blankly forward, at walls or each other, realizing that again they have gone too far too fast. Excuse me I need to take this call, and retreat. The drive could also under not ideal conditions take four hours or more.
If it snowed, well then, the only thing he could think to say about that was crapshit. Onto every life a little snow must fall, sure, but man, crapshit and holy hell, why me, why now, why oh why Lord does it all have to happen to me? He found sometimes that a short bout of controlled histrionics helped him to calm down and think straight if not fly right. In this case however he felt every bit as confused after the histrionics as before and so moved directly to plan B which not to oversimplify included the aggressive handling of a matter by putting it out of your mind.
You could then jump ahead two or more steps and be at the conclusion or on the other side of whatever pesky problem lay in front of you. In this case he saw himself already flown from Chicago to the Philadelphia meeting and surviving that somehow transported to Manhattan where he sat now inside at an establishment of haute gastronomy imagining not only what he would order and drink and how much but what he would say. Hey, (and here he winked across the table at his old college buddy even though winking was not something he was especially trained at) is it haute enough for you? he might say before staring down protectively at his silverware to avoid getting in his eyes the ensuing laughter fueled projectile spew of alcohol and ice. The college buddy's girlfriend would think him charming and would engage him in all manner of interesting conversation to further distract him from the possible catastrophic consequences inherent to his skipping through time without a hall pass. But so far this skipping of the precursory was ok, just being forward in time and avoiding all the necessary preparations, it could work. And in this world which did not yet but very well may exist he could find little to complain about excepting perhaps not so much the size of the portions but that his college buddy would not share his glycerin injected rabbit jowl mousse fricassee. Though, this too was fine, in this world or another, as long as the buddy and the girlfriend laughed at his moose fricassee jokes, of which he had plenty.
Untimely Cat Scratch
Is that the best snow you got? I will say the shaded reading glasses are somewhat of an improvement over the glare of this screen. They won't really help me to say anything but...is that serendipity or just run of the mill coincidence when you are writing about your reading glasses and Bernadette calls out from the bed a question about these very type of reading glasses? No matter. It's not serendipity though. I looked it up, I don't know why I said serendipity unless it was just something I felt like saying. I know one thing, I will think twice before I say it again.
It is a swirling snow day with emphasis on the swirling and not so much the snow because there isn't that much of it.
The exercise would be to just click out those words without so much concern for what you are actually saying, more just to get the words and the fingers working in concert. Haven't been to a concert since the Neko Case at the Beacon back in November 09.
Virginia the cat is sitting in my other chair in this here my cave, jokingly referred to as the man cave, jokingly not because there is any doubt about my 100 per cent bona fide manliness but just because what kind of schlep calls his work space a man cave? What was I saying about Virginia, it was that she is in my other chair, the one I mostly read in and she is coating it with hair. Walter Pagent has offered to come over and clip her nails for me while I hold her screaming and clawing in a towel but every time he calls I think of a good reason not to call him back, for example number one on the list is I am scared to join in the procedure of cat claw trimming.
Maybe there is a full body suit we could wear like a scuba divers suit that would protect us from the certainty that she is going to score with one of her claws an impressive scratch possibly one requiring stitches and medication against cat scratch fever. I don't want to get the cat scratch fever. More than that I really don't know what to say.
Let talk about potted plants. I have a container of catnip and several pots full of aloe vera. I split up the aloe vera awhile back and it is still crowded in some of the pots. I had two pots when I came here and now there are five. I have two of them in the sink right now because I watered them. I am going to get up now and retrieve them from the sink and put them back on the windowsill, the windowsill that looks out into the shaft between this building and the sister building next door. They are called sister buildings because they look exactly alike on the outside. Which one of the sisters you might prefer to date I cannot say for sure. I mean what if one of the sisters had an elevator, would you be more tempted to date her just because of it? Maybe you would.
Now on to unidentifiable objects, like that thing in front of me, concentric rings of black iron, one bigger than the other and not rings so much as diamonds. Is that a holder for a candle there at the bottom or what? I can't really answer that or if I do I will have to take it off the list of unidentifiable objects.
That receptacle over there is one plug shy of a pair. That will be the opening lyric to my new hit song. Please buy my musical product on sale at your nearest retailer.
Hey where are you going I call out to the cat. She is going in there to see just what the hell is going on in the bathroom and I can't really blame her that. She is back now, obviously that thing about death by curiosity is a myth, although if she sneaks up and attacks my bare foot again I would not rule out for her the possibility of untimely death.
Is that the best snow you got? I will say the shaded reading glasses are somewhat of an improvement over the glare of this screen. They won't really help me to say anything but...is that serendipity or just run of the mill coincidence when you are writing about your reading glasses and Bernadette calls out from the bed a question about these very type of reading glasses? No matter. It's not serendipity though. I looked it up, I don't know why I said serendipity unless it was just something I felt like saying. I know one thing, I will think twice before I say it again.
It is a swirling snow day with emphasis on the swirling and not so much the snow because there isn't that much of it.
The exercise would be to just click out those words without so much concern for what you are actually saying, more just to get the words and the fingers working in concert. Haven't been to a concert since the Neko Case at the Beacon back in November 09.
