Riding

This week I've just been tired and the temptations to sleep in and get a car to work (provided by the firm) were too appealing so I didn't ride. Yesterday it was just too beautiful not to ride so when I got home from work, I decided to take a ride down to Central Park and ride the loop. But once I got there, and rode around once, I was just overtaken with the day and I decided to ride my bike down to the office and leave the bike there so I could ride home this morning.

When I came out of the park, I was riding down 7th Avenue and the sane thing to do would have been to head west and take the bike path downtown. But I was lured into the riskiness of riding all the way down Broadway. And so, right in the middle of the day, dodging buses, cabs and trucks, down Broadway through Times Square I went.

At 42nd Street, a big moving truck, with a clever slogan on the back that I can't remember now, cut me off. The stretch of Broadway between Times Square and Herald Square has been turned into an amazing eight blocks for bikers. There's a bike lane separated from the traffic by tables and chairs where people can sit and have lunch. I'm not sure how many lanes there are for actual cars but there can't be more than two lanes. It is almost perfect. If this is the work of Mayor Bloomberg, I'm all for doing away with term limits and electing him again.

I have to say that there is something exhilarating and a great adrenaline rush from the danger of weaving through cars. I'm no daredevil but I have to admit, it is fun. You definitely see the city through different eyes.

The real daredevils are the bike messengers who often stupidly ride up the street in the wrong direction darting in and out of traffic.

When I got down to the Wall Street area, there was a huge police presence and traffic was backed up for blocks. It turned out, two protesters had climbed the flagpoles beside the big brass Wall Street blues and stretched a banner condemning the proposed congressional bailout of Wall Street.


And just as I rode by the bill, there was that big truck with the clever slogan (which I still can't remember). Evidently I can get downtown in the same amount of time as a truck. I'm sure a bike courier could do it much faster. I guess I'm just not that daring.

Scenes from my daily 12 miles

New York Harbor with The Lady

Ellis Island

Morning exercises, Jersey City in background

World Financial Center Marina

What a yacht!

Midtown

The path


Clothesline?

George Washington Bridge and The Palisades

The Little Red Lighthouse (Google it!)

A killer hill. It is much more painful than it looks.
There's a sudden turn at the top.

I love New York!

I especially love New York City in Autumn. Okay, so it isn't exactly Autumn yet but almost. And while I can't say I love my job, I love my new schedule 12:30 a.m. - 8:30 a.m. Tuesday-Friday.

So, this morning, I decided to take advantage of my schedule and the city. First, breakfast with my friend, Gregory, in Soho. The company was nice. The food? Well, don't get me started. I'm quite dismayed at the state of the New York bagel. Twice in the past month I've gotten a bagel that was really your basic white bread inside a bagel-like shell. First of all, bagels are not supposed to be soft inside, not white Wonder bread soft. They are supposed to be crunchy on the outside while chewy and dense on the inside. And I spent $9 on this particular bagel. Okay, it came with cream cheese and lox along with red onion, capers and a tomato. But even so, for $9 I expect a real bagel. I could make better bagels and have!

After breakfast I wondered up to MOMA (Museum of Modern Art). I have always been discouraged from going to MOMA because of the $20 entrance fee and the long lines of European tourists waiting to get in. But then I became a member for only $60 a year. And in just a month or so, I've been in the museum six or eight times. As a member, I can just walk past all of those tourists and flash my membership card. Today was the opening of a Van Gogh exhibit and it was a members-only preview so I felt very exclusive walking in while all of those Europeans over here taking advantage of a great dollar exchange rate had to wait. I saw at least four people try to sneak in the exhibit. They didn't make it. Great exhibit. My favorite picture was The Potato Eaters.

After the museum, I walked up 5th Avenue past all the posh shops. I'm dismayed by Abercrombie and Fitch. First of all, their clothes look like clothes that should be discarded or at least bought second-hand. And the trend of having a nearly-naked young man (boy?) standing at the entrance to the shop seems truly tasteless. It would seem if you're selling clothes, you would have the model wearing some.

Then I walked past The Plaza and across the way at the Sherry Netherland, a man on the 11th floor (I counted) was reparing a window. He was standing in the window, half hanging out and he didn't appear to be tethered to anything. It was toe-curling. You can't see him in the picture but I swear he was there.
On into Central Park I stopped to watch the seals swim around in circles at the zoo and stopped to take a picture for a tourist couple. I do that at least once a day. I'll see a guy taking a picture of his wife or girlfriend or vice versa and stop and offer to take a picture of them together. They almost always say yes. Except the Japanese. I'm sure they think I wouldn't know how to use their expensive camera (or that I might steal it).

And then I walked through Sheep's Meadow. No sheep there anymore. But what a beautiful place!
Then home to sleep for the rest of the day.

I love New York!

My 9/11

I have to tell it again.

September 11, 2001 was my first day back from vacation, a 500-mile bicycle ride from Montreal to Portland, Maine. I didn't ride my bike to work that day because it was due to be shipped back to Manhattan that morning from Portland. So at 6:30 a.m., I was picked up by a towne car to bring me to work. I knew the driver as he'd often picked me up in the past, a Russian guy who liked to talk about how much vodka he'd drunk the previous night, not a very reassuring thing for a car driver to do. But I remember we both commented on what a clear morning it was. You could see forever. We drove right past the World Trade Center down the West Side Highway, nothing unusual. I pasted the WTC nearly every day.

I got to work and I was excited to tell everyone tales from my bike ride. And I was cleaning out the hundreds of emails that had accumulated over the past ten days.

I logged into AOL and my sister, Laura, in Indiana was on and we were chatting. She said, "Katie Couric just said a plane hit the World Trade Center. How far is that from you?"

I told her I was about ten blocks from there and then I started to investigate. From my floor we couldn't see the towers and I really couldn't leave my desk anyway. I was looking online to see what happened but not finding much yet. Someone then walked in and said, "A plane just hit the other tower." At that point I knew it was no accident and I picked up my backpack and headed out of the building.

Someone asked me, "Did they say we could leave?" I replied, "If planes are hitting buildings in downtown Manhattan, I'm not waiting for someone to tell me I can leave." As I was getting on the elevator a lady was coming out, crying hysterically. Just as I was getting on the elevator, they were making and announcement to leave the building.

I walked out of the building and out into Battery Park. I remember looking up at the towers and screaming. It seems strange now. But everyone was doing the same thing. And people were trying to make calls. I had a signal but couldn't get out.

I decided to head toward the Williamsburg Bridge where my bike was to be delivered. I knew a few people who worked in the WTC as I had worked there about two years before for a company called Pure Energy. But the only person I would consider a friend was a lady in her mid-30s who was about six months pregnant. As I made my way through the teeming streets, I happened to run into her husband. He had verified that she was fine.

