Don't Be Rude
Sometimes life has a way of becoming a shit show. A prolonged one. This past week and a half has been one of those for me. Some of it involves first world, white people problems like trying to upgrade my phone and encountering corporate robots, the grocery being out of my favorite beer, running out of coffee, and exploding coffee all over my kitchen (yeah, there was coffee on my CEILING). More problematic things involved nearly everything I touched becoming a prolonged, nightmare of a project; having the fucktards at my CVS pharmacy act like I was a lunatic when I asked for a prescription refill and where the muscle ointment was (seriously, when someone asks for something like an ace bandage and you work in a pharmacy . . . as you say you have to get the manager--after she asks three times--because you are too stupid to respond . . . ); middle aged malarkey; medical hell; and learning that you aren't worth the time, hotel room, or moment away you start to wonder what the fuck you are doing here. You begin to think that well, fuck, maybe I should pack up and move to the fucking corn fields, reside on being an introvert, and resolve on dying ugly and alone.
And then you meet up with an old friend for lunch, and before she arrives you find yourself walking along Bryant Park on a brilliantly warm and beautiful spring day.
As you wander this place you know so well, your mind wanders back to hours and days spent clicking away at the New York Public Library, the air conditioning, the free wifi . . . in those moments I felt myself fall back in time, like a sci fi masterpiece, and I could feel my shoulders change and my mind felt lighter. I stopped and breathed in the air, thinking this is the New York I've missed. Oddly, I've been home for a stretch this year. In the regards of missing . . . it was a moment, a feeling, a smell that has eluded me. I had forgotten that a 500 step detour via the park catches glimpses of New Yorkers playing ping pong, chatting, lovers kissing, and hardened New Yorkers in various states of undress on the park lawn desperatly seeking absorption of natural vitamin D. It was a splendid display of consumerism and urban life, as the police policed the boundaries and the icee and water vendors hawked cool treats for those eager to part with cash. In the mix, not hidden within the layers but rather out in the forefront, affront New Yorkers begged for dimes, nickels, and quarters with creative bravado; lackluster beggars; men in three piece suits looking as bored and contrite as you would imagine a dinner of white bread and butter would look like after a week; and a woman who appeared to flutter past in an outfit akin to a bohemian beach escort and you imagine--or rather assertively believe--on the other end of her texting screen was her John saying he'd pick up her on the corner of 42d and 6th.
Somewhere in there you remember yourself at the NYPL. That image comes back like a fire in the night, starring you down in broad daylight.
Over cheddar burgers and peach beer (because fuck the salad, seriously fuck the salad for ladies who lunch), you talk about writing, life, the ability to make a living off of the craft, the love of it, and how realities change. You and that old friend wander, and 8,000 steps later you find yourself in Times Square while it is shut down from a mentally ill man having plowed over pedestrians. In the course of this, you stand and gawk and laugh as some silver haired so-called New Yorker bitched at the young beat cop holding court. Asking why he couldn't just walk across to get home, the cop volleyed back about how there were others with more pressing concerns of getting hospitals. My friend Beth and I were praying for the cop to write him a ticket. As he carried on, with every trite excuse under the sun, our hero rebutted: "there's a florist up the block if you'd like to stop and get flowers on your way there. Or, you know you are free to cross but I can't guarantee that you won't be tackled. I don't know. It's your choice."
New Yorker, "Don't be rude."
Cop, "I wasn't being rude. I was just giving you your options, since you asked."
Bravo officer. Bravo. You leave, without a picture of your hero, as you know that would be a step too far and you would be the one wearing bracelets not of the Pandora or Tiffany kind.
You wander a little more, Beth a little too cheerfully says you should go into Pandora. You do, knowing this is going to be a bill on the way out. In the course of it, you find your NYC bead for your "travel" bracelet. Yes, a bead for your hometown. It's purple and fuchsia . . . ironically the colors you had for flowers and your bridesmaids five years ago . . . to the day. The city is dark, beautiful, lusty, and romantic. Everything that bead and those colors remind you of. It all seems like so long ago, perhaps a parallel dream state, but the reality still cuts the core. Though, as the spring blooms burst, and the skies warm, you see yourself as a before and no longer and after. Resolute resilience, perhaps. An uneasy peace, more like. The memories last longer than the wedding ink. 59 dollars later you own a new bead, and as the clerk is re-beading your bangle he realizes he remembers you from a few months before. He couldn't forget the author who buys beads for publications, and the amount you've had this year makes his mouth drop. Beth is as floored as you that a clerk in the Times Square store remembers you . . . that has to mean something. I'm not sure what it means, but it must mean something.
Somewhere in there your dress hikes up, and you flash half of 45th Avenue your derrière. Eh, you've always had the grace of a baboon toddler. Besides, you've toned up enough and lost enough (probably not nearly enough) baggage that you don't have an ass ledge anymore. So, it's looking pretty good with those black lace things you had on . . . so your rear end saw some vitamin D too.
The day ends, and you part ways . . . on the subway home, at the end of rush hour, you get a seat, and you nestle in with your earbuds. Yet, you hear nothing of what passes. Instead, you remember a conversation a few nights before. Your heart aches, yet . . . yet this time the numbness stays. Maybe you can stay numb a little longer so that today can hang around awhile more. 14000 steps later you walk into your flat and look around. The papers, notes of characters in development, pens without ink, pens overflowing with ink, and tchotchkes of travels gone by line and litter the space. Here, as much as Bryant Park, is the sense of comfort and calm you need.
