Monday, September 30, 2024

Local Hero

The family, clearly tourists, push their roller suitcases under the subway turnstiles before the whole group has gone through, which is why they’re unable to prevent one of the bags from rolling down the platform and tumbling onto the tracks, just before the train entered the station. 

The train manages, impressively enough, to stop right before hitting the bag, but now we’re stuck - there’s a maroon carry-on sized bag on the tracks, and it’s Sunday, which means nobody is going to be able to come retrieve for a while, and everybody has someplace to be.

I ask if anyone has an umbrella (it has been raining today, after all), so someone volunteers their full-sized one with a traditional, curved handle, and now Katie is lying on the edge of the platform while I hold her legs as she hooks the handle of the suitcase with the umbrella and hauls it up off the tracks to an enthusiastic round of applause.

The conductor thanks Katie, pulls the train the rest of the way into the station, and everyone, including the tourist family, piles onto the train, but after a hurried discussion, the tourist family, grinning sheepishly, gets off the train before it leaves, because apparently they meant to go the other direction, into Manhattan.

Sunday, September 29, 2024

Rainy Days and Scooters

“Did you find the painted stripes in the crosswalks really slippery?” Katie asks as we climb the stairs to the apartment. It’s been raining on and off for two days, and scooting down wet streets can be a hazard. 

“Yeah, I found that out yesterday. Before I even stepped on my scooter, just walking on the crosswalk I almost ate shit,” I say. 

Saturday, September 28, 2024

Security

The man on the elevator leans down close to the security keypad to enter his code, and when he’s done, I enter mine.

He asks what floor, and when it turns out it’s the same as mine, he says, “So you didn’t have to enter your code.”

“Maybe, but I think that if you don’t put in your code, the alarm goes off when you open your locker,” I explain.

“No it doesn’t,” he replies, and then shakes his head sadly, as if it is his distinct misfortune to be stuck in an elevator, having a conversation with the stupidest person he’s ever met.

Friday, September 27, 2024

It’s more of an art

400 degrees seems to be the exact right temperature to roast brussels sprouts, but our oven doesn’t really measure temperatures with any exactitude. “400” on a dial seems to reflect a sort of Schrödinger’s Cat approach to measuring heat.

It’s like this: as soon as you open then oven, the actual temperature, which was absolutely not whatever temperature is indicated on the dial, changes, because you’ve let in cooler air to check the the little thermometer you hung on the middle rack in a pathetic attempt to control the chaos of this world. 

That being said, dinner tonight was really delicious, and the sprouts were crispy and tender. 

Thursday, September 26, 2024

Mistrust

Katie presses the button that alerts workers at the drugstore to come over and unlock the little clear plastic doors they put over all the stuff in the aisles now. Apparently the store was getting ripped off too much, so they just locked everything up, instead of developing a method to get people what they need AND get paid for it.

When he gets there, though, she’s already figured out that the little plastic jails, inside which are all the things we need, are open. He’s walking up the aisle and she just pulls face wash out of the little box and off the shelf like it’s just a normal shelf, which it’s not.

Wednesday, September 25, 2024

Like We Would

The cops standing in front of the Indian restaurant on our street barely acknowledge us as we walk up. “What happened?” Katie asks, looking past them and over the crime scene tape blocking off the sidewalk.

“Some guy got stabbed,” one of them says, and sure enough we can see, in the light from the restaurant door, fresh blood on the pavement beside a small, primitive looking knife.

“Don’t touch the blood,” he adds, while another cop smirks and then, bored, looks away.

Tuesday, September 24, 2024

Perspective

“I gotta say, I’m having a lot of feelings about this,” I tell the technician as I pop the fasteners on the knee brace he just fit me for.  My knee complains bitterly at the change.

He nods sympathetically as I continue, “On the other hand, there’s a guy out there with just one leg, so what am I bitching about?”

“Yeah, if I’m having a hard day, I remember the people that I try to help, and my life seems a lot better.”

Sunday, September 22, 2024

Equinox

My first rejection notice in a while came in today, on the equinox. A cool breeze blows, not cold yet, but with a premonition of cold to come. Day and night greet each other in passing on their way down the year.

Summer takes off her crown of flowers, shakes down her hair, smiles to see it’s already starting to turn grey.

Pita

The sign in the window reads We stand with Israel but I decide to go in anyway. The proprietor, a tall, almost gaunt older man with a substantial beard and a soft smile, greets me as I enter. I see him around the neighborhood where I’ve lived for almost sixteen years, and he always greets me.

I wander through the small shop and its narrow aisles until I find what I’m looking for: a small plastic bag, tied with a twist-tie, with four pillowy pitas in it - the perfect accompaniment to the hummus I made last night.