A few blocks up, a guy yelled from a second story window, "They just hit the Pentagon." I thought, "What a terrible joke!"

I walked on under the Brooklyn Bridge which was still open, at least to foot traffic and under the Manhattan Bridge. It was so strange to see people walking where there should be cars and trucks. At some point in Chinatown, I was at a place where I could see the towers again because there was nothing blocking my view. I thought I saw an explosion but I didn't know what it was, just a huge cloud of smoke.

I finally made it to Delancey Street where there was a truck full of bicycles. The guys there were frantically loading bikes back on the truck. I asked if I could get my bike. They said, "If you see it outside the truck, you can take it." I saw it. They had no idea they weren't getting their truck out of Manhattan.

I kept looking at the WTC and I couldn't figure out why I could only see one building. It never entered my mind that they could fall. That was inconceivable. It still is.

I started across town, toward the Hudson River, on my bike. I passed a bar on 17th Street that had its doors open and was showing CNN on its huge screens. I stopped in to see if I could make a phone call. The manager said, "The phones are downstairs. You can try." I called my parents' number using 1-800-COLLECT. I got through on the first try. At least they knew I was okay.

I stopped in the bar to watch the screens. That was the first time I saw what had happened and the first I saw that the South Tower had fallen.

I left the bar and did something that still seems odd to me. On the bike ride, people had told me that after riding 100 miles a day for five days, I'd be ravenously hungry for several days. They also told me that if I could resist the desire to stuff myself, I could lose a good ten pounds. Well, by 10:00 a.m., I was ravenous. I came around 17th Street onto 6th Avenue and went into the Hollywood Diner. There was only one seat in the whole diner. Everyone must have been ravenous. I sat down at the only seat left with three ladies and ordered the Big Breakfast with eggs, ham, bacon, sausage and hash browns. I'm not sure. There may have been pancakes involved. We all talked about how we felt kind of guilty eating but it didn't stop us.

Sixth Avenue had the most perfect view of the towers. When I came out of the diner, they were both gone. Hordes of people were walking north.

I made my way to the bike path on the West Side. It was almost too crowded to ride but I slowly rode along.

The further I got up into Harlem, there were fewer people. But it was obvious that they were headed for the George Washington Bridge. The lines for ferries to New Jersey were more than a mile long and some people had decided to walk the ten miles up to the bridge and walk across.

The day had turned hot. I stopped at Fairway and bought as many bottles of water as I could carry and took them out to the bike path and gave them to the walkers. But that was all I could do. So I headed home.

In the ER

This past week I was in the emergency room but not in New York, rather, back home in Indiana. Not a big deal, I just stepped on a rusty nail. But it reminded me of an emergency room trip several years ago in New York City.

I've lived in the same neighborhood now for eight years. It is called Inwood and is predominatly inhabited by people from the Dominican Republic. But up until that time, I'd never noticed whether or not there was a hospital in the area.

One afternoon I was just getting to go to sleep in preparation for another graveyard shift. And it hit me. I knew what it was immediately--kidney stone. I'd had several before though this was my first one in New York. I decided to try tough it out. I'd passed a couple before on my own and mine have tended to be small and while extremely painful, I've been able to pass them quickly.

So I groaned and threw up from the pain but after about two hours, the pain passed and I passed out. Just before midnight, I got up to go to work. Just as I was getting out of the shower, it hit me again. Only this time it really hit me and I said to myself that I was not doing this again. So I called 911.

The paramedics came and seemed skeptical that there was anything wrong with me but they put me in the ambulance and asked me where I wanted to go. I didn't know that I had a choice but I told them I didn't care, just somewhere close.

They took me to a hospital which it turned out, was walking distance from my apartment. I went in and registered. The nurse at the counter where I registered was gruff and mean, especially when she found out I didn't have insurance. But honestly, I didn't care. By then, I was hurting so bad. I bee-lined for the toilet as the pain was causing me to vomit again.

I came out and took a seat. There were probably a dozen people in the room. And I realized that I was the only English speaker in the room. The television was blaring a Spanish telenovela, a melodramatic soap opera. Everyone else seemed to be interested. I didn't care. I just wanted the pain down there to stop.

After about twenty minutes, the nurse at the front desk called the security guard over. She told him to switch the channel on the television to an English speaking channel. She said it was a rule that if there was an English speaking person in the waiting room, the television had to be on an English speaking channel. The security guard did it and told the crowd the rule in Spanish (which I totally understood) and they all looked at me and I just went and threw up. Now, it was going to be my fault that they were having to wait in the emergency room and watching a Jerry Springer rerun in English. I was expecting to be assaulted when I came out but before long I was called into a room.

The doctor who examined me was from North Carolina. He had come to New York for med school and had met his new wife there. He wanted to go back and she wanted to stay. He was very nice and when the first pain killer he gave me didn't do a thing, he gave me a shot of demerol. And I think I told him I loved him when it took effect. He asked me if I had insurance and when I told him that I didn't, he told me when I left to just leave and say nothing, which I did and never heard anything from anyone.

And by daybreak, I was walking home.

What I saw in the park

Yesterday I went out for my lunch break at about 4:00 p.m. It was about 95 degrees, hot and humid, but there was a nice breeze blowing off New York Harbor so it didn't seem so bad. It is always windy right down on the harbor.

I went to Subway for a sandwich. Let me just add that I think it is probably a sin to eat a Subway sandwich in New York City with all of the wonderful delis around that make far superior sandwiches BUT there is that $5 special AND I know the Weight Watchers points values of the Subway sandwiches. So, I committed that sin anyway and went out to the park to eat.

There is a park nearby with park benches surrounding a fountain. I sat down with my sandwich and started to eat. I saw . . .

A well dressed stock trader (I could see his tag) sat down, pulled up his left pant leg and started to vigorously scratch his left leg with both hands. Then he pulled down that pant leg, pulled up his right one and scratched his right leg as well.

A man, I'd say mid-thirties, came into the circle and strutted around daring anyone to notice him. He was wearing a negligee with a big red flower pattern. He was only wearing the negligee. It barely covered all the parts that so desperately needed to be covered. Every few steps he would flip the back up to reveal his behind. If he did catch anyone looking at him, he yelled, "What are you looking at?" He did not catch me looking. He finally sat down by two people who appeared to know him. I didn't look because I'm not sure what it might have looked like sitting down in that negligee. After all, I was eating.

A man speaking Russian on his cell phone did not sit but circled the fountain, round and round, talking the whole time.

A man, obviously a tourist (you can just tell) and his son, maybe an 8 year-old, were not quite running through the park. The boy obviously needed a toilet and it appeared that he wanted to run but couldn't. You know how it is. They were evidently heading toward the Museum of the Native American to try their luck there. And let me just say to Mayor Bloomberg and the city council members reading this blog that it is time to bring in the self-cleaning pay toilets like they have in Paris. We had a few of them and now they are gone. Bring them back.

