#12 In Which Someone Falls Down

I am fairly certain that the bus driver who operates the 96^th Street Crosstown gets baked, stoned, high or whatever you choose to call it, before he starts his shift.  Today, on the way uptown from the AMNH Nell and I get on the bus at CPW barely making it from the C train subway transfer, scrambling up the stairs, hurdling some significantly deep puddles, knocking into a few people, almost, just almost, causing them to fall down. However, we get on the bus just as the doors are closing.  Catching the Crosstown on a rainy, cold day in this manner is one of the most satisfying experiences one can have in life, which says a lot, or really not much, about my life.

Whoopie!  We got the bus!! Let’s pop open a bottle of Moet when we get home to celebrate.

Immediately, I smell it.

A few others squeeze on after us violating the ‘no standing in front of the line’ rule. Mr. Buzzdriver does not seem to mind this, or the fact that a woman’s shoe is actually stuck in the door. Looks like she’ll be waiting a little while to get that tiny mess worked out.

The bus is packed solid with unhappy riders and not one of them has the decency or courage to say aloud what I am sure everyone is thinking: “ok, who is smoking pot on this vehicle?”

I have caught this exact same bus (hyperbole, yes, but I’m talking about my bus rides here so forgive me) at West End Avenue & 96^th late at night. The bus sits there dark and seemingly empty and looking rather lonely and forlorn.  I,  and usually someone else on their way home from a serious soccer match, patiently wait until the bus driver decides to rev up the old dinosaur and allow us to get on. When we do: Whoa! Someone has definitely been smoking something sweet and tangy in  here. Hold on, we are going for a ride! (Except with no enthusiasm).

I adjust my eyes to the nauseating fluorescent lights and try to figure out how the driver works this repeated plan out without anyone saying anything. It’s pretty gutsy and I’m too tired to think much more about it and only slightly concerned about breathing in the second-hand cannabis.  I am not interesting in partaking in herb in this way, and am only slightly annoyed to be put in a position to have to think about it. The ride is uneventful except for conscious consideration of this week’s installment of, Where’s Waldo's Weed?

So, back to today’s more pressing incident.  

Nell and I are separated when she gets a seat and I see her trying to avoid eye contact with a rather imposing looking guy who may or may not be talking to her, or anyone. I can tell by her furrowed brow and confused look that she isn’t sure she is reacting the correct way in this social situation. It’s an anthropological exercise to watch her negotiate this without any assistance from me and I am torn between wanting to make eye contact with her and reassure her through sign language instructions, or watch her handle it on her own, hoping the stranger isn’t some deranged predator. She seems okay and I’m proud. As we are almost last on and first off on this journey, I wonder how the second hand pot inhalation has affected our fellow travelers. Is this stranger, who in my opinion maybe on the fringe of inappropriate contact with my daughter, under the influence of marijuana?

Perhaps I am just paranoid.

#11 Of Something That Doesn't Get Better

There is this band of soft flesh that has galvanized around a portion of my torso. I refuse to allow it to rule my life so therefore starting at age 51, and now one quarter into my 52^nd year, I have employed classic avoidance to deal with this nuzzlemuster. I have come to realize that it is something that doesn’t get better and might be getting worse. One thing that has gotten better, not to get off topic, is that I can create abstractions.machinations. poetics. skipping scenes and sequences and burbulty burbs to whatcha -gonna do about-it–ville-ski little party boat around the lake and some cha-cha-cha when I begin to plan a trip to the store to buy a fresh battery for my digital scale which of course does nothing but tell me the truth in large black numbers and decimals. The goddamn nasty fucker-nutter.

So, well.

I used to be in charge of this vessel we shall call the Corpus Christi of lovely womanly something or other.  We have had an excellent run and continue to do so when my head is buried as deep as the earth’s molten core to avoid the hear no evil see no evil speak no evil monkey on my ass.  Just to clue you in on my little coping series which is not yet available on QVC or The HSN, I know that every self hating American woman feels exactly as I do, and if I can market this bitch I’ll be corpulently wealthy.  Snicker-doodles!

I know that!  However, until that happens I have to guizzy whizzle myself into a pretzel. And it is not a low carb pretzel. No sir-ee bob-in-ski! I’m not that special that I won’t profit off everyone else’s misery. I may be a little piff-puff ball of love but I am not stupid!

And if you think this is funny for one tiny second you could not be more deluded. You think this is a joke? Whoa. Rein it in and pull your neck in or do whatever it is you need to do to keep your own Spanx-ed midsection from being exposed to humiliation and the reality that estrogen is on a permanent vacation and all the yoga (hot and other varieties ) and treadmill activity and walking stressful city blocks etcetera, will provide control over this squishy mcgiggle sausage-y back fat roller derby flesh-fest, you are on Mars (without the weightlessness- ha ha ha).

#10 In Which Someone Has Unmasked You

Kids come in dribs and drabs after their games and some cry, some are greeted with hugs some shrug off their losses and play on their iPads.  PS 6 is not a school we frequently come to for chess tournaments and the crowd seems a little edgier to me today. I hear ratings being thrown around, or maybe I hear them because I am trying so hard not to think about the numbers and what they mean. 

