Girls, Girls, Girls

Anyone who knows teenage girls knows that one of them may, at times, be a challenge. A group of 30, however, is an unstoppable force of nature.

The F train starts out so crowded in Queens that, by the time we hit midtown, I'm grateful for a chance to sit down and stretch out and read as the train deposits its cargo of workers along its southward path. But all that ended abruptly this morning when what I assume was a school group entered at 34th or 23rd Street. Before the doors opened, I could hear a loud roar out in the echoing subway platform. The doors slid open, and a deluge of sound and teenage girls burst forth into the train, filling it instantly.

An amalgam of scented hair product vapors was released into the air, their mild toxins mixing invisibly but undeniably. And I was suddenly scrunched up again, making myself as small as possible and sitting bolt upright — but not against business suits and khakis anymore. This time I was avoiding contact — at all costs — with body-hugging velour track suits (They can wear those things at school?), small-waisted jean jackets, steering-wheel sized hoop earrings, rhinestone-studded belts and teased, crimped hair.

It was an assault on every human sensation, most notably the ears. Together, as if it were a personal goal, they achieved a tremendous volume. Each of their voices augmented the other, and the train car was an impenetrable cacophony.

With each balance-throwing rock of the train carraige, there was a sudden shift of teenage bodies and a rush of giggles. There was a conversation about a boy here, someone's outfit there, and bursts of laughter all around. Some of them clicked their long fingernails against their cellphone keypads and bleeped.

And they never stopped moving. It was like being trapped in an animated diagram of what happens to mashed potato molecules when microwaves hit them.

I had no choice but to sit and stare and observe. I began to see them as creatures acting as a collective. The actions of a single ant don't amount to much, but the actions of a colony are really count. It seemed to be these girls' primary function to make noise (Were they making words or just noise?) and to raise the temperature of the car with their constant motion.

There were two young women in front of me, both in head-to-toe velour; one in pink, one in beige. All curves were revealed. I had no idea girls their age were shaped that way. It was impossible not to look. No matter where my eyes landed on them, I felt dirty. I felt as if I should explain to them: I'm really not interested; you're just standing so close...

When a woman escaped at West 4th Street, a seat opened up next to me, and the velour twins became human once again. One sat down in the empty seat and, taking her friend's hand, she drew her near and pulled her down so she was sitting on her lap. It seemed the most unremarkable thing to them. They continued their conversation without interruption. No where else to go, so why not sit on my lap, eh? They were 14. They were friends. They were, simply, girls. And I was no longer annoyed.

You'd never catch teenage boys doing this. Not the straight ones, anyway. And not on the F train. I wondered which one was heavier. Is this one always on top, or do they switch sometimes? Are they sisters? girlfriends? Then I realized that each probably weighed 90 pounds soaking wet, and it was probably much like holding a large purse or backpack on one's lap.

We hit Broadway/Lafayette, and the doors parted, and I swear we all had to catch our breath from the vacuum created by the mass exit. The squawking did not stop so much as simply shift from one space to another. The doors closed, and again I heard the high rumble of the girls' voices. Dust settled. The eddies of swirling newspapers and empty coffee cups died down. The train lurched forward. And we were soon in relative silence.

The other passengers were left dazed and bewildered. There were maybe a dozen people left on the train — all happy, I'm sure, to be left with a place to sit and room to breathe. We resumed staring forward. The sudden quietude was eerie. Lonely. Cold.

New York Lesson No. 327: Chinatown Bus

The Chinatown bus is the best travel deal between major East Coast cities. The network runs from Chinatown to Chinatown among the cities of Boston, New York, Washington and Philadelphia — and it's dirt cheap. It's managed by some smart, industrious, and I have to believe successful Chinese immigrants. I made a round trip from New York to Boston this week for $30.

It worked out rather nicely. Chinatown bus vets have told me stories of varying degrees of quality. Sometimes the bus is dirty or stinky. Sometimes it's too hot or cold. I had been warned once to expect an authentic Third World experience, but I didn't care much about comforts. I was more interested in the price tag, and I planned to sleep on board anyway. It's not as if this was some gritty and dusty old school bus where passengers vie for space among children with dirt-smudged faces and crates of live chickens. It's a regular coach with soft seats and overhead lights and heat. I have no complaints.

There are certain charming qualities of the service you might not find on regular bus companies. For one, the moment you step on board, the driver shouts at you, "Please sit! Sit down! Sit down now!" and honks the horn. Similarly, when the bus arrives, the driver honks and shouts, "Hurry! Get out now!" And we can always count on the mandatory stop at Roy Rogers in Manchester, CT. My friend Henry is convinced Fung Wah gets a kickback from them for delivering so much business. Maybe. I'm intrigued by their DIY system, but honestly, I'd rather have them assemble my lettuce and tomato and pickles for me. There's a certain pretense with trying to make fast food "nice." Let's not pretend, folks.