Saturday, September 21, 2024

Wildin’

I turn the corner on my scooter and ride up the street, passing as best I can all the cars queued up to get on the expressway. 

But I’m riding during rush hour, so the commuters are, as the kids may or may not still say, “wildin’.” That is to say, their impatience has caused them to drive three-across up this one way street, from curb to curb, and I almost hit several side-view mirrors as I sneak by, as close to the edge without going up on the sidewalk as possible. 

I finally pass the on-ramp, and continue up the street toward 6th Avenue, where the trees have yet to remember that fall is upon us, and they lace their green fingers over the street.

Friday, September 20, 2024

Little Help

As I tap my phone at the subway entrance, a man standing at the gate catches my eye. “Little help?” he says, with a nod toward the gate.

I return his nod and, after passing through the turnstile, back up onto the bar that latches the gate, opening it and letting him in.

Just this moment, the train pulls in, and with a quick glance back to make sure he’s in, I get on, but not before I see his chin lift in quick acknowledgment of the favor, then we part, never to see one another again.

Thursday, September 19, 2024

Own Your Mistakes

Katie stops and looks at her phone. “We’re going the wrong way,” she says, turning to walk back the way we came.

When I try to cross the street to avoid walking past the restaurant we just left (after saying a big goodbye to the waitstaff standing in front) she grabs my hand.

“Just own it!” she laughs.

Wednesday, September 18, 2024

Natural Pest Control

Could I borrow a cat for a few minutes (or a trap)? our downstairs neighbor texts. She has discovered a mouse in her apartment. 

I briefly consider the logistics of getting one or both of the cats down to her apartment, but finally decide that it would just be too stressful for them (and probably for me).

Later, when she’s in our kitchen getting a trap, I tell her the story of the time we had roaches and our landlord, instead of hiring an exterminator, told us to get geckos and just let them run loose to eat the roaches.

Tuesday, September 17, 2024

Peek-a-boo

The flight attendant stands at the dividing wall between first class and economy, facing the back of the plane. Her expression is bored and neutral as she demonstrates, with practiced gestures, the locations of the exits and the way to buckle a seatbelt.

When she gets to the part where she displays the card explaining the proper procedure for surviving a water landing, however, she spots a baby a few rows back, and her entire demeanor changes. Her eyes light up, and she spends the rest of the prerecorded checklist hiding her face behind the card and then revealing it with a surprised expression, playing peek-a-boo with the baby, who quietly squeaks and gurgles with delight.

Monday, September 16, 2024

The What Now?

I’m lying on the grass, one arm behind my head, the other beside me. The grass is tickling my skin, and the sun filters through the leaves to shine on my closed eyelids.

Katie’s dad, standing on the back porch, looks down on me. “Don’t get bit by the army worms,” he says with a grin, and he makes claw-like motions with his hands. 

Saturday, September 14, 2024

Public Indecency

“You know you’ve matured when you don’t look at everything like a urinal,” Katie’s brother says seriously.

I start laughing and pull out my phone to make a note of that while he continues. “When you’re young, you just think ‘I gotta pee,’ and then you just look around and find a spot and do it.”

“But when you’re mature, you go, ‘Oh, I could get arrested.’”

Body Surfing at 53

The lifeguards spotted a blacktip shark this morning, so it’s a while before we’re allowed in the water. 

It’s low tide, and we’re able to walk far out into the waves when we get in; the surf is gentle, swells and troughs rolling in from a flat horizon.

I watch the waves until I find one that feels right, and then, turning toward the shore, I push off the bottom and swim with the wave until I feel it catch me, the crest foaming and churning around me, and I and the wave roll into shore in a process that feels close to flying.

Later that night, I try to stand up from the couch and have to really concentrate just be upright.

Friday, September 13, 2024

Don’t Swim Out Past The Breakers

The red flag snapping in the wind behind the lifeguard station indicates “high hazard” from a rip current, which usually drags folks out to sea between the breakers. The note on the sandwich board next to the flag says that you shouldn’t go in more than “waist high.”

“If you go any deeper than that, it activates the post-nup,” Katie says forcefully.

When I ask her what the post-nup is (first I’m hearing of it, anyway) she says, “It means if you die I get to say I told you so.”

Thursday, September 12, 2024

Doppelgänger

“I found it!” the woman says as we pass her on the way to the car to go to dinner.

When we look at her curiously, she explains, “This car looks exactly like my car.” She points across the parking lot. “But I’m parked way over there!”

Wednesday, September 11, 2024

New Sunglasses

Katie puts the three identical pairs of sunglasses on the counter of the rest-stop where we’ve stopped to grab some snacks while her brother grabs a bag of Combos.

