Scene and heard

“Due to an earlier signal problem at [insert station name here], trains are running subject to a [e.g. 10, 20, 40] minute delay.”

All commuters in New York and New Jersey have heard these wonderful messages. Being a logical sort of fellow, I take a 6 minute delay on a subway or PATH line where trains are supposed to run 6 minutes apart as meaning that the train that was due at 8am will come at 8:06, the 8:06 will arrive at 8:12, the 8:12 at 8:18, and so on. This would not be noticed and wouldn’t be worth an announcement. But as with any other government agency, logic plays no part in these announcements. The best I can figure as to what they really mean is that the trains are entirely fucked up and one will arrive when it gets here.

I have long since been irritated, to say the least, by the way tourists in New York walk. I have been to a lot of other US cities, as well as London, which at least used to have more tourists than here – I don’t know if that’s still the case. But here, perhaps because of seeing how badly New Yorkers walk, or perhaps because they are overwhelmed by the tall buildings, they just stop in rush hour crowds for no apparent reason. An extreme example was on Broadway, in the theatre district: A large group were clustered in the middle of the sidewalk, leaving enough room for one person to walk store-side and two, street-side. Another tourist, walking immediately in front of me, stopped directly in front of the smaller of the two available paths. Could this person have stopped in line with the crowd? Apparently not!

But the tourists aren’t the only offenders. New Yorkers don’t seem to be able to cross someone’s path behind or sufficiently ahead of that person, no matter how much space is available for them to do so. It is either a compulsion or just thoughtlessness. Last Friday, two people attempted this manoeuvre from opposite directions, almost causing a nasty collision! Last week, one man coming out of a store and heading in a direction that intersected my path, actually stopped to let me proceed. An experience that is noteworthy because of its rarity! So many people here act as if they are alone in the City – grunting like pigs instead of blowing their noses; sneezing with no effort to cover their mouths; barging forward with opened umbrellas…..

Some years ago, a man crossed my path so closely in a sparsely populated plaza that I tripped him up. He glared at me. I asked what his problem was and he seemed to think that I should have apologised. I told him I’m not a mind reader and had no idea he was going to walk in front of me like that, and that if an apology was due, it was from him! Let’s just say, he disagreed!

So why call this entry ‘Bad Walking’? When Trish came back from a brief trip to Tokyo, which is even more crowded than New York, she commented that she had not realised how badly people walk in this city until she got there and noticed how smoothly the flow of people proceeds.

Here is a picture of the oh-so-sweet and lovely Susan, with her pooch Truman Capote - Truman or TC for short. Our relationship continues to flourish and grow. I feel, hope and pray that finally, I have met the woman who will be my life partner and true love. She has my heart already. Stay tuned....

These conversations happen all too regularly with me. Is this familiar to you?

In a small Bay Ridge Supermarket, where I have never before used a cart:

Me: Where should I put the cart. (There was nowhere obvious)
Checkout woman: You must bring it back.
Me: I don't want to take it anywhere!
CW: Put it there then. (Pointing to a space between her register and the Customer Service desk)

Why did that conversation have to go beyond 2 sentences?!

I am reminded of my days in El Paso, before I learned better. Typically, I would go into a restaurant and order "T Bone Steak, rare, with Fries and a large Iced Tea." And the waiter would say "T Bone Steak? How would you like that?" ...."Would you like that with a Baked Potato or Fries?" ...."Would you like anything to drink?"

I am similarly reminded of a conversation from when I drove London buses. This was on a 125:
A couple board at Tally Ho Corner, North Finchley.
He: It says on the front of your bus, you’re only going to Finchley Central.
Me: That’s where this bus goes. That’s where it always goes.
He: But does it go to
Me: (interrupting) “It doesn’t go to Golders Green, Edgware or Barnet.” (answering the three most frequently asked questions)
She: So where does it go?
Me: Finchley Central!

In the summer of ’81, one of my lifelong friends, now a Lawyer, was down on his luck and sharing an apartment on 2nd Street by Avenue C. The area is called Alphabet City, but back then at least, Cockroach City might have been more appropriate – certainly more descriptive.

While I paid my one and only visit to his rather too humble abode, one of his roommates changed the channel on their electric radio and, in disgust at the several roaches that scurried across the face of the radio, heaved the thing out of the open rear window. It probably landed on a rat!

I was asked if I wanted some food and respectfully declined. Before cooking anything, the oven had to be turned on to the full 550 degrees Fahrenheit for 20 minutes. I discovered why. This is one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen. The oven was opened, and a couple of dozen little roaches, their backs grey charred and bubbling, smoke billowing from them, scampered out of there and disappeared I know not where. I was too busy being revolted to notice! As food was then put in the oven, my decision to refuse the hospitality seemed very wise indeed!

This morning, just before the slow moving and overly stuffy subway train I was on reached the Manhattan Bridge, there was a slight lurch as the train ground to a halt. The guard could be heard informing the driver that a woman had passed out and someone had pulled the emergency lever. It was at least 3 minutes before the driver quite understood this message and about another 10 before the train was fit to move again, at which point we were informed that the next 2 stops would be skipped.

I know that someone there had good intentions, but it is a pity that they were also either dumb or bad in a crisis. If a person passes out, they need medical assistance. Logically, that is rather more likely to be available in a subway station than in an underground tunnel. I’m so happy the situation wasn’t serious. Had it been a Heart Attack, good intentions, divorced from proper thought processes, could have killed!

