Pardon My Zinger…

I’m not a creep. I’m most certainly not a pervert. But the other day, I somehow convinced a total stranger on the PATH train that I was both.

The morning started off terribly, which is always a good sign that something is going to happen that will have you wanting to wish for a quick and painless death by the end of the day. At least, that’s how it goes for me. Firstly, I was late getting to the main train that takes me into Hoboken everyday. I was only a minute late, but in train time that’s unforgivable. I arrived at the platform as the train was pulling up, but I still needed to pay off my parking spot. There was no feasible way I could pay for the spot on those cracker jack machines they have and get on the train too. There wasn’t nearly enough time. This inconvenience left me frozen. Why didn’t I just not pay for the spot you ask? Because, you see, the police that enforce that parking lot are borderline Nazis, and if I left a car in a spot without paying for it, they will either slap you with a ridiculous fine or remove your reproductive organs (I believe that’s the standard penalty). So, with about just enough time to scratch my balls, I began to walk away, defeated. Just then, a train attendant called out to me. Alas! They were going to wait for me! A train, wait for muah? How could this be possible? Seizing this rare opportunity, I hurried to the first parking ticket machine; “out of order”. I ran to the second one; “coins only”. You see, the only thing the parking Nazis work harder at more than giving out tickets, is making it impossible for you not to get a ticket. So, I gave up and ran onto the train. I found an empty seat and spent the whole rest of the ride saying goodbye to my nuts.

For some reason, however, I put my car keys in my front pants pocket. Usually I just toss them into my bag seeing as how I have no need for them all day. Another reason I choose to put them in my bag (and probably the more paranoid of the two) is because I’m always afraid I will stab myself where it counts. It’s not too likely, but when it comes to sharp objects and my privates, if there’s even a one percent chance of incident, they are going to be separated.

I arrived in Hoboken and quickly bolted down to the PATH train. I got on and miraculously found a seat (almost impossible on the PATH at 830am). Now, when it comes to subway passengers, very rarely do I find gorgeous women to stare at. I wish and hope and pray that there will be one positioned right in front of me, but there never is. They always somehow find the seats that are far away from me. Instead I’m always next to (or across from) the smelly, schizophrenic, malnourished, balding weirdos. I’m talking real X-Men mutant status. So imagine my surprise when an attractive girl actually sat in my vicinity that morning. She was very cute, in that wholesome, quirky way (I hate that word quirky, but I’m too fried to think of a better adjective). She was on the shorter side with nice, dark, flowing hair. I took an immediate liking to her.

The train began to move and over the course of the train ride we continued to catch each other’s glances. It seemed relatively innocent, but I started to wonder that maybe, just maybe, she was thinking the same things about me. Maybe she was actually trying to get my attention. I tend not to entertain these thoughts because it’s usually a guaranteed path to emotional distress, but I continued to cross eye sites with her. It was at this point that I noticed her glancing down at my crotch. She could have just been looking at my feet, but I was pretty sure it was right on the money. There is no way that just happened, I thought. Were my most perverted fantasies of an early morning, anonymous sexual dalliance about to come true? But then she countered that initial glance with a facial expression that seemed to be a combination of fear and concern. Confused, I looked down to see my car keys, poking into my jeans and forming a forged erection. My key chain is kind of bunched together so it appeared as one solid object. I realized the horrible illusion, and I tried to reach into my pocket and flatten the keys. It was too late, she had already stood up to walk out of the train at her stop. I wanted so desperately to stop her and explain, but it never happened. I was pretty embarrassed, but I felt even worse when I began to think about the size of the phony phallic symbol. In the words of George Costanza, “If she thinks that that was me, she is under a complete misapprehension. That was not me, Jerry, that was not me.” It was a weird moment in my life and I wish I could find that girl and apologize. Maybe I should do what this guy did.

Earlier that morning I was awarded something that comes along only once in a lifetime when it comes to public transportation: a second chance. That train attendant, for whatever reason, decided that I was a person that deserved to be given that second chance. That, perhaps, my catching that train would help better our society. And all I was able to do with that opportunity was freak a girl out with a fake boner.