Three little birds sat hopefully waiting for me to drop some crumbs. They got nothing from me. I mean, if you feed one . . .

A lady, elegantly-dressed but obviously homeless by the looks of her shopping cart, sat down and pulled out a small sandwich and started daintily eating. SHE fed the birds.

The tourist and his son came back, no longer in a rush, the man giving two thumbs up to the rest of his family across the park. I guess you can potty at the Museum of the Native American. I make a mental note of this for my upcoming book: Gotta Go NYC: a potty guide for tourists. I'm sure it will become a series with all the world's major cities featured. Except Paris. They don't need it. They have self-cleaning pay toilets (and besides that you can really go anywhere in Paris).

The man in the negligee strolled out. I caught him looking back over his shoulder every once in a while to see if anyone was looking. He didn't catch me looking.

My sandwich was gone and it was time to go back in.

Not long ago I was riding my bike along a path in the park near my house and I came upon a turned over shopping cart. It appears to have been someone's "home." It had some shirts, socks, pants and a couple of pairs of underwear as well as a sleeping bag. There were a couple of plastic tubs if different shapes and sizes. And a wash board. Where do you even get a wash board?

There was also some food, a very old, dried up banana and some other things that appeared to have been food at one time.

The best laid plans and a bagel

First of all, there's nothing, nothing like a straight-from-the-oven, never frozen, just made New York bagel. This morning it was an everything bagel - that's everything: salt, onion, poppyseed, sesame seed, and sometimes even a raisin or two. It was steaming hot. Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. No butter or cream cheese needed--they would be redundant.

Then I decided to ride to Brooklyn to go to my friend Brad's church. I decided to ride through Central Park and do the loop a couple of times since I had time. It is a great loop, about 5 miles around and full of hills. Just at the end of my second loop, I heard a pop. I just though a rock hit the bike. But then something felt funny and my back tire was all wobbly. So, I had to find a bike shop, not an easy thing before 10:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

And thanks to the lovely Metropolitan Transit Authority, the trains were all messed up and I had to go the wrong way for about ten stops before I could cross over and go the right way, all the while carrying my bike. up and down the stairs and on and off the trains. And the whole time I'm sure people are looking at me thinking, "Why's he got his bike on the train on such a beautiful day."

I finally got to my bike shop just as they were opening and they put on two new spokes and trued up the wheel. And I stepped out of the store and just as if it were for me, a big clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning and it started to pour. And that's all I have to say about that.

The blind man stood on the road and . . .

Last night I rode my bike to work. I left at about 10:15 p.m. and it takes me about an hour when it is dark out.

I have a blinking, red light on the back of my helmet in addition to the very bright headlight on the handlebar.

As I came out the gate of my apartment, I saw to men standing at the corner with their big Labradors, a yellow and a chocolate, the two dogs sniffing each other, though not the men, as far as I could tell. I got on my bike and headed toward the corner and I realized that I didn’t remember if I had turned on the blinker on the back of my helmet. Not wanting to get off the bike and take off the helmet to check, I slowed and said to the man on the corner with the yellow Lab, “Excuse me, can you tell me if the light on the back of my helmet is blinking?”

“I’m blind,” he said, “this is my guide dog.”

But he was jolly about it, “I’d like to help you,” he said with a chuckle.

I said, “Of all people for me to ask, right?”

Just my bicycle and me

I've never been known for being daring and aggressive. When I was a toddler, my parents entered me with my new tricycle in the tricycle race at the company picnic of Paoli Chair Factory where my dad worked. I can't say that I remember it but evidently I was so proud of myself on my new vehicle that I thought the race was about being seen and not winning. I hear that I rode casually along with a big smile wanting everyone to see me. Some things never change.

We grew up on bikes. In the summertime it seemed like we lived on the road. I guess traffic wasn't what it is now or maybe we just didn't think about it much. No helmets. It was also in the days when we didn't wear seat belts in cars. So I suppose we've just become more safety conscious. Incidentally, I won't even go around the block without my helmet. I figure the day I do is the day I finally have the big accident.

So when I moved to New York City, first to Brooklyn, I found this great bike path that ran along the harbor out to Coney Island. I bought a cheap Huffy and loved riding. On Saturdays I would even ride all the way up to Central Park and ride the loop through it.

It didn't take long to learn the ins and outs of biking in NYC. First of all, you have to spend almost $100 on a lock that will actually prevent theft. I only learned that after three stolen bikes. Also, sometimes even a securely locked bicycle isn't safe. One day I came out of work to find that apparently an elephant had taken a seat on my bike. I later learned that the bike rack where I parked was next to a loading dock and sometimes the trucks backed up on the sidewalk.

I also learned a lot of lessons the hard way. Even if you're only going 5 mph and you're not paying attention and the cab in front of you stops, it still hurts when you hit it. A lot. The day you don't ride your bike to work is the day that there will be a blackout all over the Eastern Seaboard and you'll be walking the 12 miles home instead of riding. If it looks like it is going to rain and you decide to ride anyway, it will certainly rain. A lot. If it normally takes you 40 minutes to ride to work but the wind is blowing against you, you will be late. Cars do not pay attention and the will turn across the bike path in front of you. And you will have to make a sudden jerk to not hit them and it will hurt. A lot. And you will swear at them. A lot.

I typically don't ride much on the city streets. There is a 12 mile bike path along the Hudson River from the top of Manhattan, where I live, to the bottom of Manhattan, where I work. But on occasion, I've been known to ride down Broadway through Times Square just for the thrill. I've gone up First Avenue in rush hour traffic.

This is where being daring and aggressive comes in. I'd say daring is still not smart but I think it takes a bit of daring to ride in New York City. But it is aggressive that is important. I learned that you have to be aggressive. The cabbies can tell if you're timid. You have to take your share of the street and let them know that you know you have as much right to be there as they do.

You also have to obey the traffic laws. I learned that the hard way. One day I safely ran two red lights in a row. It took me several blocks to realize that that siren was for me. $200 and points on my driver's license later, I no longer run red lights. Most of the time.

Biking in New York City is almost always exhilarating. I love it.

One more thing I've learned. If you wear those tight biker shorts (which I do because you kind of have to when you ride as much as I do), people always look down there, men and women. It is like there eyes are drawn to see if they can see something. Did I just get vulgar? Sorry. Anyway, I try to carry an extra pair of "normal" shorts to throw on over my bike shorts but sometimes, there just isn't time.

Rats!

