Bus Stop

My homey Lacey recently started up a blog about her daily bus ride: The 167 Short Bus. It's hilarious and profane and it's funny because it's true.

I hate riding the bus. My problem generally is the hygiene of the clientele.

I never rode a public bus until I went to college in Syracuse, NY. My friend Nicole and I used to sometimes take the city bus back from our internships downtown. We had to wait at the sketchy downtown bus depot on S. Salina St., sometimes for a long while if we'd just missed a bus. There were a lot of "special" people also waiting for the bus -- apparently there was some sort of substandard last-stop mental health facility on one of the bus lines. Usually they were pleasant and harmless, but some of them really weren't prepared to be out on their own and did not handle it well. There were also the standard drunken unwashed in the pool of riders, and dirty lecherous men, as well. We tried to avoid the bus when we could, but sometimes the snow was piled too high for us to hoof it.

So this one spring (read: cold, snowy and miserable) afternoon, Nicole and I were walking up to wait for our bus when we saw this guy who appeared to be following us. We kept walking around the bus stop and so did he. And then we noticed he had this foot-long string of green snot swinging from his nose. We continued around the bus stop one more time with him about 10 paces behind us, the snot string turning into a three-foot-long rope. Swing. Swing. Swing. We then realized he planned to circle the bus stop regardless of whether we were fleeing in front of him, and we stepped to the side. We cringed against the glass of the bus stop as he loped past us, and although we tried not to look, both of us saw the final few swings of the snot rope. It didn't fall to the ground; no, it swung full-on into the front his grubby navy blue parka and sealed itself to the fabric.

Our bus came shortly after that, and he did not board. As I remember it, Nicole and I elected to walk the mile or so back to campus after our internships for the rest of the semester.

Denizens of the Night

The other night, I was getting a bottle out of the fridge around 4 a.m. when I noticed a car parked haphazardly across the street, engine running, lights on, driver's door open. And then I saw a middle-aged woman in dumpy clothes running toward our house. Full speed. With what looked like alarm on her face.

My heart started racing. Why was this woman running toward me? Did she see me in the kitchen with the light on? Does she need my help? Is she being chased by someone dangerous?

Holy shit! She was running up our sidewalk. Should I yell for Steve? Oh my god!

Then I heard a smack on the porch and saw her run back down the sidewalk, jump into her car, and speed away.

I stood frozen in the kitchen, Lexie in my arms, heart pounding. Finally I made a decision. I threw open the front door.

And I saw it -- sitting right at my doorstep:

The Washington Post.

Eating My Shoe

On June 30, 2000, I found myself at a Braves-Mets game at Shea Stadium as the Mets fell behind, 8-1.

This was the first Mets-Braves series in NYC after John Rocker's infamous verbal trashing of New York in a December '99 Sports Illustrated article. I'd bought tickets to two games, hoping to be there to boo Rocker in person for being a huge jerk. The first night of the series, I had that opportunity, and then watched the Mets fall to Rocker's unhittable pitches. This night was Game 2. My friend Tim and I were sitting up in the nosebleed seats, next to a group of special-needs adults with questionable hygiene who kept accidentally sitting in our seats, necessitating a few polite discussions on our part with the group leader.

The situation seemed grim on several levels, so I called my Mets-fan pal Jason down in his regular seats about a half mile closer to the action. I informed him that his team sucked, adding that if they came back to win, I would eat my shoe. It turned out to be one of the biggest Mets comebacks ever.

Final score: Mets 11, Braves 8.

About two years later, on Saturday, May 25, 2002, my brother and I were watching the Boston Celtics in the playoffs on TV, and he became increasingly agitated as the Celts fell woefully behind the New Jersey Nets. The Celtics were down 21, and I decided to try something. I announced, "Chris, if the Celtics win tonight, I will eat my shoe." It ended up being one of the biggest Celtics comebacks ever.

Final score: Celtics 94, Nets 90.

Last night, I watched the Celtics not bother to show up for the first quarter of Game 4 in the NBA Finals against the LA Lakers. My brother and I emailed back and forth as the game went on, with the Celts down as much as 24 points. Around halftime, with the Celts still down 58-40, I emailed my brother: "If they win tonight, Chris, I will eat my shoe."

Unless you live under a rock, you probably know what happened -- one of the greatest Celtics comebacks ever.

Final score: Celtics 97, Lakers 91.

So I have concluded that I have magical powers. This morning, my brother emailed me: "What does shoe leather taste like?" I wouldn't know -- the best thing about my apparent powers is that eating a shoe doesn't appear to be required. I haven't followed through on the promise yet.

Go Celtics!

A Very NYC Valentine's Day Taxi Story

I intended to write this one up for Valentine's Day, but better late than never.

