tuesday morning, bus

i'm standing on the sidewalk, in line to get on the M60. having waited to be the last person on, i push into the only space left, right at the top of the steps by the driver. the machine reads my card.

"the whole back of the bus is empty," i say to the bus driver.

he laughs as he pulls away from the curb. "that's the way it's been. the whole seventeen years i been driving it."


tuesday night, subway

yesterday was, so far, the hottest day of the year, at or near 100 degrees. at around ten o'clock at night, somehow without my noticing, a massive storm happens. on the upper west side of manhattan, lightning is flashing with simultaneous thunder, with blowing wind, and while i'm trying to make it to the 1 station, large drops of rain are slowly starting to fall.

i'm within distance to see it, and then it starts to pour. wrapping my arm around my bag, i start to run for the steps. water is flying up off the ground.

as i run past, from a doorway, a caribean voice says, "that's it. run to jesus. run to jesus."


wednesday morning, bus/subway/wtf

apparently the storm last night knocked out the electricity in much of western queens. the apartment was fine, but as i walk out, already irreparably late for a meeting i will entirely miss, i feel like something is wrong.

there aren't any traffic lights. people are stopping and going at each intersection. nearing astoria boulevard, even more is odd. there are police--so many police. packs of six of them, all over.

the traffic over the triboro bridge is stopped cold, all the way over the bridge as far as i can see. in the other direction, it's the same way all the way down the grand central parkway. and on astoria boulevard. cars are stopped everywhere.

since this means the M60 is lost in traffic somewhere, i go up the steps into the N station. in the train station, everything is quiet and dark. the metrocard machines are blank. the booth is dark. no lights are on. all there is: is an MTA guy sitting on a stool. a notebook-paper note is taped to the service door:

No train running

i walk back out and stand on the overpass over the grand central parkway, looking at the traffic in each direction, and all the cops, and all the dark traffic lights. well, i think. guess i won't make it to work at all.

but then the N train goes over and stops at the station. are they trying to get it back to running? it opens its doors, and people get on and off. then it pulls out. is it running?? did they lie to me?

i go back in and look at the handwritten note from the MTA again. oh. it says this:

N train running

no, N. pretty close. i got to work after all. in time for lunch.

just a minute ago, i was walking down the street.

guy asking for money on the street: hey, michael [something] spare some change.

me: (in my head) is he talking to me?

i go into m2m and get some tea and a doughnut. when i come out, i walk toward the guy to give him my change.

guy: heyyy. you know who george michael is?

me: yeah, i remember him from like 1988.

guy: you look just like him.

i laughed and said thanks. the question: should i have said thanks?

yesterday we were cleaning out the lab, and i found a jar of pro dope. i mean, it's pro dope.


no amateurs

hey man, it's pro dope. and it's for pipe joints. heeeyyyyy.

i showed it to someone, and they started to try and explain what pro dope is. stop it! don't explain! it's PRO DOPE!

yesterday i was riding the subway--on my right was a little girl, maybe eight years old, who had braided hair. when she sat down, there wasn't really room for her, so she was pressed up against me. her hair kept tickling my arm at the height of her head, which was right above my elbow.

the person next to me--on my left--got off, so i moved over. i was at the end of a bench, and the little girl was a seat away from me.

ah, but then: a family got on with three kids, the youngest of whom was a boy. the mother pointed at the open seat and said, "sit there."

the boy said, "i'll stand up, mom."

"sit down."

"i'll stand. i don't want to."

"i said sit."

"mom! you know i don't like to sit next to girls! i'll stand." he was really upset.

"one... two..."

"mom, don't. don't make me sit down!"

i stood up, giving him a place to sit at the end of the bench. the mother pointed where i'd just stood up and said, "sit there!" he went to sit down, and she hit him on the head.

"mom, why did you smack me??"

"sit!"

"you shouldn't smack me!"

i couldn't help but looking at the little girl, who seemed oblivious that she was causing all this trouble. in one more stop i would get off, so i pretended to read the ads.

there was a moment of calm. the boy looked up at me. he said, "thank you."

old books appeal to me--like books from the seventies. i don't mean leatherbound books with plates; i mean pocket paperbacks on cheap paper with weird line-drawing covers. a book looked more like a vessel of something to consume, rather than something to own and be proud of.

especially textbooks--they could be big floppy paperback books with lots of type on the pages. now everything has to have a shiny hardback cover, and weigh 99 pounds, and cost a billion dollars. even more annoying, textbooks all have to have like a cartoon dog in the margins now, to inform one of fun facts, usually in blue type. or something else with no dignity.

hm, that sounded like i'm in a bad mood. i'm not. i just don't like it when books look fussy. or when anything looks fussy, i guess.

my co-worker bob had this 70's-era textbook called modern electrochemistry, by bockris and reddy, and i just liked the look of it. it looks like a textbook, not a piece of candy.

i said, hey, can i borrow that?? i want to look it over. so he left it on my desk. there's a big stamp on its spine that says "IBM T.J. Watson Research Center." thank god it escaped from t.j. watson, so i could see it. i present a passage from page one:

"Modern electrochemistry is a rapidly developing branch of knowledge, mostly awakened to life in the 1950's and only beginning to call out lustily in the 1960's."

damn sam, they even knew how to write like real men then.