I'm told that rats outnumber people 8 to 1 in New York City. That would make approximately 64 million rats here. I see them all the time. In a way, you get used to them in the subway tunnels. I see a lot of them when I ride my bike to work at night along the Hudson River. I've actually run over some of them. But in another way, you never get used to them and they give everyone the creeps.

A few weeks ago as I was walking home one night, I passed a building about a block from where I live. It was a Sunday night and it looked like the tenants' garbage bins were full so they had just started putting it on the street. As I walked by I saw rats. Not one or two, but more like one or two dozen. I just went on my way with a shiver up my spine. A little too close for comfort and I live on a ground floor.

A few nights later I walked by there again and they were still there. So I decided it was time to do something. I called 311. 311 is the non-emergency version of 911. You can use it for everything from complaining about a noisy neighbor to asking what day to put out your recyclables. I called and explained to the nice lady that there were more than a dozen rats outside this building scurrying about and that there was garbage all over the sidewalk.

I did this every day for a week. I called and reported what I was seeing. About two weeks after my first report, I noticed that there were new bins outside that building and that the superintendent of the building was working like crazy cleaning up. I had never seen him outside before.

I haven't seen a rat since and I'm taking credit for getting rid of them.

The Partner

So last night I made the mistake of checking my phone and saw that a call had come from work while I was napping. It was Wednesday, which is supposed to be my day off. Of course, I listened to the message and they were asking if I could come into our Park Avenue office to work a special meeting. I really hadn’t had enough sleep to work all night but for some reason, I agreed.

This place is used for big meetings and I knew my job was going to be ordering food, putting out snacks, making coffee and in the end, doing whatever The Partner asked me to do. And The Partner in charge, well I can’t really describe him well among polite company so I’ll let you use your imagination. I’ll just say that the rule in dealing with him is “Give him whatever he wants.”

For some reason, I’ve never been afraid of him. One time a few years ago, I was down the hall away from the phone, which was ringing. He was standing over it yelling down the hall, “Hey you, the phone! The phone!” I’ve never done well with “hey you” when I’ve been working with you for months and you haven’t bothered to know my name. So I yelled back, “Well, pick it up. It’s probably for you.” He picked it up. It was for him. That was it. I never heard any more about it.

Anyway, last night, I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about falling asleep. I knew he’d keep me hopping.

I arrived before any of the attorneys or clients. What kind of people call a meeting for midnight?

I made coffee and raided the pantry to put out chips, nuts and cookies. I put out a modest amount. The Partner and a couple of other attorneys arrived and went into the conference room. The Partner came out and said, “If our hunger is any indication, we need to put out more food.” I went in and they, in about five minutes, had reduced the chips and nuts to crumbs. I put out more.

In came about twenty people, mostly all grumpy. A couple of the men I recognized from TV, New York City bigwigs. Immediately The Partner came out to me and said, “We’re going to move into the other conference room.” So, I had to move all the food, coffee, ice, sodas, plates and napkins into the other conference room. And these strange people started their meeting as soon as they got there and they looked at me like I was some kind of zoo animal interrupting their meeting.

Then The Partner came out and said, “It is really hot in here. Can you turn on the air conditioner?” I had to call the coordinator of the conference center (at home at 1:00 a.m.) to ask her how to turn on the air conditioner. It wasn’t in the handbook.

A few minutes later, The Partner came out again, holding out his hand full of Chex mix and said, “Can we get some of this crap in here.”

I said, “Yes, I’ll get some more crap.” Really, that’s what I said.

I went back into the pantry and found more chips, pretzels, Chex mix and Cheetos. Honestly, who wants to eat Cheetos when you’re reading lots of important papers?

I went into the conference room again and everyone looked at my again like I was a spy.

All of the bowls of “crap” still seemed to be overflowing. I’m not sure what he thought they needed more of but I put it all out.

Then I went back to my desk. I can't talk about what the deal was all about. By now it is all over the New York Times and Wall Street Journal. I know there was a lot of yelling and a lot of throwing around of phrases like “hundred million dollars” and “twenty thousand dollars a week.” A lady burst out of the door followed by The Partner. “I can’t stay here,” she said, “we’re handing this deal over to him. I can’t stay.”

So then there was a three-way split in the meeting. One group went into the original conference room where there was now no food. Evidently this group was “counsel for the other side” because The Partner didn’t seem to care if they had crap to eat or water to drink.

At about 3:30 a.m., The Partner came to me and said, “Everyone is cold, can we turn up the heat.”

I told him I’d check into it. I went into the conference room, check the thermostats, which read 68º and turned off the a/c. There was some applause. I have to say, it was really chilly.

Five minutes later he came back, “Any luck on warming it up in here? They are talking about breaking up the table for fire wood.” And I’m thinking, “Who wanted it to be cool? This is not my fault.”

I checked the handbook and it clearly read, “There is no supplemental heating.” It was not going to warm up quickly.

Then I got a call from our downtown office from the lady sitting where I normally sit answering the phone that I normally answer. The Partner had called her to see if she could find someone who knew how to warm up the room. Normally, if he’d called this number, he’d have gotten me. But he got her. So she called me. She was going to call the guy who normally worked there. It was 4:00 a.m. I told her that she could call him if she wanted but I wasn’t going to wake him up.

A few minutes later, he called me, having been awakened, “There is no supplemental heating,” he said..

I sent The Partner and email that said, “There is no supplemental heating.”

All the parties came back together at about 4:30. There was some yelling and a lot of talk about “drawing up the contract” and more talking of “hundreds of millions of dollars.” I also heard the words “cold as a meat locker.”

And then at about 5:00 a.m., everyone walked out. One minute everyone was talking and “conferring” in general and then suddenly, everyone was walking out. Everyone seemed pretty happy. I know I was.

The Partner asked me to call him a car. I resisted the temptation to say, “You’re a car.”

I called cars for him and three others. Not two minutes later, the Partner came out and said, “Any word on the cars?”

I told him I’d called but I was still waiting for cars to be assigned. “Well, we’re going out to the street. Email me with car numbers.”

They left. The car company called with car numbers for the four attorneys. I emailed The Partner. He called and said, “We got yellow cabs. Cancel the cars.”

I canceled the cars.

I went into the conference room. The bowls full of “crap” seemed to be full. I think everyone must have had the same idea about Cheetos that I did. There were dozens of water bottles, half empty (or half full, depending on what kind of person you are) and lots of wadded napkins and a dozen or so half empty soda cans (all diet).

It was over.

Some of my co-workers refuse to work this conference center. They say, “I’m not a maid.” But I sometimes enjoy the clean-up when the lawyers are all gone. I have a Masters Degree but I don’t feel it degrading to play the maid every once in awhile. Believe me, I’ve seen these people throwing around their “hundreds of millions of dollars” and I know I’m a million times happier cleaning up after them than they ever are when they get up in the morning.