Crazy Is A Lifestyle…

The other night I had arranged to meet up with this girl Ellie at the Met. It was freezing out, so I layered a black hoodie underneath my tan, somewhat-thick jacket. It was a bit uncomfortable but it kept me warm enough. There’s this weird enjoyment I get out of wondering Manhattan at night, especially when it’s cold. It’s very serene and intimate despite all the goings on. Like the romantic loner constantly searching for a place to go.

I had my ipod locked and loaded with a play list featuring the Verve, the Smiths, and Radiohead; a trio of melancholy if there ever was one (editor’s note: the Verve’s album A Storm In Heaven is the best night time music I’ve ever heard). I hopped on the 6 train uptown to 86^th and 5th, upon which a man claiming to be an angel boarded. He said, “Yes folks, I am an angel. I was sent here from heaven to collect a debt. So if any of y’all got some money to spare you could really help me out of a jam. Jesus is pissed!”

I was heading towards the Met when Ellie called me to let me know she was going to be late. So, I wandered for a bit looking for a place to eat, but I just wound up getting a slice of pizza and hanging out in a Barnes & Nobles, waiting for Ellie to let me know when she was good to go.

After about an hour of this, she called back to tell me she was tired from work and was just going to go home and sleep. It wasn’t too late but the night was starting to get really frigid so I hopped back onto the 6 to go back downtown to 23^rd street. I stopped off at Madison Square Park by the flat iron building to finish my pizza on a bench. I had my tunes playing through my earbuds, but I could still overhear a man’s voice echoing from a nearby bench a little ways away from me. I put the music on pause and began to eavesdrop. He was clearly homeless, but slightly more organized. He was yelling at a pigeon that was waddling around in front of him. I’ll try to recreate the argument as best as I can remember it…

“How could you take that bread? You know I give you the bread with the seeds!”

Pigeon begins to waddle away.

“Why you doing this to me, baby? Don’t take no more bread from no one else!”

The pigeon stops and looks back.

“C’mon honey, don’t do this. Here, have some seeds. From me this time!”

The man tosses some chunks of bread onto the ground. The pigeon begins to peck away.

“That’s it. Cheatin’ ain’t right, and you know it! Stay with me baby!”

It was at this point that I finished my cheese slice and left the park, because even though I was curious as to how this relationship would unfold, I figured retaining my own sanity was just as important. If I had stayed and continued listening, eventually I would have become obsessed with the man-pigeon bonding and collapsed into a fetal position of confusion on the ground. That’s the problem with a place like New York. You’re constantly bombarded with odd behavior until you become so used to it that you start to think, “why shouldn’t I date a pigeon?”

I made my own way home by midnight and was disappointed that my night with Ellie wasn’t fulfilled, but I didn’t care about missing out on the Met anymore. After all, who needs centuries and centuries of creative expression and timeless pieces of artistic beauty when you have an unlimited supply of crazy New Yorkers to entertain you?

If I Could Only See This After Every Bad Day…

I left work yesterday at 6pm and was walking along Broadway towards Canal Street. I had my headphones in (as I usually do when I’m walking around out there) but had them on low volume so I could still hear well. I also spot a man and a woman arguing a little ways up from me. The guy was black and in his mid 30s (if I had to guess). He was sitting on a light blue Vespa moped. He was dressed in a leather jacket with an over sized black motorcycle helmet and large sunglasses. He had giant brown boots laced up tight around his yellow-stripped vinyl pants. After the woman finished yelling at him, he zipped up his jacket and said, “Bitch, I’d been riding these things since before you was sniffing yo mama’s shit!”

He started the moped up, revved it twice, then floored it straight into the subway’s stairway sign. His boot came flying off and he yelled “My boots, they be flyin’!”

I laughed all the way to Hoboken.

An Office Party That Isn’t Awkward…

My job often functions more like a college party than as an actual job. It’s hard to tell if anyone is doing any valid work whatsoever, and the ones that are actually accomplishing something are usually done in fifteen minutes then go for a two hour long lunch break. It’s really great. I just surf the web endlessly all day and every once in a while do some legitimate work. So it’s no surprise that one of the biggest drunken bashes I’ve ever been to in my life occurred at this place last week.