***

One Valentine's Day circa 1999, back when I was living in New York, I found myself single and looking for something entertaining to do. I set up a dinner with three girlfriends, and we embraced the idea of enjoying a girls' night out. We booked reservations at Florent, a cool French diner in the Meatpacking District. (This was before Bungalow 8 made the Meatpacking District into hipster central -- at the time, meat odors of varying freshness still wafted through the neighborhood air.) But this post isn't about the restaurant. It's about the journey. Or rather, the mode of transportation.

My friends and I left work around the same time that V-Day evening and headed down to the taxi stand in front of our office. We were third in line, with two couples in front of us, and cabs were scarce. The way I remember it, the weather was cold and snowy. A cab pulled up for the first couple, and they headed off. Then, the couple right in front of us saw an empty car from a car service (a Town Car for hire) about 10 yards away. The couple got out of line and began negotiating with the car service driver.

Finally, a taxi pulled up in front of us. We opened the door, and out of nowhere, a homeless-looking guy plunged into the taxi ahead of us. He ignored my protests and that of my friends, and told the cab where he wanted to go. As he prepared to shut the door, I called out, "Happy Valentine's Day, ASSHOLE."

Suddenly, the taxi driver asked the guy: "Do you have any money?"

The guy didn't answer -- he just jumped out and ran off. (I assume the answer was no.)

We wasted no time piling into the cab. I can't speak for the other ladies, but I know I was smiling smugly. It wasn't over yet, though.

The couple that had been negotiating with the car service came running back to the cab, claiming it was theirs. I felt no guilt, as they had clearly relinquished their spot in line. AS IF we were going to get out. Someone shut the door. We all waved goodbye to the couple, grinning widely.

And we drove off cheerfully into the snowy, lamplit evening.

A True Story About a Terrible 'Taint Rash

This is not a forward. This happened to an acquaintance, and this is the story as told to me over a few days as the affliction played out. I'm posting this story without the victim's permission, so no names are used -- just Guy and Girlfriend. But I felt it was a story that should be told.

Guy gets a rash in his 'taint area. Doesn't go to the doctor. Waits until it's so bad he's almost screaming in pain -- it's dried and cracked and bleeding. Guy goes to the emergency room.

He's put in stirrups, naked from the waist down. The doctors are in shock. More doctors come. Guy hears many doctors saying "whoa" or similar. They hang a curtain across his midsection, to protect his privacy (ha!), and medical students begin parading through. They come in small groups and stand there impressed as they inspect his private area.

He's sent home after about six hours on display. The nurses "dress" his afflicted area and show him how to apply said dressing himself. Girlfriend goes to pick up Guy at hospital. He walks to the car as if he's straddling a hobbyhorse. When he gets home, Guy realizes that the dressing is attached with tape to a very hairy area. He pulls it off, screaming like a lost child. Girlfriend tries really hard not to laugh.

The next morning, Guy applies the entire dressing with about one square inch of tape, total. He begins to walk toward the door, and the dressing slides out of his pant leg. Not enough tape. He inquires about the use of maxi pads as a dressing-holder. Turns out maxi pads don't work with boxers.

A few hours later, Girlfriend receives text message from Guy:
"In CVS. Buying Depends."

The next day, Guy does in fact wear the Depends, and Girlfriend notes that they make him look like a baboon. Apparently Depends have a reservoir in the butt to hold bodily expulsions. And it sticks out. Guy loves the Depends, and wears them proudly.

But the 'taint rash is still very painful. Guy goes to a dermatologist and gets a cortisone shot directly in his 'taint. Guy is then lectured on allowing the area to air out.

I am pleased to report a happy ending. Guy was fully healed after a week or so.

My Musical Legacy

When my Grandma died, she left me her 1907 Steinway upright piano. I don't really know how to play it, other than the standard Heart and Soul, Chopsticks, and a couple of shaky Christmas tunes. My Grandma left me the piano because, she said, I was "the most musical" of her grandchildren.

Music was my Grandma's life. She played on the radio in the '30s, went to NYU to study music, and gave lessons throughout her life. When she was raising her family in Larchmont, NY, she often found herself accompanying her trumpet-playing neighbor, Doc Severinson, who eventually became the band leader on Johnny Carson's late night show. (Really.)

As a child, each Thanksgiving I was forced to bring my acoustic guitar to play "Happy Birthday" along with Grandma on her piano for my brother's Nov. 26 birthday. (The relatives always showered Chris with birthday gifts on Thanksgiving, but my January birthday was much less fortuitous.) My older, cooler cousins, Dutch and Marilyn, never said anything about the guitar, but I know, deep down, that they saw this behavior as incredibly nerdy. Grandma, however, saw it as irrefutable evidence of my commitment to music.

If prepubescent mortification could be considered currency, I paid a lot for this piano.