I Still Don't Remember Her Name

In downtown Minneapolis, there is a parking garage at 9th Street and La Salle that looks like it will collapse at any minute. I called it the House of Cards Ramp, but it was cheap and close to The Saloon, where I was most likely to be found on a weekend evening, so I parked there often.

After a certain hour, the parking attendant no longer took money by hand, and drunk drivers were forced to insert dollars and quarters into a machine that controlled the exit arm. (Many times have I received an annoying 68 quarters after inserting a $20 bill.) The attendant was still on duty at this time, but hiding out in the little office, and he would only come out when the machine malfunctioned and the drivers were making enough of a fuss about it.

One night, a new person had started working the booth. She should have been a librarian or a high school hall monitor. She was a largeish woman, shaped somewhat like "Martha Dumptruck" from Heathers. She was probably in her mid-30s. She had large plastic-frame glasses, curly hair, a penchant for wearing pink sweaters, and such a pleasant and sweet demeanor that I wondered how long she would last at this particular job.

She was the sweetest thing, always saying hello and good-bye, efficiently counting my change and dropping the coins smartly into my palm. She was a little too nice sometimes, and not at all helpful usually. But somehow, when there was a problem with the after-hours machine, and the cars were lining up behind me expectantly, and she'd stand outside of my door encouraging me simply to try it again, try it again, try it again, the extra attention was always charming and reassuring.

She began to recognize me after a few weeks. She always made me smile on my way out of the House of Cards Ramp, no matter what drama I was escaping at the Saloon. It was fun to be just a little bit flirtatious with her. And one night I asked her for her name. I saw her so often, I said, I might as well know what it is.

I told her mine. And she told me hers.

And I promptly forgot it.

I always felt bad for her, having to deal with all the drunk homos pouring out of that ramp every night. Some people were downright rude to her. And it was beginning to show in her expression. So, I determined to be The Nice Guy.

The next time I saw her, I apologized. "I'm sorry," I said, "but can you tell me again what your name is?"

She told me again.

The next time I saw her, I was excited to call her by her first name. But to my acute embarrassment, I realized I had forgotten it again. I played it cool. I didn't use her name, nor did I ask for it again. I just tried to forget about the whole thing.

Over the months, her attitude began to change. She stopped smiling. She stopped talking. She would give me my change without looking up. When the machine malfunctioned, she would not come out and "help" anymore.

The job was getting to her. It was dragging her down. I tried my Nice Guy thing again and asked her for her name one night. She looked up at me, screwed up her mouth, cocked her head to the side, narrowed her eyes and did not answer me. You've got to be kidding me, that look said. I recoiled. The smile dropped from my face. I sat back in my seat, and I drove forward.

She had been transformed from a trusting, friendly, kind-hearted school nurse into a heartless, jaded downtown parking attendant. She was meaner than the men who worked there. I felt even worse about her situation and tried to be nice to her — until she started being rude to me.

Sometimes I wouldn't have three dollar bills, and I'd have to give her a $10 or a $20. And she'd sigh heavily and avoid eye contact, throw open her drawer, and slap down the dollar bills. And I'd have to reach out of the car and grab for it myself. I'd drive away without comment, but strangely my feelings would be hurt.

Then the price went up to $3.50, and I always seemed to forget it. (After years of $3, $3, $3, you think you can count on something.) I'd hand her $3. At least it was correct change, right? And she'd look at me, thrust out her hand, and jab it forward a few times emphatically.

"Three fifty!" she'd bark.

And she'd jog my memory. "Ope! I'm sorry!" I'd say in that in-line-at-the-grocery-store voice. "I forgot again..."

And she would sit there, scowling and thrusting her hand again. I was flabbergasted. It was like being falsely accused of stealing. Maybe she thought I was teasing her. Whatever. I'd drop the precious 50 cents into her palm, and she'd let me be on my way.

She never got better. Sometimes she wouldn't even shout "three fifty!," but she'd just stare at me, waving that fucking hand of hers. One time when I forgot the 50 cents and she gave me that attitude, I lost it.

"Look! Calm down! I'm not trying to give you a hard time! I. Just. Forgot."

But she never cracked that stony exterior. I never saw that nice lady in the pink sweater again. She had became The Raving Bitch of the House of Cards Ramp. That was her official title. We referred to her as The Bitch for short. My friends and I grew to hate her. There was always an edge of sadness to the stories we would make up about her as we drove away, because I remembered how she used to be. But she had lumped me in with the rude idiots who park in that ramp. She mistook my forgetfulness for intentional troublemaking. Before long, her attitude was justified.

