Don’t Blame NY, You Were Rude to Begin With

“Move. Get out of my way.”

An ashy voice called out, breaking the silence amongst a tired group of riders. We could barely shift to make way for the older gentleman forcing his way through the crowd. It was causing a chain reaction of bumping into; I got an elbow in my back, so I pressed forward into the small lady wedged between me and an angry-faced Asian man. She yelped as she turned towards me, so I shrugged to communicate that, hey, we’re all getting squished. I’m not the asshole here.

“You,” Pointing a bandaged finger, he called out once more, “Move. Get up.”

There’s really no context that makes such harsh combination of words sound justified. He stood — or shall I say, shook — at about 4 feet tall. Had he not been hunching over his cane, he might have had a good 5 more inches on him. I could only see the top of his knitted beanie as he repeated over and over, “Get up. Move. Move. I said get up. Move, woman. I need a seat.”

Granted, he really did need a seat. He relied so heavily on his cane that his left leg practically dragged behind him. His pace was painfully slow, and his arms shivered as if they were constantly cold. How’s that for context?

Upon seeing the disheveled figure heave and squeeze his way towards the first set of seats, one might have argued, why yes, it’s totally justified. Sympathy excuses rudeness, I guess.

Wagging his finger in the woman’s face, he spoke louder this time. “You. GET UP.”

The elderly man sitting beside her didn’t even try to hide his simultaneous horror and disgust. A couple times, it seemed like he was going to speak up for her, but each time, he hesitated. I did, too; we were all in the same dilemma. Who wants to be the one to tell an old handicapped man that he’s wrong for demanding a seat?

The woman, who was just as aged as the man hovering over her, could’ve easily reciprocated with sharpness or anger. But instead, in the sweetest voice, she said, “Give me a moment, honey. I understand.” and very, very slowly used the pole beside her to rise to her feet. She then grabbed her OWN cane and wedged herself into the crowd.

The man, now sitting in her place, explained, “You know, I’m not a violent man. I didn’t want to get violent. I just needed a seat.”

As the bus resumed, shuffling its standing riders side to side, I could hear her shaky voice answer back as she held onto a pole for dear life: “I know, honey. I know what’s it’s like to be in pain. You rest your feet, honey.”

She stumbled a couple times, and I offered her my arm, to which she smiled but politely declined. She said she would be getting off to wait for the next bus, in hopes that they have a seat.

I wish I could explain in words the rush of emotions that stirred in my pot as I watched her step off the bus into the cold night and get in line for the next.

I wish there was a point to this story, other than to point out that genuine patience does exist in New York City. You can call me to the witness stand.

 

A Man and His Bike: I Got Bored At The Airport So I Wrote A Poem

Couchsurfing Nutjob

What in the world. Let me tell you about my oddly humorous evening. It begins and ends with an internet stranger from this app called Couchsurfing.

I was initially hesitant to use Couchsurfing while traveling because I had heard of vague horror stories — generally of surfers getting stuck with unwelcoming hosts, or worse, being placed in situations that involve unwanted sexual advances. So, prior to my latest trip, when I received a handful of invitations, I decided to take a chance on the first four offers. I figured, if they flake or seem crazy, it’d be no problem; I can always get an airbnb or hotel room (which did end up happening with one host).

As the departure date approached, more people graciously reached out to me, but I had to let them know that I already had a place to stay, and that I’d probably be busy spending time with my hosts or exploring on my own. My days were pretty busy, and I met a lot of new people along the way, so I didn’t have time to meet up with any of the other CS hosts. They’d all traveled before; so surely, they understood. A few of them said they’d be out in NYC in the future, so of course, I said I’d be willing to show them around. After all, you never know where you’ll find good company unless you open your window of opportunity to do so.