Virginia the cat is sitting in my other chair in this here my cave, jokingly referred to as the man cave, jokingly not because there is any doubt about my 100 per cent bona fide manliness but just because what kind of schlep calls his work space a man cave? What was I saying about Virginia, it was that she is in my other chair, the one I mostly read in and she is coating it with hair. Walter Pagent has offered to come over and clip her nails for me while I hold her screaming and clawing in a towel but every time he calls I think of a good reason not to call him back, for example number one on the list is I am scared to join in the procedure of cat claw trimming.
Maybe there is a full body suit we could wear like a scuba divers suit that would protect us from the certainty that she is going to score with one of her claws an impressive scratch possibly one requiring stitches and medication against cat scratch fever. I don't want to get the cat scratch fever. More than that I really don't know what to say.
Let talk about potted plants. I have a container of catnip and several pots full of aloe vera. I split up the aloe vera awhile back and it is still crowded in some of the pots. I had two pots when I came here and now there are five. I have two of them in the sink right now because I watered them. I am going to get up now and retrieve them from the sink and put them back on the windowsill, the windowsill that looks out into the shaft between this building and the sister building next door. They are called sister buildings because they look exactly alike on the outside. Which one of the sisters you might prefer to date I cannot say for sure. I mean what if one of the sisters had an elevator, would you be more tempted to date her just because of it? Maybe you would.
Now on to unidentifiable objects, like that thing in front of me, concentric rings of black iron, one bigger than the other and not rings so much as diamonds. Is that a holder for a candle there at the bottom or what? I can't really answer that or if I do I will have to take it off the list of unidentifiable objects.
That receptacle over there is one plug shy of a pair. That will be the opening lyric to my new hit song. Please buy my musical product on sale at your nearest retailer.
Hey where are you going I call out to the cat. She is going in there to see just what the hell is going on in the bathroom and I can't really blame her that. She is back now, obviously that thing about death by curiosity is a myth, although if she sneaks up and attacks my bare foot again I would not rule out for her the possibility of untimely death.
To Yourself Please
Today I ate in a restaurant. To begin with I had only set out to find a place to shelter me from the cold, but the library by the park had proved unacceptable and so I kept walking, west, with a wool cap pulled over my ears and my hands warm inside the pockets of my down-filled vest. The wind would kick up now and again and when it did I could almost immediately feel a throbbing in the exposed tips of my ear lobes. And without warning my eyes would tear up and I would turn my head so fellow pedestrians would not see me as someone who cried at the least little thing. Sure, as if they give a damn, but how do you not see yourself as a public figure when out in public? We are not invisible are we? Are not our fellow pedestrians hungry for diversion? Interested in anything that allows them brief respite from their own routine?
Overall though, despite my occasionally teary appearance, I was in a good mood and felt especially happy when the tall buildings would allow passage of a sunny ray onto the sidewalk or the building fronts. The cruddy sidewalks, recording as they do, and sometimes in graphic fashion, our tendency to expel what we no longer need or want, are easier to forgive when bathed in golden sunlight, and as I crossed from the shaded gray of tainted paths into the diagonal bands of bright light, and back again, I could feel my mood lighten or darken accordingly. Also a good hard snow, fresh and without footprint beyond your own, could make the forgetting easier, or at least the details (where God may or may not reside) less noticeable--the etched pentagrams, the bittersweet fact that Roy once loved Lilly, that gum turns black when spit out and stepped on and allowed to absorb everything else that exists, that spit, big giant gobs of it or tiny flecks of it is really simply disgusting, and as this appears to be something of a list I would in fact be remiss for not mentioning the vomit and the dog shit, which if you are lucky you can avoid its conjoining with your shoe bottom, but only if you are not one of those types with your head in the clouds, dreaming some happy blissful dream, and unaware of what actually surrounds you. I will spare a person my inner self when I can. As example I will not lay before you the suggestion of vomit on the sidewalk being like an ill-conceived omelet, or I mean, at least I won't go on and on about it, expanding on the theme with details riffing one into the other, until it is the only omelet you will ever think of. The ill-conceived vomit omelet is the specialty at Ralph's. And in any case, we must be stronger than that, not allowing the glancing thought to take root and rule the day. We must move on and be happy. Think of all the good things you find on a sidewalk. But to yourself please, not out loud.
Then I'm in the restaurant, across from the park, where I eat occasionally because despite ownership and menu changes and some expansion, it is still there under the same name and it reminds me, for better or worse, of thirty years ago when I would visit the city and was seeking out those places that laid out large plates of food for little money. Sometimes for me it is comforting just to think that there is even such a thing as thirty years ago. Or if I'm looking for a pep talk that can be contained in a single thought I might look back 45 years and be comforted by the image of all us kids doing that duck and cover drill at school, which was intended to save us from nuclear attack. I mean really, all that is implied in the duck and cover maneuver, that's the kind of blind optimism you need to survive in this world.
I ordered the meatloaf which comes in at just under ten dollars and includes more meat than you really need and mashed potatoes made from real potatoes and a salad and a soup. And I had a coke, which I really only drink at restaurants. I tried to read some, a lesbian romance, by Patricia Highsmith, on one of those electronic devices, and had some success with it which is remarkable for me because I am usually highly distracted by the sound and subject matter of people talking around me, like against all evidence to the contrary, hundreds and hundreds of hours of it, I think I am going to hear something that is going to change my life, make all the eavesdropping worthwhile.
I haven't been in this restaurant but twice since moving here in November so I am not all that in tune with what may be the restaurant's protocol regarding panhandling inside the establishment. If I was a proprietor I think I would generally discourage it. You see it occasionally in the city and someone on staff usually deals with it very politely, telling the panhandler that it is better to conduct his or her affairs on the public sidewalk. So when this guy comes in and stands mostly right in front of me but to play for better odds addresses pretty much everyone in the section, I wait for a waiter, or the manager to deal with it. When no such action is forthcoming I say what the hell and begin reaching into my front pocket. The crazy thing is I had before leaving the house actually removed from the substantial weight of my change cup a dozen quarters, thinking I would be prepared for a soul in need (I carry a wallet and don't feel right taking it out on the street and rifling through twenties in search of a single, and if that is the only option most often I will not give.) But when the guys sees me going into my front pocket he interrupts me, somewhat belligerently at that, and says, no that's no good, I'm going to need a couple of dollars, I am needing something to eat. I apologize to my departed mother who raised me better but my first response, just inside my head, was to tell the guy to fuck off. Instead though, in some ways worse, I just shook my head and flicked my empty hands toward him like he a fly and I wanted him to shoo away from me. When he kept on with his belligerent stance and somewhat whiningly said, man, you making it hard on me I lost my cool and it was then that I said, man fuck you, you making it hard on yourself. And I was suddenly very mad and stared hotly at my mashed potatoes, which were themselves now cold. A fellow at a nearby booth who had just devoured a burger and fries and who had been before, during and after talking non stop into the air via blue tooth, conducting business of some kind, and who had that accent that says Bronx or Queens, took control of the matter and firmly but politely told the guy he was being a bit of an ass and this was not the way to go about things and if he went outside people who could afford to give him something would give him something. It was cold as hell that day. I don't begrudge the guy his one try at indoor panhandling but his lack of manners, boy that really got me hot under the collar. It's true though, I was only going to give him fifty cents.
While I was finishing this piece yesterday I remember wanting to express that I would hope to do better, that I would try to act better the next time this happened. As it turned out only a few hours later having dinner in the neighborhood with Bill Macy, and Bernadette, at a different restaurant, and a panhandler, thankfully one with distinctly better manners than the one I ran into a few days previous but only got around to writing about yesterday, came into the restaurant's vestibule and poked his head through the curtain so he could address, well, it seemed like specifically me, but I'm sure he would have accepted anyone's offering. It flustered me for a moment because it seemed so surreal, writing about this very thing and then having it play out again so soon after. Perhaps what is happening is that the trickle down theory is finally working and what with everyone tightening their belts it is getting harder on the street for panhandlers. So they are coming inside and approaching the comfortable diner. I don't think I can support this tactic, and I tried to express to the guy last night--I think I did improve because I did not cuss at him--that it would be better to approach people outside. I told him if he were outside when I was done I would give him something but he was pressed for time, had to go pick up his meds he said, and wanted to know how long it would be before I came out. So it ended awkwardly, again, but with some semblance of manners projected by both parties. Which in lieu of the joy of giving, and receiving, will for now just have to be good enough.
Today I ate in a restaurant. To begin with I had only set out to find a place to shelter me from the cold, but the library by the park had proved unacceptable and so I kept walking, west, with a wool cap pulled over my ears and my hands warm inside the pockets of my down-filled vest. The wind would kick up now and again and when it did I could almost immediately feel a throbbing in the exposed tips of my ear lobes. And without warning my eyes would tear up and I would turn my head so fellow pedestrians would not see me as someone who cried at the least little thing. Sure, as if they give a damn, but how do you not see yourself as a public figure when out in public? We are not invisible are we? Are not our fellow pedestrians hungry for diversion? Interested in anything that allows them brief respite from their own routine?
Overall though, despite my occasionally teary appearance, I was in a good mood and felt especially happy when the tall buildings would allow passage of a sunny ray onto the sidewalk or the building fronts. The cruddy sidewalks, recording as they do, and sometimes in graphic fashion, our tendency to expel what we no longer need or want, are easier to forgive when bathed in golden sunlight, and as I crossed from the shaded gray of tainted paths into the diagonal bands of bright light, and back again, I could feel my mood lighten or darken accordingly. Also a good hard snow, fresh and without footprint beyond your own, could make the forgetting easier, or at least the details (where God may or may not reside) less noticeable--the etched pentagrams, the bittersweet fact that Roy once loved Lilly, that gum turns black when spit out and stepped on and allowed to absorb everything else that exists, that spit, big giant gobs of it or tiny flecks of it is really simply disgusting, and as this appears to be something of a list I would in fact be remiss for not mentioning the vomit and the dog shit, which if you are lucky you can avoid its conjoining with your shoe bottom, but only if you are not one of those types with your head in the clouds, dreaming some happy blissful dream, and unaware of what actually surrounds you. I will spare a person my inner self when I can. As example I will not lay before you the suggestion of vomit on the sidewalk being like an ill-conceived omelet, or I mean, at least I won't go on and on about it, expanding on the theme with details riffing one into the other, until it is the only omelet you will ever think of. The ill-conceived vomit omelet is the specialty at Ralph's. And in any case, we must be stronger than that, not allowing the glancing thought to take root and rule the day. We must move on and be happy. Think of all the good things you find on a sidewalk. But to yourself please, not out loud.
Then I'm in the restaurant, across from the park, where I eat occasionally because despite ownership and menu changes and some expansion, it is still there under the same name and it reminds me, for better or worse, of thirty years ago when I would visit the city and was seeking out those places that laid out large plates of food for little money. Sometimes for me it is comforting just to think that there is even such a thing as thirty years ago. Or if I'm looking for a pep talk that can be contained in a single thought I might look back 45 years and be comforted by the image of all us kids doing that duck and cover drill at school, which was intended to save us from nuclear attack. I mean really, all that is implied in the duck and cover maneuver, that's the kind of blind optimism you need to survive in this world.
I ordered the meatloaf which comes in at just under ten dollars and includes more meat than you really need and mashed potatoes made from real potatoes and a salad and a soup. And I had a coke, which I really only drink at restaurants. I tried to read some, a lesbian romance, by Patricia Highsmith, on one of those electronic devices, and had some success with it which is remarkable for me because I am usually highly distracted by the sound and subject matter of people talking around me, like against all evidence to the contrary, hundreds and hundreds of hours of it, I think I am going to hear something that is going to change my life, make all the eavesdropping worthwhile.
I haven't been in this restaurant but twice since moving here in November so I am not all that in tune with what may be the restaurant's protocol regarding panhandling inside the establishment. If I was a proprietor I think I would generally discourage it. You see it occasionally in the city and someone on staff usually deals with it very politely, telling the panhandler that it is better to conduct his or her affairs on the public sidewalk. So when this guy comes in and stands mostly right in front of me but to play for better odds addresses pretty much everyone in the section, I wait for a waiter, or the manager to deal with it. When no such action is forthcoming I say what the hell and begin reaching into my front pocket. The crazy thing is I had before leaving the house actually removed from the substantial weight of my change cup a dozen quarters, thinking I would be prepared for a soul in need (I carry a wallet and don't feel right taking it out on the street and rifling through twenties in search of a single, and if that is the only option most often I will not give.) But when the guys sees me going into my front pocket he interrupts me, somewhat belligerently at that, and says, no that's no good, I'm going to need a couple of dollars, I am needing something to eat. I apologize to my departed mother who raised me better but my first response, just inside my head, was to tell the guy to fuck off. Instead though, in some ways worse, I just shook my head and flicked my empty hands toward him like he a fly and I wanted him to shoo away from me. When he kept on with his belligerent stance and somewhat whiningly said, man, you making it hard on me I lost my cool and it was then that I said, man fuck you, you making it hard on yourself. And I was suddenly very mad and stared hotly at my mashed potatoes, which were themselves now cold. A fellow at a nearby booth who had just devoured a burger and fries and who had been before, during and after talking non stop into the air via blue tooth, conducting business of some kind, and who had that accent that says Bronx or Queens, took control of the matter and firmly but politely told the guy he was being a bit of an ass and this was not the way to go about things and if he went outside people who could afford to give him something would give him something. It was cold as hell that day. I don't begrudge the guy his one try at indoor panhandling but his lack of manners, boy that really got me hot under the collar. It's true though, I was only going to give him fifty cents.
While I was finishing this piece yesterday I remember wanting to express that I would hope to do better, that I would try to act better the next time this happened. As it turned out only a few hours later having dinner in the neighborhood with Bill Macy, and Bernadette, at a different restaurant, and a panhandler, thankfully one with distinctly better manners than the one I ran into a few days previous but only got around to writing about yesterday, came into the restaurant's vestibule and poked his head through the curtain so he could address, well, it seemed like specifically me, but I'm sure he would have accepted anyone's offering. It flustered me for a moment because it seemed so surreal, writing about this very thing and then having it play out again so soon after. Perhaps what is happening is that the trickle down theory is finally working and what with everyone tightening their belts it is getting harder on the street for panhandlers. So they are coming inside and approaching the comfortable diner. I don't think I can support this tactic, and I tried to express to the guy last night--I think I did improve because I did not cuss at him--that it would be better to approach people outside. I told him if he were outside when I was done I would give him something but he was pressed for time, had to go pick up his meds he said, and wanted to know how long it would be before I came out. So it ended awkwardly, again, but with some semblance of manners projected by both parties. Which in lieu of the joy of giving, and receiving, will for now just have to be good enough.
The Averted Riot
Bernadette says I'm being paranoid thinking the full baguette laying on top of my car was put there by a member of the matzo mafia to attract birds for their pooping potential, an act of intimidation as part of the mafia's sinister plot to take over that whole block of parking. Maybe Bernadette, maybe I am being paranoid, or maybe I just have a more personal insight into how petty a man can be at the top of his game. To what McGyver-esque lengths a man will go to achieve total domination of his opponent. How crazy it is inside a man's head when that man is the last defense against the marauding forces and it is left to him to fight for every parking space under every crapping-bird-filled tree. Sure it could be random, the baguette finding its way atop my car in some completely innocent fashion, perhaps dropping from the jaws of a bread loving pterodactyl through a black hole in the sky of a parallel universe, but I don't think so. That I sit in my car trying to recall episodes of McGyver or the A-Team, or even Gilligan's Island, to figure out the best way to fashion out of an everyday object a weapon, to retribute these guys for their dirty game play, I hope is not one day the first shred of evidence used to pack me up and ship me away.
Ok, all joking aside, if indeed I must be joking to pass my sanity hearings, let me say this—those conniving bastards were up to no good this morning.
But I'm not even sure it's worth it, like the hour and a half of time I'm saving each week is being put to such crucially important use that I should be coveting these so-called cherry parking spaces.
And it would appear from my scant research that the factory (and therefore too the worker) is suffering its own hellish existence what with recent inquisition concerning its matzo--is it kosher or is it chametz, are the standards of production what they once were?, or even if everything is fine and dandy regarding quality and purity are they just being unfairly squeezed out of the world matzo market by other players that want their cherry spot. Also, they are trying to sell the building and relocate in an effort to perhaps modernize and improve their standing, but the asking price of 25 million is seen by most as a huge hurdle to that goal. So there is criticism and there is uncertainty in their world. And perhaps this could be part of what is making those workers just a tad more annoying to deal with, as they over-compensate in an effort to control the street, in an outside world (represented by one Lower East Side block) that could on its small scale be considered easier to control as it is not necessarily judged less pure and therefore not kosher by all the variety of excrement, spit, and vomit which coats it.
The factory has been operating at that corner since 1925 and some of these workers with whom I do parking battle look like they could be the aged children of the original workers. So who am I Johnny-Come-Lately to begrudge these men their sense of propriety?
So today, verily, I say unto you my brothers, I relinquish all future implied claim over those bird soiled parking spaces. They are yours to do with as you wish, until that perhaps distant but foreseeable future when the building is repurposed and the faces of our combatants change.
But not this morning, suckers. You can't flank a guy on just one side. You can't do a pincer movement on a guy if he ain't afraid to back illegally onto a one way street. It's not like a one way street is a cliff or a deep river. So that's what they do these guys, during desperate times. The Restauranteur said it happened to her once and Danny W. Dawkins also told me how he had to yell a guy down to get his rightful spot back after pulling to the opposing curb to let the street sweeper pass, and then finding some fresh worker had jumped his spot.
I saw the set up. They had two of their guys sitting in cars parallel and across the street from me, effectively making it impossible for me to just pull out and back in if the sweeper came. If I wanted to make that move I would have to honk and shout at them, while probably the sweeper truck honked and shouted at me, and they were banking on the pretty safe bet that I was not the guy to honk and shout. I was of course hoping the sweeper would not come today, which would make it simpler, and also reaffirm for me the idea of a somewhat benevolent, overseeing God presence in my life. Really, these thirty minute spots are just not worth it. On a good day there is no drama at all but on many other days it is just thirty minutes of pure contemplative aggravation.
But dammit, there it is. The Street Sweeper. The sweeper can come from any direction, its movement is not dictated by one way streets but it always approaches from the rear because it is a right side of the street oriented machine. I knew today it would not come from my right rear because of the sewage sucker trucks on that block. So what remained was straight rear and left rear. And then suddenly there it was, to my left with its blinker on. I looked in my rear view and could see another one of the matzo crew guys across the intersection awaiting a light change to pounce. And then the two guys illegally parked (or standing) to my left and then all of them parked in front of me and their lieutenant standing in the middle of the street ready to direct the movements of his army. So I just backed onto Rivington facing traffic the wrong way but pulled to the curb (opposite the legal metered spaces) and then as soon as I could, mostly oblivious to the honking from at least two directions, I pulled right up on the sweeper's tail and back into my spot. Although I gave a few inches to the queue in front of me, as an act of good sportsmanship, and may in fact be at this moment really close to illegally parked. So that there may be a 65 dollar price tag to this story. But how often can you achieve a major peace accord, if only an internal one and without your combatants knowledge, at such a bargain rate?
Bernadette says I'm being paranoid thinking the full baguette laying on top of my car was put there by a member of the matzo mafia to attract birds for their pooping potential, an act of intimidation as part of the mafia's sinister plot to take over that whole block of parking. Maybe Bernadette, maybe I am being paranoid, or maybe I just have a more personal insight into how petty a man can be at the top of his game. To what McGyver-esque lengths a man will go to achieve total domination of his opponent. How crazy it is inside a man's head when that man is the last defense against the marauding forces and it is left to him to fight for every parking space under every crapping-bird-filled tree. Sure it could be random, the baguette finding its way atop my car in some completely innocent fashion, perhaps dropping from the jaws of a bread loving pterodactyl through a black hole in the sky of a parallel universe, but I don't think so. That I sit in my car trying to recall episodes of McGyver or the A-Team, or even Gilligan's Island, to figure out the best way to fashion out of an everyday object a weapon, to retribute these guys for their dirty game play, I hope is not one day the first shred of evidence used to pack me up and ship me away.
Ok, all joking aside, if indeed I must be joking to pass my sanity hearings, let me say this—those conniving bastards were up to no good this morning.
But I'm not even sure it's worth it, like the hour and a half of time I'm saving each week is being put to such crucially important use that I should be coveting these so-called cherry parking spaces.
And it would appear from my scant research that the factory (and therefore too the worker) is suffering its own hellish existence what with recent inquisition concerning its matzo--is it kosher or is it chametz, are the standards of production what they once were?, or even if everything is fine and dandy regarding quality and purity are they just being unfairly squeezed out of the world matzo market by other players that want their cherry spot. Also, they are trying to sell the building and relocate in an effort to perhaps modernize and improve their standing, but the asking price of 25 million is seen by most as a huge hurdle to that goal. So there is criticism and there is uncertainty in their world. And perhaps this could be part of what is making those workers just a tad more annoying to deal with, as they over-compensate in an effort to control the street, in an outside world (represented by one Lower East Side block) that could on its small scale be considered easier to control as it is not necessarily judged less pure and therefore not kosher by all the variety of excrement, spit, and vomit which coats it.
The factory has been operating at that corner since 1925 and some of these workers with whom I do parking battle look like they could be the aged children of the original workers. So who am I Johnny-Come-Lately to begrudge these men their sense of propriety?
So today, verily, I say unto you my brothers, I relinquish all future implied claim over those bird soiled parking spaces. They are yours to do with as you wish, until that perhaps distant but foreseeable future when the building is repurposed and the faces of our combatants change.
But not this morning, suckers. You can't flank a guy on just one side. You can't do a pincer movement on a guy if he ain't afraid to back illegally onto a one way street. It's not like a one way street is a cliff or a deep river. So that's what they do these guys, during desperate times. The Restauranteur said it happened to her once and Danny W. Dawkins also told me how he had to yell a guy down to get his rightful spot back after pulling to the opposing curb to let the street sweeper pass, and then finding some fresh worker had jumped his spot.
I saw the set up. They had two of their guys sitting in cars parallel and across the street from me, effectively making it impossible for me to just pull out and back in if the sweeper came. If I wanted to make that move I would have to honk and shout at them, while probably the sweeper truck honked and shouted at me, and they were banking on the pretty safe bet that I was not the guy to honk and shout. I was of course hoping the sweeper would not come today, which would make it simpler, and also reaffirm for me the idea of a somewhat benevolent, overseeing God presence in my life. Really, these thirty minute spots are just not worth it. On a good day there is no drama at all but on many other days it is just thirty minutes of pure contemplative aggravation.
But dammit, there it is. The Street Sweeper. The sweeper can come from any direction, its movement is not dictated by one way streets but it always approaches from the rear because it is a right side of the street oriented machine. I knew today it would not come from my right rear because of the sewage sucker trucks on that block. So what remained was straight rear and left rear. And then suddenly there it was, to my left with its blinker on. I looked in my rear view and could see another one of the matzo crew guys across the intersection awaiting a light change to pounce. And then the two guys illegally parked (or standing) to my left and then all of them parked in front of me and their lieutenant standing in the middle of the street ready to direct the movements of his army. So I just backed onto Rivington facing traffic the wrong way but pulled to the curb (opposite the legal metered spaces) and then as soon as I could, mostly oblivious to the honking from at least two directions, I pulled right up on the sweeper's tail and back into my spot. Although I gave a few inches to the queue in front of me, as an act of good sportsmanship, and may in fact be at this moment really close to illegally parked. So that there may be a 65 dollar price tag to this story. But how often can you achieve a major peace accord, if only an internal one and without your combatants knowledge, at such a bargain rate?
Matzo Mafia
Some people from the building came up for dinner the other night. The couple from right below brought their inter-specie loving lesbian rat terrier and while my cat's tail did puff up defensively to three times its normal size for awhile, by the end of the evening it appeared that she might have been softening to the idea of doggie love, coming down from the safety of the dresser and stretched out as she was on the bed, while her long-nosed canine suitor kept attentive watch from a claw-swiping-safe distance. As interested as I'm sure some of you are in the idea of my cat giving in and falling in love with a neighbor's dog I must again disappoint you and further my ever-loving discussion of NYC parking.
The dog's parents I am calling Danny W. Dawkins and Karen Ireland. Danny and I began to discuss parking because you practically have to go to Romania to find anyone around here who will talk football playoffs with you and before I knew it he was offering up his cherry spot from around the corner, one of those that only require 30 minutes of maintenance twice a week instead of 90 minutes twice a week. He had to go out of town on Wednesday and why not give it up to a friend instead of one of those bastards from the matzo mafia. Those guys act like they rule that block and every second or third car is one of theirs. I heard they were moving that matzo factory to Brooklyn and if you ask me, what's taking them so long? Good riddance to those cracker making crackers with their chief cracker lieutenant marching up the block and ordering people to back up a little so they can fit one more of their guys up at the Delancey end of the row. For real, this morning I wanted to roll down my window and tell that crusty headed bastard, what? But I'm in Bernadette's brother's Jeep for another few days and his Jeep is developing the same driver's side power window problem I used to have, so I couldn't roll down my window.
If I could of rolled the window down though I would have said--if you ain't one aggravatin son of a bitch you crusty old matzo making bastard you. I am unemployed, cranky in the morning, and for stretches of time including this one not that interested in fellow human engagement and it has taken all these first peaceful twenty minutes before you showed up to get the inside of this Jeep warm and here you are barking out my window about how much space I have behind me and how other people wanna park on the street besides me and like I said I'm unemployed and it ain't all bad. And if you could read you would read that to mean I don't have some stupid ass self important boss yelling his dumb shit first thing in the morning.
So on the plus side you have maximum convenience, the parking spaces being just around the corner from our building, and you have that 30 minute aspect. On the negative side you have trees overhead from which birds shit on your car, and you do have because of nearby bars the occasional pile of vomit or human excrement and speaking of human excrement you have the chief of the matzo acting like he thinks I give a damn early on a cold morning about fitting one more of his boys in the line. Screw it man, I'm getting a bicycle. Or a flamethrower. Maybe a flamethrower and a bicycle. I'm going to Long Island to watch football this weekend and I'm trading back the Jeep for the Jeep. And I'm hoping my power window still works. You hear me crusty? We need to work on your manners.
Some people from the building came up for dinner the other night. The couple from right below brought their inter-specie loving lesbian rat terrier and while my cat's tail did puff up defensively to three times its normal size for awhile, by the end of the evening it appeared that she might have been softening to the idea of doggie love, coming down from the safety of the dresser and stretched out as she was on the bed, while her long-nosed canine suitor kept attentive watch from a claw-swiping-safe distance. As interested as I'm sure some of you are in the idea of my cat giving in and falling in love with a neighbor's dog I must again disappoint you and further my ever-loving discussion of NYC parking.
The dog's parents I am calling Danny W. Dawkins and Karen Ireland. Danny and I began to discuss parking because you practically have to go to Romania to find anyone around here who will talk football playoffs with you and before I knew it he was offering up his cherry spot from around the corner, one of those that only require 30 minutes of maintenance twice a week instead of 90 minutes twice a week. He had to go out of town on Wednesday and why not give it up to a friend instead of one of those bastards from the matzo mafia. Those guys act like they rule that block and every second or third car is one of theirs. I heard they were moving that matzo factory to Brooklyn and if you ask me, what's taking them so long? Good riddance to those cracker making crackers with their chief cracker lieutenant marching up the block and ordering people to back up a little so they can fit one more of their guys up at the Delancey end of the row. For real, this morning I wanted to roll down my window and tell that crusty headed bastard, what? But I'm in Bernadette's brother's Jeep for another few days and his Jeep is developing the same driver's side power window problem I used to have, so I couldn't roll down my window.
If I could of rolled the window down though I would have said--if you ain't one aggravatin son of a bitch you crusty old matzo making bastard you. I am unemployed, cranky in the morning, and for stretches of time including this one not that interested in fellow human engagement and it has taken all these first peaceful twenty minutes before you showed up to get the inside of this Jeep warm and here you are barking out my window about how much space I have behind me and how other people wanna park on the street besides me and like I said I'm unemployed and it ain't all bad. And if you could read you would read that to mean I don't have some stupid ass self important boss yelling his dumb shit first thing in the morning.
So on the plus side you have maximum convenience, the parking spaces being just around the corner from our building, and you have that 30 minute aspect. On the negative side you have trees overhead from which birds shit on your car, and you do have because of nearby bars the occasional pile of vomit or human excrement and speaking of human excrement you have the chief of the matzo acting like he thinks I give a damn early on a cold morning about fitting one more of his boys in the line. Screw it man, I'm getting a bicycle. Or a flamethrower. Maybe a flamethrower and a bicycle. I'm going to Long Island to watch football this weekend and I'm trading back the Jeep for the Jeep. And I'm hoping my power window still works. You hear me crusty? We need to work on your manners.
Is It One Copper Penny Or Three?
There are pennies all over the floor of the apartment. I said Bill Macy do it over the carpet there so that them down below don't suffer your failure. He didn't fail on the first try, with the ten pennies pointed towards the ceiling stacked on the forearm side of his elbow, followed by the downward swooping of his hand to catch them all in his palm. But on the second try, with 20 pennies, he did fail, and try as he might to collect them all he missed a few. Really, all I see this morning is the one shiny copper but I'm trying to christen a new writing spot and have to come up with something. And if one copper penny is all there is, one copper penny is all there is. And when in doubt just use Bill Macy. The amazing imaginary world of Macy.
I had walked across the street and through the doors of my hiding spot, at that middle dark table in a place that somehow will not co-exist in time with anything around it, and looking out through the glass front I watched all of the current world go by and felt cozy and secure and like I owned a secret, to be so near the present and far away at the same time. What happens in the hiding spot stays in the hiding spot but the real beauty is, nothing ever happens. It was so simple inside of there, until the day Bill Macy looked in and somehow--possibly the x-ray vision glasses he wore really worked--saw through the warp and nodding, walked right in.
What are you doing in here?
I told him I was having a taco and a daydream.
Let's go get a drink, he suggested. I don't know how you can daydream in this gloomy place.
You mean out there? I said.
Sure, what's wrong with it?
Nothing really.
Well then let's go.
I said I was waiting for Bernadette to call so we could go to the grocery store, but I should have said market, because Bill Macy retorted vehemently and wanted to know what grocery store I meant and all but said there are no such things as grocery stores in New York and why don't we just go to the moon while we're at it.
He said we had plenty of time for a drink as if he knew the exact time Bernadette would call. I said ok because this going for drinks was, clearly, central to city existence, and, not being particularly intolerant of drinking myself, although relatively speaking a tee-totaler, I could come up with no real substantive argument against us going somewhere for drinks. I did however find myself wondering just how long it would be before I just gave in completely and walked around with a flask in my pocket, or in my boot (though the boots I had would not do at all, I would need new boots if I meant to carry a flask.)
At that moment my phone rang. Instinctively I walked to the glass door, and then through it to the other side before answering. It was Bernadette. I told her about Bill Macy and drinks and she said that was fine, she would meet us there. I said ok and hung up. I hadn't said where we were going though and felt momentarily disoriented. Had we misunderstood each other? A group of teenagers just out of school brushed by me then and I stumbled and bumped into an elderly Chinese woman pushing a laundry cart up the sidewalk. She ignored my "excuse me" and hurried on by, head down. There was I realized a paper cup in my hand. A short stocky woman with meaty jowls dropped change into it and I said God bless you and she said God bless you right back. But no wait, I said, I think there's been some mistake. And then I yelled at the top of my lungs, Bern-ah-dehhttte!--and the sidewalk parted, all citizens moving at safe distance to my left and right, not a one of them actually looking at me. Goddammit, this isn't even original, I cried, this is some derivative piece of crap cobbled together from Dickens, or the Twilight Zone! You tell 'em pops said a girl dressed in black, heavily pierced along lip and eyebrow and ear cartilage. I am not who you think I am, I whimpered. Don't fight it pops, she said, we are all exactly who other people think we are. It comes down to that then? I said, and she just shook her head and walked away. There was, I noticed, a urine stain on the front of my pants. And on the sidewalk at my feet three pennies. I stooped down and picked them up carefully and placed them one at a time in my pocket.
Bill Macy was prone to using character voices and he was using one now, it clanged discordant like a rusty bell. It was the voice of the rabbi dressed in drag imitating a Jewish mother. What are you doing you? Get your fingers off those dirty pennies, those are for beggars and you are no beggar, are you? Well, are you? And then in his normal voice--come on man, seriously, you don't need those pennies, I'll buy you a drink.
There are pennies all over the floor of the apartment. I said Bill Macy do it over the carpet there so that them down below don't suffer your failure. He didn't fail on the first try, with the ten pennies pointed towards the ceiling stacked on the forearm side of his elbow, followed by the downward swooping of his hand to catch them all in his palm. But on the second try, with 20 pennies, he did fail, and try as he might to collect them all he missed a few. Really, all I see this morning is the one shiny copper but I'm trying to christen a new writing spot and have to come up with something. And if one copper penny is all there is, one copper penny is all there is. And when in doubt just use Bill Macy. The amazing imaginary world of Macy.
I had walked across the street and through the doors of my hiding spot, at that middle dark table in a place that somehow will not co-exist in time with anything around it, and looking out through the glass front I watched all of the current world go by and felt cozy and secure and like I owned a secret, to be so near the present and far away at the same time. What happens in the hiding spot stays in the hiding spot but the real beauty is, nothing ever happens. It was so simple inside of there, until the day Bill Macy looked in and somehow--possibly the x-ray vision glasses he wore really worked--saw through the warp and nodding, walked right in.
What are you doing in here?
I told him I was having a taco and a daydream.
Let's go get a drink, he suggested. I don't know how you can daydream in this gloomy place.
You mean out there? I said.
Sure, what's wrong with it?
Nothing really.
Well then let's go.
I said I was waiting for Bernadette to call so we could go to the grocery store, but I should have said market, because Bill Macy retorted vehemently and wanted to know what grocery store I meant and all but said there are no such things as grocery stores in New York and why don't we just go to the moon while we're at it.
He said we had plenty of time for a drink as if he knew the exact time Bernadette would call. I said ok because this going for drinks was, clearly, central to city existence, and, not being particularly intolerant of drinking myself, although relatively speaking a tee-totaler, I could come up with no real substantive argument against us going somewhere for drinks. I did however find myself wondering just how long it would be before I just gave in completely and walked around with a flask in my pocket, or in my boot (though the boots I had would not do at all, I would need new boots if I meant to carry a flask.)
At that moment my phone rang. Instinctively I walked to the glass door, and then through it to the other side before answering. It was Bernadette. I told her about Bill Macy and drinks and she said that was fine, she would meet us there. I said ok and hung up. I hadn't said where we were going though and felt momentarily disoriented. Had we misunderstood each other? A group of teenagers just out of school brushed by me then and I stumbled and bumped into an elderly Chinese woman pushing a laundry cart up the sidewalk. She ignored my "excuse me" and hurried on by, head down. There was I realized a paper cup in my hand. A short stocky woman with meaty jowls dropped change into it and I said God bless you and she said God bless you right back. But no wait, I said, I think there's been some mistake. And then I yelled at the top of my lungs, Bern-ah-dehhttte!--and the sidewalk parted, all citizens moving at safe distance to my left and right, not a one of them actually looking at me. Goddammit, this isn't even original, I cried, this is some derivative piece of crap cobbled together from Dickens, or the Twilight Zone! You tell 'em pops said a girl dressed in black, heavily pierced along lip and eyebrow and ear cartilage. I am not who you think I am, I whimpered. Don't fight it pops, she said, we are all exactly who other people think we are. It comes down to that then? I said, and she just shook her head and walked away. There was, I noticed, a urine stain on the front of my pants. And on the sidewalk at my feet three pennies. I stooped down and picked them up carefully and placed them one at a time in my pocket.
Bill Macy was prone to using character voices and he was using one now, it clanged discordant like a rusty bell. It was the voice of the rabbi dressed in drag imitating a Jewish mother. What are you doing you? Get your fingers off those dirty pennies, those are for beggars and you are no beggar, are you? Well, are you? And then in his normal voice--come on man, seriously, you don't need those pennies, I'll buy you a drink.