“Sometimes you need to be in a gang and all wear the same sunglasses,” she confidentially tells the cashier.

The cashier dutifully rings us up and then looks at us with a sly smile.

“Do you want to wear them out of the store?” she asks.

Tuesday, September 10, 2024

Edamame

“Sure, I can help you find that,” the kid stocking shelves says, pulling out his phone.

“Yeah, you guys seem to have edamame, but only with the shells on,” I tell him while he types.

“I think we’ve only got the the ones with the shells,” he replies, swiping around on his screen. “When my parents buy them, that’s what they get, I mean,” he continues, “I don’t eat them.”

Monday, September 9, 2024

Like The Samsonite Ad With The Gorilla

My flight’s luggage is delayed getting to baggage claim, so we’re all just sort of standing around while the unclaimed bags revolve.

Finally, a suitcase hurtles down the chute, banging into a barrier at the bottom and almost flying off the conveyor belt.

“They threw that one a little hard,” a woman next to me says, wincing.

“Oh yeah, there’s a guy at the top of the belt whose whole job is to just chuck luggage he doesn’t like the look of down onto the thing,” I say, not smiling at all.

Sunday, September 8, 2024

Good Looking Out

“I’m pretty sure that’s the right one,” I tell the guy at the UPS store before he starts to wrap it up and pack it for shipping. “I’m doing this for my wife.”

He gives it a quick check before he finishes and confirms it’s correct, and I let him know he’s appreciated.

“I’m not trying to get somebody in trouble with their wife,” he says with a shake of his head.

Saturday, September 7, 2024

She Thinks I’m Mean

I’m hoarse when Katie finally calls me to say goodnight from the bachelorette party she’s attending, because I went to a baseball game. I’m also still slightly drunk.

“Yeah, it was good, and the Cyclones actually won!” I rasp.

“Stop saying that!” she snaps, half-joking.

Friday, September 6, 2024

Maps Don’t Know

The driver takes us to the back entrance of the U-haul parking lot, and the reason why Katie is only half-paying attention to my story about V-16 engines becomes clear: the fence at the entrance is locked. It’s always locked, it’s been locked for more than 10 years.

The driver doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s terribly disappointed. “I don’t know why the maps always send you this way, it’s never open,” she says, maybe hoping to cheer him up.

Thursday, September 5, 2024

Wild Pigeons

I wait on the corner, sitting on a short wall that encompasses a small concrete yard in front of the old church. The little dot on my screen that represents Katie as she rides her scooter back from her studio creeps across the map, and a cool breeze blows as dusk approaches.

There’s a commotion behind me, and I turn to find a trio of pigeons regarding me warily, as if I’m the one who just showed up from nowhere, and not them. I think of a poem by Mary Oliver, where she’s talking about just looking at something, not trying to say something fancy, just looking, so I’ll say that one of them was missing some toes, but the other one, with a black and white mottled head, his feet were pink, and perfect.

Wednesday, September 4, 2024

They Are Ravenous

“I have a question,” Katie says, “and it’s not about the show or politics or anything.”

“Okay,” I say, pausing The West Wing, which we’ve been watching.

“Why hasn’t Trump been talking about how he got shot at?” she asks. “Because if I was running his campaign,” she continues as I consider this, “I would have him talking about how, like ‘I got shot for you,’ at every ravenous Republican rally,”

Tuesday, September 3, 2024

Some Persistence

More than a decade ago, at a party thrown by one of our roommates, a friend of mine, after a few drinks, tried to ride a fixie bike to impress a girl and ended up face planting on the asphalt, leaving a trail of blood up the stairs, and giving himself a nice scar and a good story.

Today, some fifteen years later, we meet up to go for a walk in the park, and he’s got a noticeable limp. “Oh, what girl were you trying to impress this time?” I ask.

As it turns out, there wasn’t a girl, and it wasn’t a fixie, but he WAS on a bike, so at least he’s consistent.

Monday, September 2, 2024

punched in the face

“Then when I was six, I think? This guy was bothering some friends of mine and I challenged him to a fight and he punched me in the forehead, and I cried.”

“Six?” Katie says, her face contorting in pity.

“Yeah, I was fine,” I say, realizing I don’t really want to talk about it anymore, and that maybe telling every story isn’t a way to feel good.

Sunday, September 1, 2024

Edit the Vilanelle

“If you change that comma to a semi-colon, and the put dashes between ‘red,’ ‘white,’ and ‘blue,’ it’ll make more sense and hit harder,” Katie says. I flip the fake chicken patties I’m frying and nod in agreement, with a huge grin on my face.

“I really appreciate you helping me edit my stuff,” I tell her later.

“Just ask the person who doesn’t like poetry!” she says.