On a warm weekend day in mid-September 1980, I was walking in the Lower East Village with an old Washington Square Park acquaintance, Jose, AKA Crazy Jose. It started to rain quite heavily, so we went into a Bodega run by one of his friends. While he was talking to his buddy in the back of the store, I was standing near the entrance. An attractive, statuesque woman commented that she couldn’t go home while it was raining, as her coat was leather and would crack(?!). I said “well why don’t you take it off then!” So she opened it up. “See, I can’t! This is all I’m wearing underneath!” She revealed to me the most amazing imaginable breasts, covered only in a sheer red body stocking. My eyes must have damned near popped out of my head, even as I tried hard to remain cool. She covered up after a few seconds, making sure to give me a good eyeful. A couple of minutes later, Jose finished his conversation. As we were leaving, the woman bent down to give me a kiss on the cheek. Jose turned to me and said: “He likes you!” I both couldn’t and did not want to believe him. A man with breasts! A man kissed me!! Not possible!

Waiting outside the exercise studio at my gym, Soni, the instructor of my Monday and Wednesday classes said that she was going on vacation on August 25th. One of the regulars said: “Really? I’m going on vacation on August 25th!” “What are you doing?” “Going on a cruise.” “I’m going on a cruise! Where to?” The rest was interchanging sentences. I heard Puerto Rico and that the ship is leaving from Red Hook, Brooklyn. They excitedly hugged and agreed it would be extra fun.

A father comes in with his son, who looks about 6 year old. He drops off one bag of laundry and picks up another. Dad has dirty blonde spiky hair, tattoos on his arms and a well cultivated beer belly. Son is short and stocky, with spiky reddish blonde hair. As they are leaving, he says: “Dad, I can burp as many times as I want to.” “Well, that’s some talent!” “How many times in a row can you burp?” Now their backs are to me. I hear dad do one. Moments later, he says: “5.” I then count 5 from the son by the time the reach the door, his little body moving with the effort. Ah! Father and son bonding!

Descending into Bay Ridge Avenue Subway Station, I saw a very attractive young lady, immaculately dressed - a Brunette, probably in her early 20’s, at least 5’9” and slender. She was wearing a tailored off-white jacket, knee-length white skirt with a lace-type trim and 2” heeled dressy sandals. And she just looked so awkward – a Jeans and T-shirt girl all the way, she had real difficulty making it down the stairs.

On the same journey, I saw a woman get on the train whose hair just somehow didn’t look right. She too was wearing a 2-piece, but higher heels and shorter skirt. The slightly orangey straw coloured hair didn’t go with her medium brown complexion. I watched her sit – she saw me and almost fell off her seat, leaning in my direction, smiling. There was something disquieting about her. I wasn’t looking because she was so gorgeous, but out of that morbid fascination thing that we are all susceptible to. And as I got off the train at Rector Street, I saw what it was. She had make-up caked on and was probably around 60 years old. Sad that her identity is so tied in with her sexuality that she now needs to wear an all-body mask to hide her advancing years. And so different from Marianne, a woman of over 50 who I used to see on the subway, who is classy and elegant and would be so much less beautiful if she tried to be anything other than herself.

I honestly think that this has improved in the 8 years since I last watched a World Cup here. Then, in disgust at the inanity and complete lack of knowledge – two commentators had no idea why a goal scored directly from an indirect free kick was disallowed (there’s a clue in the words ‘Indirect Free Kick’) – that I watched the rest of the tournament on a Spanish channel, understanding little to nothing of what was being said, but loving the passion it was being said with.

This time around, there was a former US player, I can’t remember who, saying that the Netherlands v Serbia and Montenegro match should provide good lessons for the USA team to beat Czech Republic – forgetting the two problems in his logic. Czeck are considerably better than S & M, and apart from the FIFA ranking committee, everyone knows that Netherlands have a much better team than the USA. I then heard Alexi Lalas calling Kasey Keller the best goalkeeper in the world! Anyone reading this in England just choked on their tea! And they just constantly prattle on about anything and nothing throughout the entire match, often clueless to the proceedings on the field. When Germany were down 1-0 to Argentina: “The Germans are going to have to do something to stay in the game.” Yeah, like score a goal! When it was 1-1: “It will take a spectacular goal to win this one!” Excuse me!! So if it dribbles over the line, that won’t count?

Generally, I was reminded of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. I paraphrase: ‘Humans have to keep talking in order to avoid thinking’.

On Father’s Day, I was on the subway going into Midtown Manhattan to meet my son, who was treating me to tickets for The Mets game. It was warm and I was dressed accordingly. Two men were opposite me: one, with a shrill, annoying voice, talked incessantly and the other nodded a lot. When the quiet one got off, his short time companion first tried to start a conversation with the two women along the bench seat from me – they were polite, but went back to talking to each other.

Meanwhile, when a couple of young people seemed to need directions, I offered to help. They were Iranians – he lived here and his sister was visiting. We started talking about football (the kind where people kick a ball). He wanted England to win the World Cup. Mr.Talkative butts in: “I used to wear shorts when I was younger.” Not a lot you can say in response to a killer opening line like that! “Yeah, I played Soccer! I was a goalie. I got good legs.” (Rolling up one of his trouser legs) “See? Pretty funny, huh?” “No!” I tried resuming my conversation with the young man sitting next to me. From across the carriage… again! “England did well the other day…. They won 3 to nothing.” “No they didn’t!” “Yeah, they did! I saw it…. I got lots of medal (sic.).” “I don’t care how many medals you’ve got, England didn’t win 3 to nothing!” I asked him to please find someone else to talk to. Fortunately, it was his stop.

What a great name! He is 5 years old and a real character. He entertained me while I was doing my laundry – helping me pick which colour hanger for which shirt, showing me how well he rides his scooter and just chattering non-stop. When I said that he talk a lot, he responded: “Yeah! Everybody says that. I like talking and I’m very smart.” Not surprisingly, his favourite colour is blue.

I hope I see my new friend again.