Recently, while I was extremely sick, one of the Portland hosts I hadn’t met yet contacted me through the app. He said he’d be in NYC for 2 weeks and asked to grab a drink. I said I can’t speed up the healing process, but if I get over this cold, then yes, I would show him around to some neat spots I’ve discovered around town. The next day, I received a reminder email from the NY CS group about their weekly happy hour, so I decided it’d be the perfect opportunity for us to meet not only each other, but other surfers as well. I said it’d be an option, if I’m feeling better by then.

Tonight, I was catching up with Sally over dinner, so I ignored my vibrating phone (because nothing is ruder than a person texting throughout a one-on-one meal, don’t you think?). After hugging goodbye, I jumped on the 6 train and saw that Michael, the kid from Portland, had texted me to see if I was able to meet tonight instead. I replied that I was already on my way home. He told me that he can’t go to the CS happy hour tomorrow, and that he’s leaving town earlier than expected because he can’t stand the cold weather. “That’s too bad,” I thought. 

Before I could type out a full reply, he then proceeded to tell me to “fuck off” because I was “a flake” (which is incredibly ironic since we had never made plans in the first place). He revealed that he was upset I didn’t offer to hang out during the weekend (in response to him being busy tomorrow) and said I was a waste of time. Um, excuse me. Why so sensitive? Why so needy? We don’t even know each other.

I let him curse and vent for a bit as I deleted the texts (they came in like rapidfire). You’d think, for someone who grows and smokes his own cannabis, he’d be a liiiiiittle bit more relaxed. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he was having a bad night. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he got dumped by his partner. Who the hell knows.

But the second he told me to –I shit you not– “Act right,” I had to do a double take on my phone. I couldn’t help but laugh. People on the bus looked in my direction, but I couldn’t have cared less. Is this guy for real? Am I really getting advice on proper conduct from a emotionally unstable young man who curses at strangers for no worthy reason? Do go on.

It was as if he read my mind. He did go on:

Suddenly, I understood. He was under the impression that this was going to be …a date? A hook up? I wanted to explain, that this is Couchsurfing, not Tinder. People who use this amazing international network specifically for other intentions are destroying the integrity and reputation as we know it. No wonder there are horror stories galore. If you’re on the app strictly for booty, please do the rest of the community a favor: download OK Cupid and call it a day. It’ll save you the time and embarrassment.

He concluded his rant by saying “You are a broke loser, enjoy you flake.”

Ooooh. I’d give him a slow clap standing ovation, but something tells me the sarcasm would go over his head (and I’ve been told it’s not wise to endorse poor habits). When diction lacks maturity and craft, it’s hard to find it insulting. Only amusing.

I’m far from religious, but I think he needs Jesus in his life. God speed Michael Arnow. May you channel your emotional turmoil into something much more positive and productive.

PS – 6 out of 10 is still pretty sweet. Thanks!

 

 

Sick as a Dog (in the early 1700s)

The first word that came to mind this morning was “fuck.”

No, I didn’t wake up beside a strange face, and no, it is a Saturday, so surely I wasn’t late for work. What got me to begin my day with a profane outburst were beads of cold sweat and a throbbing ache in my throat. It seemed all too familiar.

I rolled to the foot of the bed (I don’t move around when I sleep but can fall asleep in strange positions, so today, I awoke horizontal to the bed frame because I was up watching Family Guy the night prior). Then, I drunkenly stumbled into the bathroom. I opened my mouth wide and tip-toed closer to the mirror to find that my reflection, despite being dangerously attractive (I’m in a sarcastic mood today), had a throat swollen and red enough to be deemed… well, sick. “Fuck” was totally appropriate, then.

I cancelled my plans for the day, ate a big breakfast, and returned to bed.

***

As ironic as it is, sleeping when I’m sick always makes me feel sicker. So, eventually, after several hours of napping, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was overheating. I threw on a couple layers and left the apartment. I walked about a mile or so, feeling better as the atmospheric chill brushed against my heated cheeks; I slowly sipped on some fresh, outdoor air and let it soothe my aching throat. A second place alternative for Ricola, imo.

