CityStories
For like, 2 minutes.
Spotted: teenage boy staggering down Broadway on the UWS, protesting to his friend, just after hawking an enormous loogie, “Bulllllshiiiiiit! I’ve been sober for like, 2 minutes.”
February 2011
16 posts
Umbrellllaaaasss
Thank you, she said, but I’m just looking for now.
That’s no problem, he said, as she set down the umbrella she’d been looking at. It was one of those long umbrellas, the kind with the wooden handles like a J, the kind you see businessmen carry. He had one like it unfurled in his hands, though it wasn’t raining. It was purple and yellow; he twirled it in circles above his head.
As she left, he started to sing, loudly, richly, operatically, as if selling umbrellas were his role in a production at the Met, “Um-brellllll-aaaaas, umbrellas, umbrellas, umbrellas, um-brellll-aaaas.”
mills: Five Foot Nine from Palestine →
blog.millsbaker.net
This morning, I was stopped by a older schizophrenic woman who was trying on wigs she’d found on the sidewalk near my house. Her eyes had a felicitous spark: she posed as I approached, smiling at me, her layered, filthy clothes making an indistinct shape of her form. Unprompted, she asked me for my dogs’ names; when I introduced Bayou, she exclaimed that she too was from the Bayou; I added that I was from New Orleans, and she said she was too. When I introduced Five, she complained that her favorite number was nine. It was an important element, she added, in the lyrics to a song she was writing for a film:
Five foot nine,
Eyes that shine,
From Palestine,
He’s Jesus!She danced as she performed; it was a catchy melody and I didn’t have to force my smile, although the speed with which her successive questions followed my answers made me wonder how I’d make my way home. She asked me if I’d play Jesus; I said I could not.
She then asked me: “Which way do you swing?” I mentioned, feeling oddly as though I were doing so too late, that I had a girlfriend who was in fact upstairs at that moment.
“Oh, fuck off then,” she said, smiling, glowing. “I just got married last night. Just married. I’m married!”
“How wonderful,” I said; I don’t know if this was, in context, idiotic or appropriate.
“I’m pregnant now thanks to it,” she continued, coming in close. “I have Five little babies in me. Five, five. His name is Seven. What do you call it when you have five babies?”
“Quintuplets, I think.” Then, since she would be dealing with these babies for many months, I added: “Some people just call them quints, I believe.”
“Quints, quints! How old do you think I am? I wont tease you. I’m fifty!”
She looked much younger, and I told her so.
“Why thank you,” she exclaimed, and she darted in to kiss me on the cheek and say, “Goodbye, I’ll be seeing you! Goodbye, Bayou! Goodbye, Five! I have to feed the quints.”
And off she went, wig and hat and bags in hand, looking over her shoulder at us, smiling, eyes bright.
Seems silly to reblog, given that the whole Internet reads mills, but you know, for the sake of archiving the good stories in one place:
Two courtroom OHs for you:
(1) Judge to middle aged, balding man:
And what major did you have in college?
Middle aged man to judge:
Uh, partying?
(2) Lawyer in prim suit to colleague:
I’m wearing my boring suit for court today but I’m going out in Williamsburg tonight; I’m not sure what I’ll do.
Colleague to lawyer:
It’s Williamsburg. Wear it ironically.
Underheard in New York
This gets my vote for one of the best websites about our city I’ve seen yet. It’s not all fun and games, is it? Nope, New York (modern life? humanity?) has its dark & stormy side, something that’s been all too unavoidable as the effects of the recession have pounded down the hardest on the people already struggling just to get by. We often see these stories from the outside looking in. But how about hearing some stories first hand?
Underheard in New York is a cool project that provides four men, all homeless for various reasons, with prepaid cell phones to let them narrate their every day stories in 140 characters or less. Here’s a sneak peek. Follow them on twitter or check out the website for more.