Rainy, Friday Rush

First of all, I'm just now getting used to rush hours.

For most of my time in NYC, I've worked the graveyard shift so I was always doing a reverse commute, mostly riding on a fairly empty train and always having a seat. Back in the days when I did work days, I generally rode my bike to and from work.

Yesterday, Friday, was a nasty, rainy day. I had to be at work at 4:00 a.m. and I don't ride my bike on rainy days. The subways were heaving with commuters and none appeared any too happy. It seemed to be raining everywhere, even underground. And the trains just seemed to be crowded and there seemed to be an epidemic of people doing all the things that are on my subway dos/donts list:

1) DON'T stand in the doorway of the train.

2) If there is space in the center of the train, DON'T move to the empty spaces.

3) If you have a backpack, carry it on the subway, DON'T wear it on your back. It is a weapon. And it is like carrying another person on your back.

4) If you're young, DO get up and give your seat to someone who needs it. This includes old people, pregnant women, blind people, people with canes or crutches and especially old women who are just too tired from a week of work.

5) DON'T crack you're gum. If you're cracking your gum and you get shot, well I'm not saying you deserved it but . . .

6) If you know you're getting off at the next stop (and you do) DON'T wait until the doors open and people start getting on before you decide to get up and move to the door.

This list is not exhaustive.

So yesterday, I had to push my way into the train because (1) people were standing in the door and (2) there was plenty of empty space in the middle of the train but people weren't moving in. So then I was stuck standing in the door, breaking my own rule!

I guess the dampness and crowd was just too much for someone. I couldn't see her but I could hear her just raging. I couldn't tell if she was talking to someone in particular or to us or to God or to anyone who would listen, or possibly, just to herself. But she was raging about everything. Her language was what you would call "colorful." She was just mad. In fact, it was only the "colorful" words I could even understand.

Anyway, when I got off, it really started raining. It was raining horizontally and the umbrella was of now use.

It is a beautiful sunny day and I'm not going underground all weekend if I can help it.

Passover begins today

In honor of this Jewish holy day, I'm re-running this which some of you read several years ago. Someone asked me to reprint it. So here it is.

A few years ago I moved into a new apartment, which I’ve since left. One Monday morning I was doing some laundry and when I went down to the basement to put a load in the dryer, there was an old lady down there. She was trying to figure out how to use the new dryer and I showed her. She said she’d prefer to use the old one so I switched my clothes to the other dryer so she could use the dryer she was used to. “They keep putting new things in.” We started talking. She said she’d lived in that building for 45 years.

We both sat down on old, rickety chairs in this dark laundry room in the basement, she, because she wanted to wait for her clothes, I, because I wanted to hear her talk.

She was an elegant 83 years old. “I came to America in 1939 from Germany. You’ve heard of Hitler?” she asked, as if she truly thought I might not have heard of him. Then she continued, “I’m Jewish. My father sent me first to America to get a job and learn English and then I would send for them. My sponsor, the sister of my grandmother, lived in Wilmington, Delaware so I went there but after three months, my uncle in New York found a job for me and I moved to New York to work as maid.”

“I saved hundreds of dollars and in 1941 my parents were to go to the consulate in Stuttgart for the papers. But before they got there, Pearl Harbor was bombed, the war broke out and the consulate in Stuttgart closed. They then went to the Swiss border. I was told to send money to Switzerland and I sent all I had saved but they lied. I never saw my money again and my parents were not able to get through.”

“In the small town where we lived, the people were nice to us. There were only twelve Jewish families in the town. The people told my father, ‘Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you here. We’ll watch out for you.’”

“But later as things began to get bad, no one could protect them. They moved to Frankfurt to try to maybe get lost. I never heard from them again. I married my husband and he was three years in the war in Europe. He went to my hometown after the war and went to Frankfurt to find word of them.

“He was told her that her family, her father, mother and 11 year old sister were listed as ‘lost in the east.’ That meant to Poland and the death camps.

“Roosevelt was like a god to us. But he was an anti-Semite. His advisors were more so. They could have raised the quotas but they didn’t want to get involved. They could have bombed the camps. They could have bombed the railroads to the camps. They knew. We know now that they knew.”

“I felt terrible guilt. Maybe I could have done more. Maybe I could have sent more money. But a good friend, my best friend, helped me more than any doctor. She said, ‘Do you think you’re the only one who lost someone? You’re not the only one. We all lost everyone.’ And that helped me to move on. We all have to move on.”

My new friend told me that she went back to Germany in 1990 and met the mayor, the burgermeister, of her small town. He is the son of the burgermeister of the town when she left as a girl. He said that his father had often spoken of her father as a wonderful, smart businessman.

We talked about how our neighborhood used to be largely Jewish but few Jews remain. She does go to synagogue just down the block in a very small building. It’s funny how I have ridden my bike past that little synagogue almost daily for five years and had never noticed it.

She said she hoped we would meet again as she enjoyed talking to someone young.

“My name is Marty”, I said.

“I’m Berta Stern but you can call me Berta.” I gave her my phone number and told her to call me if she needed anything at all. I’ve since moved and haven’t heard from her.

But it made me remember that there are still people alive who were personally devastated by the Nazis. It seems so long ago and far away but it wasn’t.

Taxi Tales

A couple of years ago I flew back to New York early on the morning after Christmas. I was meeting friends from England up on the Connecticut shore that morning so I was going straight from LaGuardia airport to the railway station in Harlem. It is a short ride, fewer than fifteen minutes, an easy ride on the bus but it was cold and snowy and I wanted to catch the earliest train possible.

So I got on the taxi line and got a cab immediately. In New York City, the law is that a yellow cab has to take you anywhere you want to go within the city limits. I got in. The driver took off and I told him my destination. He stopped and backed up to the dispatcher. He didn’t want to take me. The dispatcher asked me where I was going, “Harlem,” I said.

“Then go!” the dispatcher said to the driver.

One of the other laws is that if you’re going anywhere in the city limits, the cabbie must use the meter. “It would be better for you to play a flat fare,” he said. He must have thought I was from out of town. I knew better but I said, “How much?” He said, “$20!” “No way,” I said, “Turn on the meter.”

He turned it on but started yelling in some South Asian language. I’m sure it was swearing because if it wasn’t, what was the point? He was really angry. He turned to me and said, “I’ve been waiting in the taxi line for two hours and now I get a ten dollar fare. Why didn’t you take the bus?”

I said, “I didn’t take the bus because I didn’t want to and if you don’t like driving a cab, maybe you should do something else.”

He drove recklessly and kept yelling in his native tongue. We crossed the bridge but when we came near the train station, he stopped about a block short and turned off the meter, indicating it was time for me to get out. The fare came to $15 and change. I wanted to give him exact change but I didn’t have it and I was a little afraid to ask for change so I gave him $16.