When Grandma first met Steve, on Thanksgiving in 2000, she was diminished in body and mind but still remained interested in her musical legacy. She took me aside after dinner and asked me, "Does Steve play any musical instruments?"

"No, but he does have a really good singing voice," I answered truthfully.

"Good, good," she replied, nodding her head. I could see the wheels turning, calculating the increased chance that, assuming things with Steve worked out, her eventual great-grandchild would be musical as well, assuring the musical legacy for another generation. I know that made her very happy.

Grandma was too sick to come to our wedding in 2004, and she died in January 2005. We had the piano shipped here last summer, and, $3,900 in restoration costs later, it's like new inside and ready to make music again (see photo, above).

Now I just have to learn to play it.

Fish Guy

Before my uncle died, he had a custom salt water tropical fish tank installed in his foyer. They hired a fish guy to maintain their tank. He's a self-employed marine biologist with a passion for fish tanks and their occupants.

After the fish guy's first visit, my aunt saw to her great dismay that my uncle had written the check to "Fish Guy."

"How are they going to cash a check made out to 'Fish Guy'?" she demanded. "I can't believe you did that! That is so embarrassing. Can't you ask the guy his name?" My uncle waited until she was done excoriating him, and then informed her that the name of the company was actually "Fish Guy."

The family continues to employ Fish Guy for tank maintenance. One night last week, the pump abruptly stopped working. My cousin Tara made the call:

Tara: "Fish Guy, we got problems."

Fish Guy: "Talk to me, T. Talk to me."

Tara: "It's not good, Fish Guy. It's not good."

The exuberant Fish Guy arrived for an emergency visit first thing the next morning. He took care of the problems in no time at all, at a cost of $300/parts, $100/labor.

It must be great to be able to support yourself doing something you love.

It reminded me of part of a song called "Twin Rocks, Oregon" by Shawn Mullins, about a stranger he meets at a rest stop.

Well, I told him I too had been travelin around
livin out of my van from town to town
playin for tips and whatever records I could move

I said "I don't reckon I'll be makin it big.
You know it's hard to get rich
doing coffee house gigs."
And he said "yeah, but ain't it a blessing
to do what you want to do."

And I told him "yeah, I pulled off here
to watch the sun disappear into the ocean
`cause it's been years since I smelled this salty sea"
and he turned his bottle up and down
he saw me lost and he saw me found.
And I said
"I don't know what I've been looking for, maybe me."

Like a Kid on Christmas Morning

This is another story from way back.
____________________________________

I used to live on a quaint tree-lined street of brownstones in Brooklyn, NY. One weekend in Summer 2001, Steve came up to visit from his Naval station in Norfolk, VA. He got the best parking space he'd ever gotten in Brooklyn, right in front of my house.

That Sunday, we returned from brunch and found two ambulances and three police cars on the block, one flipped-over rented Jeep Cherokee, one psychotic driver of said Jeep, one totalled Saturn parked in front of Steve's car, and Steve's Ford Contour with several additional contours and minus one passenger-side mirror. It was driveable, but not in good shape.

Word on the street was that the driver of the flipped Jeep was on three depression medications, including Lithium. The cops were trying to figure out if they could arrest her for reckless driving but they didn't because they couldn't determine if she wasn't supposed to be driving while on the meds. (Personally, I thought the evidence spoke for itself, but who am I to say?) She was screaming profanity at the police, who were just trying to help. After some psychotic rocking on someone's stoop, she slumped over unconscious, but not as a result of injuries.

Thankfully, she did have insurance.

The person who owned the totalled Saturn was completely AWOL. That car had been pushed up on the sidewalk by the impact of the Jeep. It had at least one flat tire on the passenger side, and the plastic passenger side panel was pretty much gone. The car had Minnesota plates, implying that the owner was either just visiting or a new arrival to the area. The police put a note on the car. Talk about an unpleasant surprise.

And the car was in a Tuesday spot. By this I mean the owner had to move the car by 8am Tuesday for street cleaning.

On Tuesday, I woke up at 7:40am like a kid on Christmas morning. I ran to the window to see if the Saturn owner had come to move it yet. He hadn't. I opened the window and hurried to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I rushed back to my window to see a fresh-faced young man in a white dress shirt, tie and khakis approaching the unblemished sidewalk-facing side of the Saturn.

The young man stopped for a second when he saw the car, no doubt thinking, "Hmmm, I don't remember parking my car on the sidewalk." Then he opened the driver's side door, tossed his bright blue new backpack in the backseat, and got in the driver's seat, closing the door behind him. I held my breath in suspense as I watched him back out of the space and start off, but he got no more than six feet before stopping and backing neatly into the space he'd just tried to vacate. He'd finally realized something was wrong.