It was Thursday and the day was dragging on forever. I was dying of heat but if I opened my giant window I would freeze immediately. Heat exhaustion combined with boredom is a recipe for incompetence. Luckily, around four o’clock or so, a co-worker ran into our room (there are about six of us) and started shouting about two kegs that were delivered to the offices upstairs. So without any hesitation, every one on our floor rushed up the only stairway leading up and began to drink exuberantly at exactly 4:15 pm. None of us had eaten since about noon so all of the signs pointed to catastrophe.

The party was pretty normal at first, just a bunch of people drinking and chatting about work they should be doing at the moment. Then, at around the 7pm mark, things changed. Things changed because Matt, my immediate boss, brought weed.

Everyone was clearly belligerent by this point, so naturally the voices got louder and the sexual tension increased dramatically. Two people vomited simultaneously all over our brand new ficus plants. This was followed by Sam (my partner in crime) standing on the balcony of a window flirting with a group of girls in the building directly across from ours. It would have been funny, had the threat of Sam falling eleven stories down onto Broadway not been present.

We’ve had office parties plenty before, so people shouting out the windows at anyone within earshot was not a new form of entertainment to us. This time, however, the ones within earshot didn’t appreciate the humor. So they called the cops. The cops were called to break up an office party!

So we all headed off into the night, with piles of work still accumulating on our desks. Since I don’t live in the city, I was a little confused as to what I should do. Although I was pretty baked so I didn’t care that much. Somehow we made our way to a bar, only I couldn’t tell you which one. It was dark with green bottles lining the walls. That’s about all I can remember. I pretty much talked to Christine the whole time we were there, while Sam and Matt got into a fight with some homeless guy. I’d explain it greater detail, but again, I was shit faced.

So we departed and went to another bar, where for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to buy a screwdriver. Now, I’ve never had LSD. But something happens to me when I mix liquor after I’ve been drinking that much beer, along with weed. And I’d imagine it to be very similar to an LSD trip. I don’t remember anything really beyond the screwdriver, but I can remember sitting on the R train with Christine and Sam for a brief period. Then, I’m told, I passed out. Not like I slowly laid my head down and gently whisked myself into dreamland. I passed out. Eyewitness reports say that I was awake, then my eyes closed and I slammed my head off of the metal seat handle and collapsed onto the subway floor.

I woke up the following morning on Sam’s couch in a haze of debauchery. I couldn’t remember anything from the day before really and I had a giant bandage around my forehead.

I later found out that 12 people had called out of work that morning.

Not Quite Voyeurism…

When I’m at work, my computer station is right along the side of a wall where there are two big windows. So as I stare at my computer, I have the most perfect view of New York that I could possible imagine right in front of me (complete with Empire State Building). It makes the day a little less boring sometimes when I can just look out the window and piece together all of the lives going on based on the various sounds emanating from the cityscape.

Directly across and below my window is an apartment building. It’s a rather nice brick building that has several balconies lined with plants and patio furniture jutting out from the four apartments that occupy my line of sight. One of those apartments contains a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Her windows are always open and the blinds are never shut. She is around my age (early to mid 20s) and is always in sight, whether she’s on her tiny balcony or in her room. I spot her everyday without fail and she’s usually dressed down.

I’m not big into spying on people but I can’t avoid seeing her. When I glance out of my window for even a second, she’s there. And so, everyday, I spot her and start forming little stories about who she is and what she does. She is very attractive (the building is not far away) and I can’t help but to stare at her when she’s on the balcony. Sometimes she stands out there, talking on the phone or just staring off. But despite the mundane activities, I always find myself watching her.

In some weird way I feel like I know her. The city is a place with constant social interaction but it can still leave you feeling isolated and distant. Your bombarded with success, promise and hope on a daily basis, but none of it’s for you. Maybe she feels the same way and that’s why she is on the balcony every day, hoping to feel included in some way. Each day when I look out over that massive view of the city, I think of the sheer amount of anonymous people out there. But now here’s this random girl who has become a familiar face in an ambiguous view. And it’s slightly comforting.

But, knowing my luck, she’ll probably move out as I finish typing this sentence.