Danny (@putodanny):
Danny used to work as a security guard before he was hurt on the job. He can’t work most jobs now due to sustained injuries. Danny is hoping to earn social security disability benefits and has just finished applying. He hopes to make people realize that sometimes you physically can’t work — that surviving without income isn’t a choice.
Derrick (@awitness2011):
Derrick is interested in jazz, cycling and chess. His dream is to own his own business, an entertainment facility for Christians that serves as a place for fellowship.
Albert (@albert814):
Albert has been homeless since 2008. He worked for years as a welder before being laid off, and hasn’t found another job despite persistent searching. He can no longer weld due to his eyesight.
Carlos (@jessie550):
Friends and family don’t know that Carlos is homeless because he doesn’t want to tell them; he intends to get on his own two feet independently. He works daily to start his own business in credit collection which would allow him to utilize his master’s degree and years of work experience.
I must have missed the first part of the joke:
He: “Your butt tastes like peppermint?”
She: Hahahaha…
People Who Try To Have Banter With Non-English Speaking Waitstaff
Not even a por favor?
Dude walks into a cafe and does one of those “I’m saying something condescending but I’m smiling at you so it’s like we’re sharing a joke together” moves.
“Is this how you fix stuff around here?” he said, pointing to a dubiously taped-up cash register.
The guy behind the counter stared blankly.
Then the guy orders a piece of pizza, but on the side he asks for just a bit of lettuce and tomato with some oil and vinegar. No, not a salad, JUST A BIT OF LETTUCE AND TOMATO THAT’S ALL DON’T GO TO ANY TROUBLE (i.e., don’t charge me for a full salad).
I thought about killing myself but then decided to just blog about it.
Tango Dancing
Good night, I said, as I walked by the security guards.
Good night, one said.
Another one leaned back in his chair, Where you goin’, tango dancin’?
I just smiled and kept walking.
As I reached the door I heard a third one say, She didn’t even say…
Missed Connections, Valentine's Day edition
Congratulations on surviving yet another year of candy hearts and boxed chocolates. But before you move on to St. Patrick’s day, think for a minute of those sad, smitten, souls who see a spark on the subway, or at the dry-cleaners, and just cannot bring themselves to get a number. Haven’t we all been there?
In their honor (our collective honor, really), City Stories offers a round of V-day *missed connection poetry. As the last poem says, here’s to giving missed connections a shot. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always next year …
{*”Poems” are Craigslist Missed Connections posts; nothing is added but line breaks.}
February 15
Valentine’s Day is So Dumb
I’ve never posted on here like this,
but I read these all the time…
We both got on a BK-bound F train
At 2nd ave at around midnight last night.
Oh man, I couldn’t even
concentrate on my book…
You got off at Jay Street.
Valentine’s day is so dumb.
February 15
I Came in with a Big Order
I came in with a big order, and you
took care of me. You had
this naughty, flirtatious smile on your face
the whole time, I thought you were
so cute.
About 5 minutes later I came back to get
one more coffee, and I saw you
leaving.
We turned back
and looked at each other…
Bye sexy ;)
Feb 14
Overcommercialized Holiday
I saw you as I was getting off at Harlem.
You were wearing a white sweatshirt
and librarian glasses
and a white messenger bag.
I caught a major case of l’esprit de l’escalier
as you were walking toward the subway:
I was going to ask you
why you didn’t have a date for Valentine’s Day,
but I thought better of it
and you got off at 96th street.
I’m an idiot. You were really cute.
I was the unkempt Asian dude
with crazy looking sneakers
on with my work clothes.
I figured at 10PM no one would catch me wearing them. Oops!
Drop me a line,
I’d love to be your date for the next
overcommercialized holiday we have.
Feb. 14
Share the Coconut Water
Oh what a way
to spend Valentine’s Day -
in Whole Foods.
It was a long day and I wanted to
rally up the courage to introduce
myself
but I didn’t.
Half thought you would be standing outside
after the long ass check out line.
You are sexy and appear sweet
and would love to meet.