And then you buy yourself flowers . . . because, well, you are worth it. They are that old feeling that you've grown to love, much like that memory of the NYPL. They won't let you down and they won't tell you things will never work. They won't make you feel worth less than the night.
And then you meet up with an old friend for lunch, and before she arrives you find yourself walking along Bryant Park on a brilliantly warm and beautiful spring day. 
As you wander this place you know so well, your mind wanders back to hours and days spent clicking away at the New York Public Library, the air conditioning, the free wifi . . . in those moments I felt myself fall back in time, like a sci fi masterpiece, and I could feel my shoulders change and my mind felt lighter. I stopped and breathed in the air, thinking this is the New York I've missed. Oddly, I've been home for a stretch this year. In the regards of missing . . . it was a moment, a feeling, a smell that has eluded me. I had forgotten that a 500 step detour via the park catches glimpses of New Yorkers playing ping pong, chatting, lovers kissing, and hardened New Yorkers in various states of undress on the park lawn desperatly seeking absorption of natural vitamin D. It was a splendid display of consumerism and urban life, as the police policed the boundaries and the icee and water vendors hawked cool treats for those eager to part with cash. In the mix, not hidden within the layers but rather out in the forefront, affront New Yorkers begged for dimes, nickels, and quarters with creative bravado; lackluster beggars; men in three piece suits looking as bored and contrite as you would imagine a dinner of white bread and butter would look like after a week; and a woman who appeared to flutter past in an outfit akin to a bohemian beach escort and you imagine--or rather assertively believe--on the other end of her texting screen was her John saying he'd pick up her on the corner of 42d and 6th. 
Somewhere in there you remember yourself at the NYPL. That image comes back like a fire in the night, starring you down in broad daylight. 
Over cheddar burgers and peach beer (because fuck the salad, seriously fuck the salad for ladies who lunch), you talk about writing, life, the ability to make a living off of the craft, the love of it, and how realities change. You and that old friend wander, and 8,000 steps later you find yourself in Times Square while it is shut down from a mentally ill man having plowed over pedestrians. In the course of this, you stand and gawk and laugh as some silver haired so-called New Yorker bitched at the young beat cop holding court. Asking why he couldn't just walk across to get home, the cop volleyed back about how there were others with more pressing concerns of getting hospitals. My friend Beth and I were praying for the cop to write him a ticket. As he carried on, with every trite excuse under the sun, our hero rebutted: "there's a florist up the block if you'd like to stop and get flowers on your way there. Or, you know you are free to cross but I can't guarantee that you won't be tackled. I don't know. It's your choice."New Yorker, "Don't be rude."
Cop, "I wasn't being rude. I was just giving you your options, since you asked."
Bravo officer. Bravo. You leave, without a picture of your hero, as you know that would be a step too far and you would be the one wearing bracelets not of the Pandora or Tiffany kind.
You wander a little more, Beth a little too cheerfully says you should go into Pandora. You do, knowing this is going to be a bill on the way out. In the course of it, you find your NYC bead for your "travel" bracelet. Yes, a bead for your hometown. It's purple and fuchsia . . . ironically the colors you had for flowers and your bridesmaids five years ago . . . to the day. The city is dark, beautiful, lusty, and romantic. Everything that bead and those colors remind you of. It all seems like so long ago, perhaps a parallel dream state, but the reality still cuts the core. Though, as the spring blooms burst, and the skies warm, you see yourself as a before and no longer and after. Resolute resilience, perhaps. An uneasy peace, more like. The memories last longer than the wedding ink. 59 dollars later you own a new bead, and as the clerk is re-beading your bangle he realizes he remembers you from a few months before. He couldn't forget the author who buys beads for publications, and the amount you've had this year makes his mouth drop. Beth is as floored as you that a clerk in the Times Square store remembers you . . . that has to mean something. I'm not sure what it means, but it must mean something.
Somewhere in there your dress hikes up, and you flash half of 45th Avenue your derrière. Eh, you've always had the grace of a baboon toddler. Besides, you've toned up enough and lost enough (probably not nearly enough) baggage that you don't have an ass ledge anymore. So, it's looking pretty good with those black lace things you had on . . . so your rear end saw some vitamin D too.
The day ends, and you part ways . . . on the subway home, at the end of rush hour, you get a seat, and you nestle in with your earbuds. Yet, you hear nothing of what passes. Instead, you remember a conversation a few nights before. Your heart aches, yet . . . yet this time the numbness stays. Maybe you can stay numb a little longer so that today can hang around awhile more. 14000 steps later you walk into your flat and look around. The papers, notes of characters in development, pens without ink, pens overflowing with ink, and tchotchkes of travels gone by line and litter the space. Here, as much as Bryant Park, is the sense of comfort and calm you need.
And then you buy yourself flowers . . . because, well, you are worth it. They are that old feeling that you've grown to love, much like that memory of the NYPL. They won't let you down and they won't tell you things will never work. They won't make you feel worth less than the night.
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