When I got to Cunningham Park, I felt fairly dizzy, so I laid down for a pit-stop in the grass.

And all I saw was this.

The sky seemed so empty and grey that I thought I was looking at one large cloud. I let my eyes lose focus, and suddenly, I could see tiny, clear moving particles (called Floaters) drifting in the sky above me.

simulated image of Floaters, from Wikipedia

It came accompanied with hundreds, maybe thousands, of small sparkles rapidly moving and bouncing off one another. It was hypnotizing. Captivated, I let “Before the Beginning” rip through my headphones and watched the atoms in the sky pour down on my face. I guess this is what people mean by “seeing stars.”

I went home, popped 2 nyquils, and soaked in a bubble bath while indulging in After Hours’ jazz tracks on repeat. I started the first chapter of High Fidelity — no spoilers, please. So far, it’s fantastic.

Half floating (cheating because my tub isn’t large enough for me to stretch out my legs), I let my ears dip into the warm soak and left my face exposed. Listening to a distant jazz through a layer of water made me feel detached from the world around me, as if this sickness could be put on pause.

The bubbles tickled my knees as I remained still, breathing in the warm fumes evaporating from the surface of the bath. I brushed my teeth, gargled with salt water, conditioned my hair, lathered my skin in coconut oil, and ate several hot, hearty meals as well.

The point of it all is: I, like many busy working people, rarely find time to take care of myself until I am forced to. It wouldn’t hurt to do this more often. I feel so much better already; my throat and sinus aren’t nearly as pissed off at me as they were this morning.

Ladies and gentlemen, take a weekend and treat yourself. I promise you it’s worth it. Good day.

 

 

Gender Rolls

These waves: they crash majestically
Like Canyon walls mid-avalanche.
You see, a man of passion cannot be filtered.
He is as ignorant of inhibition as a child.
His impulse moves too quickly to be made to dress in disguise;
He’s teeming at the seams,
with the “Going to explode if I don’t speak” kind of No holds barred
waves that demand attention…
He does not cry, though.
He roars, because he is a man
As defined by his dick
But moreso by his fear of conceptual male deconstruction.
He does not speak, he grunts;
He does not run, he tackles.
When the waves begin brewing
He counts the lines — rather, he snorts them —
Because they lull the sensation to a dull, numbing pattern
Of push and pull, push and pull.
Like seaweed washing onto shore and drifting back into the sea,
He finds stability in a false structure of rhythm.
He stands with bare feet trying to understand the sensation of standing on sand as it washes out from under the edges of his arches and toes,
Trying to grasp the reason for the waves that, even when calm and steady, still manage to steal the ground from underneath him.
He struggles because the current never forgets to return,
Because even with his face buried in the snow the next wave becomes harder and harder to silence.
He tries to burrow himself in a high that is so loud it quiets the world around him,
But he errs in thinking an ocean is less valuable than a lake.
The cold clutches at his lungs,
With long icy fingers that exhale a misty chill as it climbs his cervical spine,
One vertebrae at a time,
Until his breath rushes away along with the sand in the tide.
The waves recede but only because he does too.
He descends,
Unable to witness the beauty of stillness that he has always aimed for and has successfully produced.

LEyes

In the 21st century, the kind of attention drawn from man to the phone is the kind you find in hypnosis, like the way a swinging watch dictates the pace of two eyes. Or in this case, one.

No, it wasn’t Halloween, and he sure as hell wasn’t wearing that for fashion. I must have been staring. He told me, before pulling out his cell phone from the right pocket of his peacoat, that the eyepatch was 19 years old. He confided, in me of all people, a strange passerby rudely staring in the daily urban commute, that it was the result of an incident in his early college years: an angry girlfriend with a reason and a fork. Well, now ex-girlfriend, I hope.

