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.

Three Things I've Learned About New York

Diary

1. Go before you go, unless you enjoy public urination, which i don't (not that there's anything wrong with it!).

2. Don't speed walk on the metal grates when it's raining.  They're slippery, cold, and hard and the puddles nearby are dirty and wet.

3. If a strangely dressed, sleepy woman with a leathered face asks you the time on the train, ignore her.  If you answer her she will then obsessively ask you every five minutes for the time in what will appear to be an ill-conceived, pathetic attempt at human contact that will make you feel very uncomfortable.

Is November 4th Too Late for a Halloween Blog?

Diary

It wouldn't have been a gay bar i was in Halloween night unless some silly homo held up the coat check queue fifteen minutes to strip down to shiny pink underwear adorned with a powdery pink, puffy bunny tail adhered to the rear and secured with suspenders.  He wouldn't've been a true homo either unless he capped the look with a bunny ear headband, plucked from his purse and prissily propped upon his head.  And, of course, it wouldn't've been New York unless he had thrashed about while stripping and digging around his bag, flinging elbows into my face and chest, forcing me to press backwards into the winding line packed into the tomb-like hallway behind me.

Shoshi tells me that here in New York people lose the boundaries of their personal bubble after a while.  I wonder if i could ever lose mine.  It just doesn't seem possible, even though i've already officially lost half of my winter accessories somewhere in Central Park by now.  Actually, she says 'you just get used to it'.  Again, i question whether this is a possibility for me.  I imagine the removal of my boundaries will require something a bit more than forgetfulness ('oops where'd my boundaries go?') or acclimation (i'm not, after all, just slipping into a pool here).  I imagine my boundaries will be sucked away by the wind-tunnels whipped up by the twenty or so trains that churn past headed uptown as i stand, sweating, waiting for one single, stupid train to stop by and finally take me downtown to my station so that i can almost wet myself between the station and home.  So while i'm happy to report that after nearly two months my spatial boundaries are hanging on strong, i can't help but wonder if i'm behind schedule.  Is it merely a matter of time before they desert me completely?  I really can't say, but i do hope they stick around although i also hope Shoshi's wrong that you're destined to leave New York in exasperation if your boundaries don't adapt.  I do love it here even if i can't relax as other New York gays can in bars with the elbow room and ambience of cans of vienna sausage.

So, i spent fifteen minutes in line, ten dollars at the door, and another fifteen minutes waiting for bunny boy to finish his not so quick change so i could check my bag.  All this to spend twenty minutes being jostled around in what seemed less like a crowd than a sea of sweat and appendages before desperately shoving my way through the crowd to escape.  To be fair though, i did get to enjoy the sight of three hard pricked porn stars dressed as demons bumping and grinding each other on a stage the size of a soap box, their erections peaking out of their waistbands, threatening an unexpected, though likely not unwelcome, moisturizing treatment to the tiny crowd salivating two feet beyond the 'stage'.  Add to this the sight of three guys getting serviced on the second floor landing and it's probably fair to say i got my money's worth though maybe it wasn't worth the wasted minutes of my life.

A lot of trouble could've been avoided had i not been carrying my bag.  And i wouldn't've been carrying my bag if i hadn't been stuck at work, or as i like to call it, my own private corner of Indian food hell, for the first part of the evening.  But i was and i had been, which is to say that work officially ruined my first New York Halloween not only because of my bag, but also since i didn't get to see the famous Village Halloween Parade.  Although, considering the steadfast and vigilant nature of my as yet to be compromised safety bubble, being stuck in a swarming crowd probably would've ruined my night anyhow.  I mean, even Shoshi, whose bubble is fully shrunk, recoiled in disgust when i suggested attending the parade.  'I'd rather die', is, i believe, what she said.