“You’re not tipping me!”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I’m not tipping you. You don’t deserve a tip. But I am writing down your number.” I actually had already written it down.

I got out of the car and to give myself a head start in case he decided to come after me, I left the back passenger-side door open so that before he could move the car, he’d have to get out and close the door. That didn’t make him any too happy and he was still yelling at me when I entered the station. I called and reported him and took him to taxi-cab court. The day of the trial, I couldn’t get there because of work but I hope he took time out of his busy day to appear.

One of the perks of my job is that I get picked up every night to go to work in a Lincoln Towne Car or something similar. The fare from my house to work is $36 at that time of night. The firm pays the tab. It is a pretty decent fare and the drivers jockey for it since it is a quick trip, about 20 minutes.

One night I got the usual call telling me my car number and what time it would arrive. I went out at the right time and there was no car. I waited for about five minutes and then I called. The dispatcher told me that the driver said he was in front of the building. “Well I’m in front of the building and I promise he’s not here. Can you find out what street he’s on?”

The dispatcher came back and said, “He’s on 133rd street.” I was between 204th Street and 207th Street at number 133. It was going to take the driver about 30 more minutes to get there. So I called work and told them I’d be late. Forty-five minutes passed. I called again, “He’s still not here.”

When the found the driver, he was at my old address about four blocks away. How he got that address, I have no idea. I had them patch me through to the driver and I told him how to find me though his English was nearly non-existent. I finally saw him at the end of the street.

I got in and he turned to me and started yelling. Though his English was bad, I could understand him saying, “Don’t you know where you live?”

“You’re not going to blame me for this,” I said, “I’ve been in the right place all the time. Now, we need to turn around.”

So he gunned the car and went into the next intersection and made a dangerous u-turn, recklessly close to an oncoming car.

“Okay, stop,” I said, “I’m not riding with you.”

He pulled over and I got out. He kept trying to get me to get back in, obviously not wanting to lose the fare (after more than an hour) but I wasn’t getting back in with him. I called for another car and got to work about two hours late.

But one of my favorite cab stories happened just last weekend. It was early Saturday morning and I was going to work. I had called for a car. It was raining when I went out and I didn’t see the car. I went out into the street and looked up the block and I could see a black car sitting about a block up the street. I knew it was mine because what are the odds that someone else on my little block would have a car coming that early on a Saturday morning?

I waved for him but he didn’t budge. So I gave in and walked up the block to him.

“What address do you have?”

“Number 70.” He said confidently.

“Then why did you stop outside of number 58?”

“Oh, sorry sir, GPS tell me I reach my destination.”

You can’t really argue with that, can you?

To be fair, I’ve met some amazing cabbies. I’ve met men who were doctors, lawyers, architects and molecular biologists in their birth countries but they can make a better life for their families as cabbies in New York City. I even met one man who told me he gave up a multi-million dollar grant in nuclear physics at a university and became a cabbie. I believe him.

Just last week a driver who took me home looked like he came straight out of the mountains of Pakistan. He looked like a Pakistani country bumpkin. But he emigrated to Spain in 1973, lived there and learned fluent Spanish, then came to American 15 years later and learned to speak very good English too.

The Soundtrack of My Life

Sorry I’ve been out of the blogosphere for so long. I was in England and while there, came down with the flu and have pretty much been out of commission.

Okay, what I’m about to tell may seem crass but it really happened just tonight on my way home. And for me, it was really part of life in New York and its ups and downs.

First of all, let me say that I’m no stranger to gastrointestinal issues. I probably threw up a minimum of three times a week until I had my appendix out when I was 17. Just talk about a stomach bug going around and the next day, I have it. My first trip overseas was to Haiti. I didn’t get Montezuma’s revenge but I did get seasick. I already know some of you are laughing at the memory and well, you’re just mean! That boat hadn’t been seaworthy since Peter, James and John took up fishing for men and you know it. Not for a ten mile journey across open seas.

After a week on my internship, we were in Costa Rica. I had gotten food poisoning at Pizza Hut, of all places. That thrilled my host family, not that I was sick, but that we went to an American place and got sick. Okay, I’m going to be really crass here. I could poop through a straw. I remember walking with one of my friends after a day in Spanish Language school. You know that feeling when you know you’re not going to make it. We were walking, feeling terrible. I said, “I don’t think I’m going to make it.” Two steps later, I said, “I didn’t.”

I could tell similar stories (and have!) in just about every country I’ve visited.

So today, I went back to work after being sick all week. It wasn’t that kind of sick. But I hadn’t really eaten much all week except soup so maybe my body just wasn’t ready for the junk I ate.

Also, I don’t usually do rush hour. I work midnights so I never really have to deal with the rush hour crowd. But I had been asked to work day shift today so I had to face the Friday rush home on a day when a snowstorm is expected so it seemed especially brutal. I chose the A-train because I wouldn’t have to transfer. I’d only have a little further distance to walk when I got off.

So, I sat down and started my book. Everything was going smoothly. The train seemed to be running fast until we hit 125^th Street in Harlem. When we got there, we didn’t move for 10 minutes. That was an omen and something deep in my stomach started rumbling. It must have been that tuna with everything from Subway. Finally the train started moving while my insides were churning.

Realize that there’s really nothing at all you can do once you’re on the subway. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere. So I sat tight.

I was listening to country on my iPod but it just didn’t feel good. It was grating on me. So I put on some of the most comforting music I know: Carole King. She soothes me. She just makes me happy. The first song that came on takes me to so many places with so many beloved people: Now and Forever. It makes me think of so many people I’ve enjoyed the world with in Asia, Africa, North and South America and Europe. I mean, that song makes me happy. I want to play it at my funeral. So, that was playing when I got off the subway and I was feeling pretty good.

But as I came out onto the street, my mood started to change and I realized things weren’t really feeling right. I was really starting to hurt down there and walking wasn’t helping. There was nowhere to go. Only up. I have to walk from Broadway to 215^th street. I have to walk on 215^th street exactly one block and that one block is 111 stair steps. Yes, this part of 215^th street is stairs. And I was trying to walk gingerly but, what has to be done, has to be done. So I started up. And Carole King started singing “I feel the earth move under my feet.” And I started thinking out funny it was. And then she says, “I just lose control down to my very soul. I get hot and cold all over all over.” And now I’m trying not to laugh and wishing she would stop saying “a tumble-ing down, a tumble-ing down, a tumble-ing dow-owwn.”

