Boxing

The cat jumps up on the bed where Katie lies and stalks over to the crescent of her body. She throws herself down into the crook of Katie’s body and begins to purr.

I turn on the boxing match where Netflix is trying to reinvent HBO. It’s fine.

Fine, I’ll Be Nice

The couple and their enormous suitcases finally manage to shove their way onto the subway car, despite the conductor repeatedly closing the doors on them. I and the entire car watched them struggle and did nothing, and then, when they’re aboard, there’s no place for them to sit together.

A woman sitting next to me gets up and moves to another part of the car, leaving a seat. I see what she’s up to, and after a bear, I reluctantly get up and clear a spot for the tourist couple to sit. 

Moe Line Drama

The normally orderly line to get into the co-op seems particularly disheveled today, with group of people milling about the entrance in clumps and going in whenever they want to.

“Bit chaotic today, isn’t it?” I ask the guy behind me. He smiles noncommittally.

“Well, I’m going to uphold civilization,” I reassure him, and he laughs.

Like Bubba from Forest Gump, but Playlists

“I had a playlist for Halloween, but people like to go straight for the Thanksgiving music as soon as Halloween is over,” the driver for my Lyft says as I scan the QR code he’s helpfully provided to direct me to his Spotify profile. “I started doing it because I would put on other people’s playlists when I started ridesharing, and some of the lyrics weren’t family-friendly, so then I just started making my own playlists, and people said they like them, so I’ve got a classic list, and an R&B list, and pop list, and they’re all Thanksgiving songs.”

As I’m getting out of the car he’s still talking. “So if you like them, tell your friends, tell your enemies, tell everybody and give me a follow.” 

(Almost) My Last Post

The roses in the churchyard along the sidewalk are out late this year: salmon pink, elegant, and entirely incongruous in November. I stop, reach up, and pull one down to my face, and my nose fills with delicate fragrance.

The guy who was walking behind me catches up and passes me, and the waft of his cigarette mingles with the scent of the rose, not unpleasantly.

I’m thinking of these things as I continue walking, mulling them over for, perhaps, a poem, when a car honks, and I realize in my distraction I’ve walked out into the crosswalk with no regard for the light; I wave an apology and continue on my way.

Good Advice

Charlie and Goose are two Doberman Pinschers that regularly visit the booth where Katie sells her work. We’ve become friendly with their owners too.

Today, they all came in, the dogs gentle and supportive, the couple sad and depressed.

“We have to take care of each other,” I said over and over while petting the dogs.

Leaving Their Mark

Someone has slapped a TRUMP 2024 sticker up on this ad in the subway station, raising the question of whether or not it’s even possible to deface an eyesore; regardless, I simply can’t allow this kind of blatant bullshit to remain out here, polluting the world.

But as I begin to peel the offending thing off, the diabolical strategy of its perpetrator reveals itself: they’ve used a cheap, thin paper to print the sticker, and a super-strong glue for sticking, meaning that any attempt to remove it will, unless done carefully, leave an ugly residue of torn paper and adhesive, marring permanently anything it’s touched. 

I slow down, delicately working my fingernail all around the edge of the sticker to lift it, then applying even pressure as I pull, and while there’s still a shadow left behind, unless you’re looking for it, you’d hardly know it had ever even been.

But I know it was there, and wasn’t that the vandal's intention all along?

Drinking Poison, Expecting Someone Else to Die

 1. The obviously feral little girl has decided that the best way to gain the attention of everyone is to roll around on the floor of the booth where we sell Katie’s art, screaming about being a pirate, and having unintelligible conversations with what I presume are the demons that goad her. I am barely able to contain my seething hate of this child, as her mother periodically gives a half-hearted, “Now, angel, you can’t do that,” when what is clearly needed is a beating and a priest. 

2. As I’m coming home from the train after closing the booth, I emerge from the subway to encounter a man, standing on the curb, vomiting a jet of pale yellow that arcs from his mouth out into the street, and I am surprised to find my only response as I walk past is the word, “Bummer.”

(The connection between these two scenes the author leaves as an exercise for the reader.)

Time Marches (Backwards)

When I arrive at the office of the Co-op to work (all members have to work short shifts a few times a year) the clock on the wall reads nine.

But the real time is actually eight, because of the time change.  So my first job of the day is to go around to all the clocks in the building and spin the hands back an hour.

It doesn’t seem like much, but there is something very satisfying about fixing something so simple, yet so essential.

What Do I Know?

The little map on the Lyft app has the guy coming into the U-Haul parking lot via an entrance that I know has been closed for years. We keep sending in notices to Google Maps to let them know, and they keep ignoring us, so I settle back with a sigh and watch the arrival time on the screen, waiting for it to update to a later time, if the driver doesn’t just abandon the ride entirely out of irritation.

But here he comes in a lumbering minivan around the corner of the building from where I know the entrance is closed, giving me a friendly wave. 

He pulls up in front, and hops out to help me load my bags in the trunk, and I ask, “How did you get in?"