Before we entered the auditorium I saw my daughter’s rating listed on a sheet and she had dropped over 100 points. I tell her.

She’s 9 and I know can handle it.

“So.” She says. “I don’t care.”

After her first game she comes into the auditorium and tells me that she lost. She didn’t feel like notating.

“It distracts me.” She says.

Parents mill around and I go into the cafeteria and see another parent from her school who asks if we are going to National’s.

“No, I didn’t sign her up and it’s a big trip.”

I feel myself holding back tears.

There are more moms and more happy kids and I feel myself sinking. Quicksand.

They all look so perfect.

I walk back into the auditorium and gaze around at the wooden seats filled with kids and insane parents.

She saunters in with her scraggly hair in her face.

She lost game 2.

“It’s only a game.”

I am furious at myself for caring, and at her for not.

The kids are glued to their iPads and she asks to play some stupid game like Angry Birds and my friend’s 3-year-old hands her his. He is practically sitting on top of her as she plays her game. Eyes glued to the screen.

The old Russian guy starts to announce the next round for her section. My kid isn’t listening.

“Hey!” I say.  “He called your section. Stop with the iPad.” 

She reluctantly hands it over to my friend’s son and heads to her next game.

“Good luck, Sweetie.” I say half- heartedly.

“Thanks.”

I walk back into the cafeteria and see my friend who is standing with her daughter.  I approach her. She looks up at me.

“J, can we talk?”

“Sure!” She easily leaves her kid and follows me to the hallway.

I slip down the wall and start to cry.

“Why doesn’t she care about her rating? Why does she lose all her games? What is wrong with her? Is she stupid? Her rating dropped over 100 points. What the fuck?”

I am sobbing now. Snot is running down my lips and I am wiping my nose on my sleeve. Parents and kids are passing right by me, and J is as sweet as can be.

“Noooo! She is awesome! Your kid is the greatest! I understand!”

“Your kid is a 1300!” Your kid is smart. Mine is a....!" I burst out laughing through my tears.

“NOOOOO! Your kid is brave. She doesn’t give up when she loses. Most kids do.” J is a pillar of friendship and deserves an award for sitting with me through this. I know she gets it, but her kid is a genius.  Face it.

She rubs my shoulder, like a real friend does, and I thank her.

We both laugh and hug.

I walk into the miniature bathroom with tiny toilets and blow my nose. I cannot get over how much mucus my head can produce. Women and girls walk in and out and ignore me. I am relieved.

I go back to the auditorium and my kid comes in.

“I won.”

I know I am insane and nothing can stop me.

The heavens open and I ascend.

#9 With Lizard, Tattoo and Sun God

In the Bahamas there are lizards. You can be lounging in the sun next to the pool and they scamper around so quickly like little toys that operate with mechanical parts that are finely tuned for precise movement and motion. One blink and they are gone. Tricksters on their way so fast to no place special. What’s the rush? You live in sunny paradise! Do they hire you guys to entertain tourists? “Look mom! I saw a lizard!” And then a good bit of time is spent searching for where it went diving into the shadow beneath the beach chair.

I’m no expert on the Lizard, even though it has been a nickname assigned to me.

We don’t have them in NYC. Not even in the summer months. It isn’t desert climate which is so unique and hospitable for these little guys.  We do have some at the Bronx Zoo. In the reptile house where they are housed behind glass in their recreated habitats.  It is dark, hot and humid and their little lunch crickets and water bowls pretend to be natural food and water sources- like a river or something that these little guys have no idea it is fake because it isn’t fake because as far as I know they were born in captivity in the Bronx and this is all they’ve ever known. So that means it isn’t fake. Right? They are little statues, not racing around here but look content if you can find one camouflaged  and hidden in the leaves of a questionably real plant. They are on display under bright lights so we can marvel at their intricate coloration, precise scaly skin and finger-like toes. They stare unblinking and it’s hard to imagine they are alive until we see their bodies move with shallow breathing. What a life. They look nervous and it is time to move on.

When I got my first tattoo I was determined to enjoy it. I was afraid I would be judged and waited until I was ready to deal with that. Until the very moment I sat down in my questionable artist’s chair, I was unsure if it was the right time, but I decided it was time enough. I rolled up my sleeve and extended my right arm for him to permanently score his image. At age 52 I had decided it was now or never. I have taken to fads which momentarily intoxicate me. Multiple ear piercings in college which turned into painful infections. I can’t do anything about the many holes scarring my earlobes. They are useless except for mapping out a poor decision of my past.  A tattoo is more permanent then a new ring I have been obsessing over and decide I must have.

As my artist buzzed away a single word on my arm I turned my head towards a man named Angel who was having an old tattoo reworked on his upper bicep. I spoke to him in the way I easily speak to strangers when I am nervous. He was friendly and admired my courage as we looked into each other’s eyes as I lost my virginity to my first tattoo.  I was in the hands of an experienced person. He smelled of cigarettes and was covered neck to toes in ink. He was missing a tooth, but he was mine.

It didn’t hurt and felt sort of good. It stung for a minute when he was finished but I was thrilled to see it reflected in the mirror. I hugged him.