By now I’m at the top of the stairs and I still have a block to go. I’m walking very slowly and I must look like a freak. But, hey, who’s going to notice here right? It’s an up and down walk. Once I enter into the complex where I live, I have to go across a courtyard, down some steps, up some more, into the building where I have to decide whether to take the stairs up one flight or the elevator up one floor like a wimp. All this is going through my mind and I’m thinking, “Well, if there’s anyone in the elevator, then I’ll take the stairs, just in case something happens.”

And I’m not kidding you--Carole starts singing in my ear, “So far away, doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore.” And I know that Carole is singing just for me. Yes, it did seem so far away.

Then I’m into the building. No one is in the elevator so I go for it. My key goes right in. No fumbling. Thank goodness no roommate this weekend. I burst in the door and make it to the bathroom JUST IN THE KNICK OF TIME.

Just as I know I’m home free, honest go goodness, I hear Carole singing, “Well, it’s too late baby now it’s too late though we really did try to make it.” Well, Carole, not this time. This time I really did make it.

Sorry everyone. I know it is crass but true.

My coke habit

This goes way back but I definitely think it is worth re-telling.

In 1984 I traveled in a group called The Come Alive Singers. There were seventeen of us--nine guys and eight girls--traveling around the country. Every night sleeping in a different place, almost always with host families.

Early in the summer we were in Upstate New York, I mean way upstate. At the time, I didn’t know there were still places like this in America, least of all in New York. We were singing at a church in a little town called Williamstown. Some if the church members didn’t even have running water and it was rumored that one lady did her dishes in the bath tub. All of us were hoping we didn’t get put in one of those homes.

At the end of each concert, we were faced with the agony of where and with whom we’d be staying that night. There were some scary looking people in this congregation. Since I was at the top alphabetically, I usually got called first. And on this night, I got placed with a seemingly normal young couple. And I got place alone, which was always nice too, not having to stay with someone else in the group. That way you could break the rules. For example, you could say, "I don't eat breakfast."

It was a Sunday night and this had been our second concert of the day. I was tired. My feet were killing me and I had a painful ingrown toenail on my left foot. I couldn’t wait to get to bed.

We drove several miles out in the country and came to a big, square field surrounded by forests. It was beginning to storm. All that was in the field was a lone house trailer. As we got out of the car, the man said, “Yeah, we had a tornado out here last year.” And I was thinking, “Great! I’m staying in a house trailer and we’re going to have a tornado.”

But we got into the house and I went through the necessary good houseguest duties of making small talk and not immediately going to bed like I wanted to. But it wasn’t long until they must have been tired of me too and it was made clear that I could retire. I couldn’t wait to get those cruel shoes off.

I had this little manicure set. It had two clippers, a file and two other little tools. One of the other little tools was, I would later learn, a cuticle pusher. It was round and flat on the end. The other little tool was sharper and I used it to dig relentlessly at my ingrown toenail. I got some relief and then went off to sleep. I remember in the night feeling an object under me in the bed and even realizing that it was that little cuticle pusher. But when I made the bed up in the morning, I must have overlooked it.

At this point in my life, I hated breakfast, especially eggs. I mean sometimes it took all of my will not to throw up if served eggs. But the rule was that we were to eat what we were served. This couple seemed cool enough that I thought I could get by with breaking the rules and tell them I wasn’t hungry and didn’t want breakfast. They seemed fine with that. And we were rushed as it seems we’d overslept a bit. But just as we were going out the door, I asked for a glass of water to take a Sudafed. I told them, “My nose is kind of stuffy this morning.”

That morning we headed back toward Cincinnati, stopping every night to do another concert. By the next weekend we had a few days off in our home-base, Cincinnati Bible College (now Cincinnati Christian University).

It was heaven to be back in our own rooms and to be able to completely let our hair down before facing the rest of a long summer.

We had a couple of free days and I was catching up on my sleep. Early Saturday morning there was a knock on my door. It was the director of the group. He came in and sat down and he was acting very nervous.

He said, “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

I thought someone must have died so I said, “Just tell me.”

He said, “The people you stayed with in New York say they found a coke spoon in your bed.”

I replied “What’s a coke spoon?” (I truly didn’t know.)

He explained that it is used to freebase and snort cocaine. Suddenly, it occurred to me what they had found in my bed and I started laughing. He went on to tell me that he had defended me when the minister from the church called and assured him that I didn’t have the financial wherewithal to support a cocaine habit nor would I be able to hide such a habit from the group.

In the end, I was asked to write a letter to the couple and to the minister explaining everything to them and in a few weeks, my coke spoon, I mean, my cuticle pusher arrived in the mail.

But I love to imagine the couple putting two and two together . . . a coke spoon, lack of appetite and a stuffy nose. “This guy was using coke in our house!”

I used to see the minister from that church from time to time on campus. When I’d pass by him, I’d always hold one nostril shut and snort a little through the other.

Underground Extremes

After work I decided to go to my favorite store, Economy Candy. It is among what’s left of the tenements in the Lower East Side. There’s no place like Economy Candy. It’s been around since the 1930s and it takes a trip there to experience how wonderful an old fashioned candy shop can be. They have everything. Name a candy bar. They have it. They also have big tubs of candy in bulk. Caramels, Mary Janes, Bit-O-Honey. They have dozens of kinds of licorice, even Danish double salt. They have Zagnuts, Skybars, Wax Lips, Bottle Caps and Razzles. They have French Taffy Chews. Black Jack gum, as well as Beemans, Clove and Teaberry. Candy cigarettes and bubble gum cigars. Pop rocks, candy necklaces and Zotz fizz candies. Pixie sticks and Mallo bars. Clark Bars. Oh Henry! Sugar Daddy. Charleston Chews. Chick-o-sticks. Need I go on. And Economy Candy is probably no bigger than your living room.

But this is not really about Economy Candy, as wonderful as it is. This is about my trip to and from.

I get off work at 9:00 a.m. so when I’m on my way home, it is still full-on rush hour. It can be pretty harrowing and people are generally in no mood for joviality. But as I got off of the F-train at Essex and Delancy Streets, I heard the most wonderful, impossible sound.

A crowd had gathered round two musicians, just two old guys, one on a sax and the other on a fiddler. They were clearly Eastern European, totally fitting for the Lower East Side. I know the saxophone and the violin sound like an odd but it was magical. They were playing Hello Dolly! A couple of people were even dancing. And people were dropping dollar bills in their hat like crazy. It was one of those moments that you just don’t expect, especially during the Friday morning rush. I would have bought a cd but I didn’t have any cash. And anyway, it wouldn’t be the same.

So I went to Economy Candy. I was specifically looking for Kinder Eggs, a candy popular in Europe and Canada but illegal in the U.S. For some reason it is not legal to put toys inside candy in this country. But my friends’ little girl collects them and I was sure I could find them at Economy Candy. Sure enough. The guy had them. He doesn’t even hide them. But he does limit the number you can buy. I bought the limit (5) and went on my way.

