Cosplay

My mother insists that I go to the grocery store and buy myself some food for the duration of my visit. She herself barely eats, subsisting mostly on protein shakes, cashews, and energy drinks, which means that her refrigerator has slim pickings for a middle-aged vegetarian.

As I turn onto the main road from her subdivision, I realize I probably could have walked as easily as driven in her car, though I love driving, and don’t get to do it much back in Brooklyn. On the other hand, even though the distances are about the same as (or maybe even less than) a good walk in New York, the lack of buildings and regular city blocks make it seem like a lot further, and besides, when am I gonna get another chance to cosplay a wealthy suburbanite?

Pendulums are the Pits

“To be honest, I don’t really even care about the healing part,” he says after seeing that this line of discussion isn’t really getting the response he’s hoping for. “I really started getting into pendulums to make money. There are all these classes to take and seminars and books to buy, it’s amazing!”

“Looks like you’re not the only one to think of making money from pendulums,” I say with as much wide-eyed innocence as I can muster.

Blame It On The Boogie

This is what they call a “kid friendly” kinda place, and lots of families have clearly heard that the rumors about this restaurant are true, with little ones running around, yelling, and having a good time generally being kids. 

One child has clearly had enough of his parent’s shenanigans, though, and in the middle of The Beastie Boys’ remarkably sexist single “Girls”, his face screws up in rage and he literally launches himself into the air and throws himself down on the ground.

“Whoa!” exclaims the friendly server who has been running the entire floor like a top-tier warship, and, after checking that the tantrum-er is safe, he begins to boogie to the music. 

Soon, he has both the child, and several other children, and their parents, and most of the restaurant, boogieing all together, and the tantrum is forgotten in a blaze of goodwill.  

The Servant’s Entrance

“They said I could leave it with the doorman,” I tell the three uniformed gentlemen at the Upper East Side building where I’m dropping off the delivery of one of Katie’s artworks.

“Take him to the delivery room,” the most senior looking one tells the youngest, who nods officiously and sets off, with me trailing behind.

From the lush and warmly lit lobby we wind our way through sparer and more utilitarian halls, each lit more clinically than the last, until we come to a fluorescent light and tile hallway that looks straight out of a sanatorium, where another young man in a tiny room filled with shelves takes my package and waves me even further toward the back.

I pass through a series of automatic doors that look like they belong in some Olde English Tavern, then I’m spit back out on the street far from the lobby, next to a collection of delivery guys on bikes, faces in the dark illuminated as they stare into their phones. 

I Feel Seen

“I’m going to research your question,” says the HR representative on the phone. “And I’m known around here as being very tenacious, so I will definitely get to the bottom of this.”

“So our number starts with either 844 or 877,” she continues, “so when you see that number when I call you back later today, pick up, okay?”

And for some reason, that makes me feel even more confident that she’s going to take care of things, because anybody who says something like that, who knows that she has to tell me to pick up a number that I don’t recognize, well she really understands me, you know? 

Keeping It To Myself

The guy sitting next to me at the show opens up a notebook before the lights go down and starts scribbling in terrible handwriting. I’m polite so I don’t try to read over his shoulder, but the brief glance I get tells me he’s doing something technical.

The show begins, and is amazing, marred only slightly by a noise up by the lighting rig at the top of the balcony, and when someone in another row complains to their neighbor about it during intermission, he leans over and lets them know he’s the sound designer for the show we’re watching, and they’re gonna fix it.

As he continues, explaining that he sits in various seats every show, making sure the sound is excellent everywhere in the house, I keep repeating to myself, “he knows the mix was a little muddy in the opener, you don’t have to tell him, he knows the mix was a little muddy in the opener, you don’t have to tell him, he knows the mix was a little muddy....” 

A Particular Set Of Skills

The woman behind the counter at the pharmacy repeats my request to her diminutive co-worker, who dutifully heads to the back to retrieve it. “Can you reach it?” she adds to her retreating back, not unkindly, but with a little smirk.

“Let me know if I need to help out,” I ask, stretching my arm up to demonstrate my ability. ““My wife pimps me out to short people at the grocery store all the time to get stuff off the top shelf.”