And share the coconut water.
Send a note. xx
Feb. 14
You had a Godiva bag on the 4/5 line
Ok, so, I never do this because it’s ridiculous.
But in the spirit of romanticism/valentine’s day
I thought I’d give it a shot.
You’re about 5’9, and in shape.
Medium brown hair,
light brown eyes.
You were wearing a gray suit.
I think maybe prada shoes.
A well fitted blue shirt,
And a rep tie.
You carried your overcoat on your arm
and a white godiva chocolate bag.
I got on at 14th and got off at Fulton,
and I couldn’t keep from looking at you.
I’m 26, 5’8, and had a suit and overcoat on.
Here’s to giving missed connections a shot
Neighborhood Problems
{After yesterday’s morning rant, I couldn’t not share this}
“Oh good, the bus decided to come today,” the woman said as I joined her at the curb, awaiting the bus stalling at the light a block down.
“Huh?” I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had to wait for this bus for very long. With the exception of yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?”
“Ugh, it was horrible. I waited like, 15 minutes, then it was so crowded, and the driver kept dancing around on the break, jerking me all over the place. It took 45 minutes to get downtown.”
“Yup, sounds about right,” she said. “Yesterday was normal. You must be getting lucky other days.”
The bus pulled up and she ceased her trash talk long enough to give the driver a polite–even a sincere–hello. I followed suit. “Good morning,” he replied, smiling. He didn’t seem like the kind of driver who would jerk around on the breaks.
The bus was fairly empty; the woman I took seats opposite each other.
“Musta been one running late just before this,” she said, “see how empty it is?” She proceeded to tell me about how she and some others are putting together a petition about this bus route, to try and get it to run more promptly.
“Is it that bad?” I asked.
“Huh! This is one-a the worst. The drivers are always stopping for no reason, saying there’s no problem and doing something for twenty minutes and we be like, ‘Where he go? What’s goin’ on?’ And they never tell us nothing, they just stop when they feel like it.” The rant continued. She wasn’t mean spirited, so much as frustrated. The woman wanted to get to work on time. Who can blame her?
The problem with local buses soon turned to other local problems. “There’s too much trash. We got too many different cultures together and everyone got different ideas about trash, so we can’t seem to keep it clean. We need to get together and pick that up, keep our street nice.” She paused, as if reflecting. “ But you know, Washington is getting better, I seen it change.”
“Lots more business are opening up,” I interjected.
“Oh yeah,” she said, “but not all-a them are what people need. People gotta think. How many black hair salons we gotta have on one street? I know everybody want their own salon, but we don’t braid our hair that often!”
“A bakery,” I suggested.
“Oh yeah, that’d be real nice, that grocery store, it get that prepackaged bread, sometimes it’s stale. That’s what I mean. People need to think. Someone need to think that people might want bread, and open up a bakery.”
We soon reached her stop and she disembarked, waving goodbye. “Look out for that petition,” she said.
“I will.”
A few blocks later, the driver turned his head to survey the bus when we stopped for a light. “Oh! You’re the only one!”
I was. I told him my stop. He zoomed by the empty bus stops. We moved so quickly we passed the previous bus on the line, the one before us that had been so late, picking up all the passengers and leaving our bus comfortably empty.
Once he had to hit the breaks hard because a car swerved in front of us. “I’m so sorry!” he said.
Not even a little.
I walked in to the County Clerk’s Office, got what I needed, and got out. As I left, the security guard said, “What, that was like one or two minutes? We can’t even make your life a little bit miserable?”
Being in the story - or, a meandering Valentine's Day tale
I started the day pretty cranky. I posted something I called a “morning rant” on my other blog, even though it was a City Story; this is my cheery blog. On this blog I’m perpetually curious, winsome, affable. Definitely not cranky.
As penance, perhaps, and to compensate for the dearth of posts lately, this story is a little different from this site’s usual observations divorced from the narrator’s personal engagement.