I took the train uptown and at Columbus Circle, I changed to the 1 Train. At 135^th Street in Harlem, a middle-aged, Central American man, probably Mexican, with an accordion got on. Now some of these guys who ride the rails playing their traditional music all the time and some of them are really good. But this guy. Well, he couldn’t play the accordion. And he couldn’t sing. I mean, he couldn’t sing. And evidently, he couldn’t sing and play the accordion at the same time. He would make some noise on the accordion, a few dissonant chords, and then he would warble a few lines. I was listening to music on head phones but I could hear enough as he was standing right beside me. I laughed, a bit out of pity. I actually worked out in my mind how to say, “I’ll give you money if you stop,” in Spanish. But I thought it better to keep quiet.

He stopped and made a little speech, something like, “Thank you for listening and thank you very much for your generosity.” And then he took off his hat and made his way through the car. From what I could tell, he got three dollars. Not bad for two minutes between stations, roughly a dollar a minute.

You just never know what you’re going to get in New York City.

Riding the rails

Last week I had jury duty. I was so excited. Two whole days of being captive in a room where all I have to do is sit and read a book and wait for my name to be called! And the firm pays my full salary! What could be better?

On the second day, I didn’t get seated on a jury so I was released. And I didn’t have to go to work that night so I was free to do what I wanted. At about 6:45, I decided to rush down to see what Broadway shows were on half price for the night. Shows start at 8:00 so I knew I’d be cutting it close.

I decided to take the 1 train. It is a little closer to my house but it runs local whereas the A runs express but is a little farther down the street. It was sprinkling rain a little and I decided to go for the shorter walk.

I got to the subway and the 1 train promptly pulled into the station just like it had been waiting for me to get there. I got on and sat down comfortably with my book. Three stops later, the train pulled into the station at 181st Street and we didn’t move. After a few minutes they made an announcement that because of police investigation at the 168th Street station, no trains were moving in either direction. It was now 7:10 and it was going to be tight for me to make a show.

But not to be outdone by the Metropolitan Transit Authority, I decided to walk the three or four blocks over to the A train and I headed for the stairs.

I guess I looked like I knew where I was going because a young Jewish guy, I’d say he was about 20 years old, caught up with me. “Do you know how to get to the A-train?”

“Yeah, it’s just a few blocks west. I’m going there. I’ll show you.”

Just outside the 181st Street Subway station is Yeshiva University, the Modern Orthodox Judaism school which combines Torah study with secular studies. It is about a mile from where I live so there is a large Jewish community not far from where I live. It is fun on Friday evenings to walk the streets in the Jewish community and catch a glimpse of them celebrating shabbas.

So, we walked and chatted. I asked him if he lived up here (because I thought it odd that he didn’t know how to get to the A Train). “You might call it living. I live in a dorm room with four other guys at Yeshiva. It’s not Brooklyn.”

“I love Brooklyn,” I said, “I used to live there. But I didn’t think I was living in New York unless I lived in Manhattan. So I gave up a really great apartment to move up here. What was I thinking? I’m sure I couldn’t even touch that apartment now.”

“Yeah, Brooklyn is the best.”

I asked him what he was studying. “I’m doing general studies right now. I’d like to study history. But then there’s the Jewish guilt. My mother wants me to study law or medicine.” We both chuckled at how stereotypical it was. Every Jewish mother, you know, wants want her son to be a doctor or lawyer or maybe a rabbi.

We came upon a beggar, a black man. The beggar said, “Guys, can someone spare a little change, a tzedakah, for a hungry man?” My young friend put his hand in his pocket for change. Of course, I couldn’t let the Jew outdo the Christian in charity so I dug into my pocket too.

We gave him our change and went on. “Did you hear what he said?” my Hebrew friend asked, “he said ‘tzedakah.’ That’s the Hebrew word for charity.”

I had heard the word before. An attorney at the firm where I work was mad at her mother because her mother decided one year to give tzedakah instead of giving her children Christmas presents. And anyway, anyone who lives in NYC has to at least know a few words of Hebrew or Yiddish to get by.

“Well, I give the beggar points for knowing his audience well.”

“That’s true,” my friend said.

By the time we got to the A train, it was almost 7:25 and I was almost sure I wouldn’t make a show. But it was a great, rainy New York night and I could find something to do.

We went down into the hole in the ground. The 181st Street station is very deep. When we got to the platform, it was awkward. I know what was going on. I wanted to read my book. And he wanted to read his book. We both felt a sort of obligation to keep talking but just because we walked to the train together, didn’t mean we were going to be blood brothers. So we both kind of shuffled around on the platform and slowly drifted away from each other. When the train came, we both got on the same car but sat across from each other, not beside each other. I read my book (oddly, my book was about the Jews during the Nazi era).

Our A train flew down the tracks. We were at 42nd street by 7:50. We both exited at the same door. “This was way faster than the 1 train any day,” he said.

And that was it.

I ran up three blocks to TKTS and got a great ticket to Spring Awakening. It won the Tony for Best Musical last year. I wasn’t that impressed.

I was more impressed with my little encounter on the subway. I love New York.

Cleaning out my closet

I recently went down the street to do my laundry. I had an embarrassingly large amount of dirty clothes but only a little larger than normal. I'm ashamed to say that it took me two trips to take two very large bags of my clothes to wash. I hoped that anyone who saw me would just think that I was doing laundry for a family of six.

So, I chose one of the Mega washers. That's what it says, "Mega." It says it is good for rugs and comforters. But I can get something like four loads in it. And then for the rest, I chose the large, which holds like three normal loads. By the way, I don't sort. I just throw everything in and hope for the best.

I couldn't help but notice three young Mexican men, boys really, come in. They each had a pillowcase with their dirty clothes and their pillowcases weren't bulging at the seams like my laundry bag was. Their "laundry bags" were only about half full. These guys were obviously laborers like most of the immigrants in my neighborhood. So, they proceeded to choose one of the small "1 load" washers and put their clothes in it. I mean the three of them put all of their clothes in one small washer!

If these guys are like most immigrants I've met, they work six days a week. So I'm quite sure they were doing their weekly laundry.

I'm embarrassed and ashamed. I have way too many clothes. I'm reminded of my friend who went to India to preach. They were in a village and a large number of people decided to be baptized in the evening. But it was cold and they couldn't baptize the people that night because the only had one thing to wear. One thing. They only thing they had to wear was what they had on their backs.

Okay, I'm getting rid of stuff. I should have done this before I moved two months ago. Well, I started a little. I threw away 15 pairs of underwear. They weren't ratty or torn. But I realized I can go 50 days without washing underwear. That must be criminal.

Any hints on how to decide what to get rid of are welcome.