I enjoyed examining my skin as it scarred and then flattened. I wait to see if anyone notices when I roll up my sleeve. Waiting for admiration and judgment.  My tattoo reads:

L O V E

The lizard dances on the sun. The heat does not damage his perfect skin and he is fueled by the energy of the massive star. Unable to be touched by any human he can look directly into its face.

No risk to his sharp vision.

#8 Messing With The Icarus Myth

Malaysian Flight 370 disappeared over the Gulf of Thailand. From Kuala Lumpur to Beijing, the flight is missing. No contact, families crying in pain over the loss of loved ones who cannot be located in this day and age of advanced communication technology. They are lost. Walter de Maria’s Broken Kilometer and The Dirt Room are still locatable in Soho after 40 years; Boeing 777 in one day, not. Gone. Lost in the sky seeking the sun heading eastward with passengers lives. Individual spirits are gone. Unfathomable, that on this day something so big is lost. We must wait until evidence shows up with bodies dismembered, luggage and plane parts wash ashore in horror. No goodbyes, no plot, no storyline- just gone. The media is waiting to pounce on the evidence when it first appears to give the loss meaning for us who fear loss when we board planes and expect the best, but fear the worst. Prey on our fears, always. And the unsaid goodbyes of those who span across the planet to others we will never, ever know.

Who will never know us, or us, them.

I’m so sorry your loved one has very likely perished and you never had the chance to hold her one last time and tell her how much you love her and care for her.

I embrace you in my heart from, here, a place you have never been and might never be.

Kids and parents sit around the table and each take a turn reading the Purim Story. I arrive late and unbaked hamantachan (triangle “hat” shaped cookies filled with chocolate, apricot, raspberry, or prune) are resting on pre-cut pieces of aluminum foil. Instructions: “take home and bake until it smells good, then you will know it is done.” We smile and nod knowing exactly what the wonderful familiar scent will be. Before it is burned, and no longer raw dough. No one asks, 'what temperature should we bake?'  We figure 350 to 400 will work and keep our noses on to indicate finished baked goods. It is Purim and we read the story and think about Haman and the terrible things he has done to our ancestors as we whip our groggers in controlled circles and wisely smile at the noisy, froggy, groggy sound that we make to protest the Bad Man. (It is tradition to use the groggers every time HAMAN’S name is spoken aloud). As we do this, I replace Haman’s name with someone I know, the unconscious predator, like Putin, or someone who is in sadistic pain and hell bent on the destruction of others he knows and presumably cares for. Protecting his own soul by obliterating others. The Ukraine, Crimea the earth and CO 2.

The end of us all is the salvation of your precious soul.

The children and parents read: “soon thereafter, Modechai overheard two servants, Bigthan and Teresh, plotting to kill the king. He told Esther, who reported to Ahashuerus. The criminals were punished, and the deed was recorded in the King’s record book. In every province of the land, Jews could be found fasting, weeping and wailing. Modechai tore his clothes and put on sack cloth. Esther sent him a message asking about the cause of this great mourning. Mordechai sent back word of the King’s degree and begged Esther to go to Ahashuerus and plead for her people. But Esther was afraid. 'Everyone and the court knows that it is forbidden to enter the King’s presence without being summoned, she responded. “I could be put to death if I appear before him.'

Mordechai replied, “You are also a Jew. Do not assume that you alone will escape our terrible fate. If you keep silent, you will surely die. Perhaps you have become Queen for just such a crisis.” Esther agreed to risk her life to save her people. “Tell all the Jews of Persia to fast for me for three days.  If I am to perish, I shall perish.” That night King Ahashuerus could not sleep. To pass the time, he had his record book brought to him. He read of the time Mordechai had saved his life by revealing the plot of Bigthan and Teresh. “What honor did I give Mordechai for this?"

“Nothing has been done for him,” his servants replied. Just then HAMAN came to speak to the King about handing Mordechai. But before HAMAN could present his evil plan, Ahashuerus asked him to suggest a way to honor someone who pleases the King. HAMAN proposed that the man be dressed in palace robes and be given the finest royal horse and be led through he city square while someone announces, "this is being done for the man the King wishes to honor?”

“Quick,” Ahashuerus order HAMAN. “Do this for Mordechai!”

In disbelief, HAMAN did as the King commanded.

I feel satisfied for a moment, that the world is protesting evil in this lame way, but at least raising voices and making noise.  The sound of groggers heard in hallways and, maybe, even in the streets. Is this redemption for flying so close to the sun with wings of wax, desiring justice in an unjust world where evil has the law on its side because, in some cases, evil creates its own laws? Where the good are punished for wanting wings to fly away and carry them to freedom which result in burning, destroying, melting, falling.

The flight is over. Crash landing.

Downstairs someone is smoking pot and the scent is drifting into my room and I begin to wonder if secondary inhalation will stone me, or make me stoned and I don’t want that to happen as I write about good and evil, vengeance and redemption. White knuckling what we hold true to keep ourselves from hitting the sun and melting our uplifting wings and burning to death, or plunging into the sea so swiftly and with such massive speed there is no hope for survival.  

Hoping to be found.