“That’s fucking crazy,” I said. “She’s absolutely nuts.” Still stunned, I kept staring. I swear I didn’t mean to. He paid no mind to it, though; with one eye fixated on the dim screen between his palms, he tapped on it with both thumbs, chuckling all the while.

“It’s really not that big of a deal anymore, lad. Unless I’m winking at a woman… They seem to think I’m blinking.” My face must have been blank (my thoughts were elsewhere, imagining forked eyeballs and horrific things as such) because he snapped two fingers by my nose and continued to say, “Relax, son. It’s a missing eye. It’s not a third nipple with horns.”

I gulped down the lump in my throat. By then, I had built up the confidence to ask a question: “How do you manage? Doesn’t it affect your depth perception?”

“Hell yeah, it does.” Redirecting his attention to the buzzing phone in his hands, he patiently answered, “It makes being a surgeon hard. Sometimes, I fuck up. I’ll be the first to admit it. One time, I killed a man during an appendectomy. I cut right into his intestines.”

A surgeon… How?

What?

Wait, really?

Before I could process or even question his claim, the bus came to a skidding stop. Swinging a leather strap over his shoulder, he leaned in to whisper, “Take care, kid. You’ll learn someday.”

Laughing, he then pulled off his eyepatch and winked. With his perfectly good, hazel eye.

I sat there, like a fool, as the doors closed behind him. I believe the correct term for this situation is Duped.

Laph 10

A rustic breath, this whiskey made. It slightly tastes like cigarettes and oak, she thought. If licking picnic tables were socially acceptable, she figured, this is how they’d taste. The atmosphere was dim. The bar, moderately packed, was perfectly staffed with two bartenders who kept occupied. Ten minutes in, she had yet to meet their eyes.

She stared off into the yellow-lit shelves of sparse alcohol bottles and thought, Brooklyn candlelight must be a universally coined term by now. Why is it that ordinary faces look so pleasant in this lighting? Are bars encouraging one night stands by masking the features that may serve as deterrence? Could indeed be so.

Instrumental music and a drink slowly inching to its bottom… her eyes felt heavier as she sat alone at the marbled counter of a bar. Saturday night was almost to a close for an old soul in a young body, aching to be home.

Starbucks Today is Sad

I wanted to use my laptop at Starbucks.

I felt like it would be a dick move to occupy a seat with my Evian bottle (brought from home), so I got in the line to order some autumn sounding drink off their menu. I noticed that those who wait in Starbucks lines are the saddest looking people in the world. It’s like when bulldogs don’t really mean to look sad, but do.

The signs around me read that if I order an Oprah drink, some of the funds are directed towards education programs. Go Oprah. Consequently, when the boy at the register asked for my order, I requested an Oprah Chai Brewed Tea, to which he screamed out the wrong cost of the drink.

Holding out a twenty, I offered some clarity: “I actually want the tea, not the latte. Isn’t it supposed to be $2.75 for a small?”

He (still screaming) said, “The latte is not 2.75!” I guess when you call out orders for a living, volume control is an acquired task. I let it slide.

“The tea,” I patiently repeated, “I’d like the tea, please.” It took a couple seconds for it to register in his skull, but he nodded and corrected the order. The price came out to $2.99. Satisfied at the correction, I handed him my bill.

Gripping the bill in his hand, he asked me, “Do you have a penny?” and out of habit, I reached into my wallet to hand him a discolored penny. I chewed on this for a moment and hesitantly questioned, “Shouldn’t YOU be the one giving me a penny?”

“It’s 2.99,” he blurted. An adamant response. The boy raised an eyebrow, as if to be thrown off by the absurdity of my question.

As he resumed counting the change, I questioned myself. Am I high?

Well yes, but — Am I wrong?

I did a mental calculation in my head. He handed me 17 dollars in bills and stood there with my penny in his hand. He looked confused, so I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Right, it’s 2.99 not 3.01, so why would I give you a penny? Haha…”

The staff and customers began staring at us for causing a holdup in coffee flow. He slowly handed back the penny and said, “Well I wanted to be nice and give you an even 17 dollars… That’s why I took a penny… Because the change was 17.01.”