Last year around this time I was so devastated by a boy that I took a sick day from work just to cry. Around that time my grandma’s neighbor, who I knew from scattered childhood visits, came to NYC to check out grad schools and crashed with me. Then the snowstorm hit, and a two night stay turned into nearly ten. He scrubbed my oven clean, made Cooks Illustrated Indoor Pulled Pork with me when my work too was closed for snow, and asked baristas to take our photo. On Valentine’s Day, I didn’t stay home and cry because he took me out to see live music.
We didn’t get together, or even hook up, but his visit nonetheless helped. I loved seeing the city from his view, an outsider filled with wonder at the great tourist attraction of simply weaving through this beautiful mess of a city’s masses of people.
It wasn’t much later I started this blog as a way to divert myself from the sadness, to help me look more closely, listen more intentionally, to again view this beloved adopted city through those wonder-tinted glasses.
This year on Valentine’s Day I did the following:
I wrote a cranky blog post about a bus ride from hell, as you know.
I made plans with a friend to see live music later in the week; he bought me a ticket and said I could “just get [him] a drink or something,” a casually thoughtful gesture that warmed me right up.
I ran to, then over, the Brooklyn Bridge, fighting through the wind against me until I was so distracted by the glittering city lights I forgot my exhaustion and sprinted hard the last quarter mile to the 4/5.
I saw a guy I used to be attracted to on the train with a gift bag in his hand, a box with a bow, a bottle of something. I pretended I didn’t see him. He tried to get my attention. I pretended to be lost in my music.
I went to a reading at a local bar, featuring local authors. It was packed, on Valentines Day, standing room only. I snagged seats for my friend & me at a table with an Irish poet.
The bar was near the home of a guy I went out with a bit over the summer, a guy I may have thrown myself at a little too enthusiastically as part of my unceasing crusade to get over the original heartbreak. I was both hoping to see him (so much has changed now!) and hoping I wouldn’t have to (I still feel like such an idiot).
Instead I saw a guy I went out with twice during that same period and never heard from again, holding a girl’s hand.
Did I feel like a Valentine’s Day failure? Two random sightings of ex-flames, though flame is a little generous in both cases, both unceremoniously extinguished? No. I came home to an email from someone who misses me, who is looking forward to seeing me again. It’s not much yet, but it’s nice to not feel like one has left the last gas station for miles on a nearly empty tank.
Did I swear to myself it’s A-OK because I’m in love with NYC, like I’m a character on Sex and the City?
No. Not that either. I do love this city, as I suspect you do, if you read these musings. But we don’t just crave variety and excitement and a good laugh; we crave human companionship. It’s not enough to only observe from the outside; we have to be in the story sometimes, too.
Happy Valentine’s Day; I hope you had a good story.
I'm not the one.
The woman and I entered at the same time, fighting a little for a piece of handrail, highly in demand on this poorly-designed C train. We exchanged looks–raised eyebrows, pursed lips, a mix of frustration and resignation. She, short and stocky, was wedged in beneath a few taller, overcoated, oblivious businessmen. Everyone but the two of us, it seemed, kept eyes steadfastly averted, surviving the crowded ride by avoiding recognition of fellow passengers, as we do here.
Suddenly she broke the artificial wall of isolated quiet in the train. “Get yo’ bag off my foot, please!” The words said please; the urgent, exasperated tone did not.
The man with the offending bag, cloaked from the bedlam in his dark coat and headphones, looked down at her. “My bag’s not on your foot!”
“Yes it is. Else I wouldn’t’a asked you to get it off my foot.”
“It’s not on your foot,” he insisted. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not the one.”
“I’m not the one either,” she rebutted, chin out, spreading her tiny stature as if to ready for combat. Then she looked up to the ceiling, as if pleading for reinforcements. “Satan is the father of lies,” she intoned, not so much at him as about him, to a higher power. “Oh yes,” she rocked, eyes closed in momentary reverence, “I plead the blood of Jesus on you.”