I still don't know her name. Maybe if I'd remembered those years ago, I'd have been able to maintain that small bridge to her kinder side.

There Was a Crooked Man

Remember that nursery rhyme? There's one such man in the neighborhood where I work. Rather than the crooked mile of the nursery rhyme, I see him every couple of weeks walking the gentle curve of Clinton Street.

He's not merely hunched over. He's bent 90 degrees at the waist, his arms pinned behind his back, his hands clutching a collection of plastic grocery bags filled with something or other, bouncing along against his thighs with every step. He does not look up. All he seems to see is the ground just a few feet in front of him. He wears a dark gray, slightly tattered suit. His hair is gray and frizzy, and he has a longish salt-and-pepper beard. I have no idea what his face looks like, but his skin looks like it gets too much sun. Usually he just wanders here and there. He is always alone.

Walking back to the office from another late-afternoon coffee break, and enjoying the unseasonably warm mid-autumn weather, I saw him again today. I used to think of him as just another eccentricity of the Lower East Side. There are so many. But today I was alarmed to see that there was something more to him than I had assumed. Today, he was drooling.

Great copious amounts of saliva were pouring from his mouth. Maybe his nose. I couldn't tell, and I'm not sure it mattered. He was walking in front of me, and we were headed in opposite directions. As we neared each other, I could hear him making a sound. He wasn't speaking, as far as I could tell. With each step forward, his torso, bobbing from the motion, pushed short bursts of air out of his lungs, creating a sort of rhythmic moaning. His drooling, of course, followed the same rhythm. He was flowing all over the sidewalk in front of him in an unbroken stream. It was extraordinary.

I wondered if he was uncomfortable. Would he appreciate a Kleenex at that moment? Was he sick? Was he crazy? Was his back severely damaged or deformed? or did he walk this way by choice? I could tell he had some groceries in his bag — so clearly just recently he had interacted with someone to make a purchase. Unless he was carrying it from wherever he lived. How might it be to talk to this guy, I wondered. How does he get the money to the cashier if he can't stand up straight? How lonely he must be. Lonely and covered in his own spit.

There's a crooked woman in the neighborhood where I live. I see her a couple mornings every week on my way to the 7 train. She routinely takes her life in her hands by standing in the middle of 82nd Street. She stands there, her face buried in her sweater, clutching an extra-large Duane Reader bag stuffed with something or other. usually her head is covered by a hood, so she has no peripheral vision. Drivers will slow their vehicles on approach and
carefully pass around her. Sometimes, she's walking slowly down the middle of the street, making it a harder to judge clearance.

Sometimes I see her standing in the elevated train station. She has no apparent intention of passing through the turnstile and boarding the train, but she is safe at least and away from passing cars.

She looks intensely unhappy. Her face is constantly screwed up as if she just ate a spoonful of earwax. I can't imagine what she is up to.

I wonder if someone takes care of these people and whether they're homeless. If so, how do they survive? When I see them, is it because they've wandered away from a safer place? or are they always unsafe and alone in the world?

Holey Leggings, Batman!

I've been in physical therapy for about a month now because of a rugby injury. I developed plantar fasciitis in my right foot early in the season. Like a lame-ass I hurt myself at practice — not even in the heat of a real match. Still, it hurts like a bitch, making walking difficult and running impossible at times — highly inconducive to a bipedal creatures such as myself, let alone rugby.

There are some real characters in a physical therapy office. And some ugly feet. I count myself lucky, having relatively clean, minorly caloused hooves. I apologized once, and the guy who gives me my deep-tissue foot massage every session said, "Heh heh heh ... Dude, you have no-o-o-o idea."

There was a woman at the office tonight who I had never seen before. And for our first meeting, I saw far more of her than I had ever hoped to. Far more than I wanted to. This is because the leggings she wore were so worn down in the inner and anterior thigh that square inches of bare skin were showing through. This was not like a run in a stocking or a transparent, threadbare t-shirt. This was years of thigh rubbing thigh and butt rubbing bicycle seat.

My first reaction was something like: "Um, I don't need to see that!" [think Valerie Cherish] "But, well, I also don't need to look. And clearly she doesn't care. Unless she doesn't know. But how could she not know?"

I mean, the updraft must have been mighty real.

I regarded her on a stationary bike, those gams of hers lifting up and pushing down, the exposed flesh quivering like something molded and thawing. It was mesmerizing. Like a car crash. