Typical Day

Diary

So far as i can tell there's no such thing as a typical day in New York City.  I imagine that only ladies who lunch and agoraphobics have managed to safely insulate themselves from the cacophony of events and influences buffeting this pulsing city.  For those of us lucky enough to dive daily into said pulse no day is typical.  Picture it if you will: early afternoon, a summer hot day in September and i'm huffing and puffing my way down one of those lovely, surprising little anachronistic thoroughfares below 14th St., late for work and worried about it, furrowed brow guiding me, swiftly marching forward, pushing my way past commuters left and right only to be halted by the sight of an angel and something in my heart swooned at the sight: crown of curly golden hair, marble skin, ethereally blue eyes and, not but a second later, suddenly an erection fills my vision, an erection pressing itself against the inside of dark gym shorts belonging to one incredible specimen descended, i imagine, from Achilles himself (yeah that Achilles, the one with the heel trouble), said specimen striding right towards me and behind him, lo and behold, a midget.  That's right: a midget.

Then there are the really strange days.  Riding the perpetually crowded 6 train, rocking out to a particularly rocking bootleg version of Iieee, and all at once a commotion at the packed end of the train (over what i can't tell) and i hear a voice (after i take off my headphones, of course): "I am the Earth Angel.  I am an angel of the Earth.  This is a not a joke.  Men, please stand back, only women may be near or you will run the risk of past life regression and your heart will be faint in your chest.  I am the Earth Angel."  Craning my neck on my way out of the train i glimpse him and he looks like Danny Devito with a mullet, playing an Oompa Loompa (yes those Oompa Loompa Doompity Doos of Willy Wonka fame), carrying a long white card, bordered in red and painted with rune-like characters.

When i get to work Milton is sitting outside and asks me have i seen Sharon (my co worker)?  I say no; he says someone stole her bag and she chased after him.  Now one of the only things i love about the restaurant is that it closes 3 - 5pm.  It's 3:30 at this point and usually the place is dim inside, white socked feet sticking out from booths and shining in the darkness beyond the sunlight (nap time, how charming).  No feet today though, today there's been a theft.  Some bum had taken Sharon's bag into the bathroom, she saw him come out with it and set it down: 'what were you doing with my bag?', she stops him on his way out, she's pawing through her bag, discovers her iPod is gone: 'where's my iPod?', he runs, she gives chase and two customers join her, they catch him, iPod is retrieved, police never come.

Meanwhile, i go to change into my work clothes and my backpack is gone.  This is more annoying than costly, i wished him well with my sweaty, masala reeking clothes, my apron with pens and a wine key, and the stick of deodorant that i'm sure he'll find useful (if i may draw the worst possible conclusion of his personal hygiene without ever meeting him).  And then i had to take the damn train home during rush hour, change clothes, and take the damn train back again (i don't normally refer to it as the 'damn train', but at the time i did).  Later my bag was discovered in the bathroom trash (why hadn't i thought to look there?), missing only the apron, which i'm glad he found empty of cash.  I hope he was very let down at the discovery and i also hope he had to smell and touch my dirty socks digging through my bag.