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.