I slipped the penny into his open palm and smiled, “Never mind! You got it.”

As I walked away, I heard him say “It’s only a penny, though. Don’t be cheap…” because he still thought he was correct. Sipping the hot brewed tea, I walked back to my seat and lost a little bit more hope for humanity on this odd pattern drizzly day. The irony of this tea going to education and the boy who insists on $20.01 – $2.99 = 17 is knocking my socks off.

I better buy 10 of these. Cheers.

How I Met My Father

A drink, bubbling with an ashy rage, simmered at her hands. She cupped a shelter around it, keeping the stained mug home without actually having to make contact with heated clay.

“Have some,” he encouraged. “It’s good for you.”

Something in the pit of her near-empty stomach told her otherwise. Nothing that orange could possibly be good for you.

Sipping a short breath of air, she grimaced as she peered skeptically past the soft stream skirting off the surface of liquid. “I don’t know about this.”

“Sure you do,” he urged. Wrapping his hands around her knuckles, he pressed her palm against the mug and suggested the cup to her mouth. “Try it.”

And on the two words that promised her excitement, perchance a hint of mysterious joy, she took a heaping gulp of a rancid orange that slowly clawed down her throat in an unnerving move. It was too late to spit at that point.

Lifting both palms to attention, she gaped with wide eyes, suspended in a chilling shock that ripped through the cord of her spine. The aged lines across her mitts that etched her entire life history slowly blended into a shady blur – she watched, astonished, as her fingers became translucent, then eventually clear.

She was no longer.

He smiled, also fading in sync to the silvery chromatic shift in her skin. Slacking the tension in his shoulders, he clicked his tongue twice and immediately all color flushed back into place on his own body, down to every last freckle kissing the collarbone.

I think she meant to follow suit. She seemed to be clicking her tongue as well, slightly bucking forward with lips rounded open as a woman would don a coat of mascara. Yet I could hear nothing. Soon enough I realized why she was choking on air, wheezing a sputter that began turning down in volume to a low muffle… Her tongue was no longer there.

To both our horror, he grasped at a limp, pink lump of fleshy tongue tucked away in his pocket. “Oops,” he chuckled. “Looking for this?”

She screamed and screamed, and probably screamed some more, but no sound could brave to leave her lips. Silently and invisibly, she cried out to the world that could no longer acknowledge her existence. Dipping from visibility, she peered at others with a seeping desperation. I watched as the amber of her iris gave way to the chestnut oak chair behind her.

He clicked his tongue, twice again, and vanished as my mother had, few seconds prior. I sat in the room for eighteen straight hours, staring at the empty seat. It didn’t seem real. Who could I tell? Who would believe me? I kept it to myself for years.

Until adoption day. Today. That’s when potential parents like you came rounding about the house, poking your noses into our rooms and scaling us in cuteness like we’re puppies fighting for attention on display. So, hey, shoot me. I lied.

I pretended it never happened, put on a fake smile, and here I am. You sure picked the jackpot, man. Don’t worry — I’m sure there’s some kind of return policy. You’re not stuck with me forever.

But do you think I can sleep here tonight? I swear I don’t snore.

Miss, Understand Me

Sometimes, I have so much to fucking say, I can feel my thoughts rising and bobbing like a small buoy in a filling glass, steadily afloat, unaware of how little room I have left until overflow.

I wish I had a person in my life who could fully understand me; when I vent, whether it be to a friend, a family member, or a lover, I feel as if I am competing against myself to explain and justify every bit of detail, in hopes of some relation, some synchronization. I don’t succeed most of the time.

Those who are able to see through my chestnut-ringed pupils are no longer around, and those who are around, while fairly sympathetic, are not able to understand.  It’s strange that my blog does more for me than living, breathing, creatures these days.