He perfectly parallel-parked the car, and got out and walked around to the passenger side. He stood in shock for a moment, and I could see his shoulders sag. His hand went up to his chin, in a "huh -- what the heck do I do now?" pose. He did not see the note on the window that the police had left for him.

In the grandest of Brooklyn traditions, I was about to yell out my window to tell him about the police note under his wiper when my neighbors came running outside. (Clearly, I wasn't the only neighborhood denizen watching the drama play out.) I heard the young man say in a daze, "Someone hit me." The dad neighbor ran around to the front of the car and picked up the police note, handing it to the young man. I saw the dad neighbor gesturing behind the Saturn to where Steve's Ford had been hit, then making looping motions with his arms and pointing in front of the Saturn to a pile of broken glass left there by the flipped Jeep. The men spoke briefly in low tones.

Then I saw the young man walk back to the drivers' side, open the door, remove his backpack from the back seat, and walk away, waving to the neighbors. It was 7:57am. I went to take a shower. By 8:30am the car had been towed.

Just another day on Sackett Street.

Most Embarrassing Moment -- Cat Hands!

I had to give a presentation today at work. It was really informal, but I was nervous nonetheless. I always am. I blame my nerves on an incident in (of course) my junior high years.

During the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I enrolled in a weeklong "Drama Camp" with a couple of my dramatic friends. I was never much of an actress, but I did have a tendency to enroll myself in various summer camps, so there I was. It ended up being all about the musical theater. I can sing, but I'm not much of a dancer.

Most of the 100 or so campers had been attending Drama Camp for at least a couple of years. Girls outnumbered boys about 8 to 1. As a newcomer, I was immediately among the uncool. The director's daughter Nina was clearly the golden child of the attendees, and was called upon (by the director) to demonstrate each and every acting technique, musical interpretation, and dance move. She did so with joy and gusto. I had conflicting emotions, feeling that Nina had delusions of grandeur, and feeling that I was way out of my league.

I did ok in the voice portions of the camp, but my inherent uncoolness in those surroundings kept me from trying out for a solo. I muddled through the acting workshops, crashing and burning with such flair in the improvisational portions that I actually earned praise. And there was dance. Well, dance is not my thing, as I mentioned. When the dance instructor asked us to separate into two groups, experienced and inexperienced, I happily joined the latter. We spent many hours learning a routine to a song from Cats.

I just looked the song up on iTunes. I knew I'd recognize it if I heard it again, even though I didn't know the name at the time. Turns out the song was a piano instrumental of The Jellicle Ball. It's perky and jazzy. (Listen to a clip here.) Just the song if you want to have 100 campers leaping around on stage making cat hands.

(Even today, 19 years later, hearing that song drives a stab of fear through my heart.)

In dance class, I carefully chose a spot toward the back, and learned the little routine. I conscientiously paid attention when the dance instructor chose a "cue" girl. When this girl ran on, the inexperienced group was supposed to join her. We never did a runthrough of the whole number, but the instructor seemed satisfied.

So recital day came around and hundreds of parents arrived to see what their tuition check had wrought. Some songs from Once Upon a Mattress went well, with the director's daughter Nina in starring roles, again and again. She's in love with a girl named Fred and all that. Toss in some Les Miserables. We all stalked across the stage singing emphatically about the end of the day when you're another day older. Then the time came for our big dance number, and we moved to our places.

It started strong, with the experienced dancers on stage first. I saw the "cue" girl preparing to enter and I readied myself for our big moment. The chorus ended and the experienced dancers began to cat-leap off the stage. Cat hands! Cat hands! I followed the cue girl onto the stage, cat-leaping. Cat hands!

As the fray of experienced cat leaps dissipated, I cat-leaped forward, per the routine. Then I looked around. Somehow, instead of 40 or so inexperienced dancers on stage, there were ... four.

We stood, nearly paralyzed on stage, through an entire verse, our faux paws poised in front of our chests. I later viewed my parents' videotape of the debacle and realized that our moves were confined to panicked sidelong glances at one another and tiny, abortive cat-hand swipes. As the second verse neared, I debated fleeing, but realized I'd look a lot better if I at least did the remainder of the routine. Own it, Megan! Own it.

Cat hands! Cat hands! Step step step! Cat leap! Cat hands! Cat leap off the stage! THANK GOD.

I burst into tears as I reached the stage wings. Meanwhile, the dance instructor yelled "EVERYONE!" and both groups ran on stage, sans the four of us who'd just run off. But other than the cat hands, the two routines were very different. As I wept off stage, dancers began leaping into each other. Cat hands! Collisions! Bad falls! A complete disaster.

I don't even know how it ended. But it was, without a doubt, my most embarrassing moment. And it decisively ended my dramatic career.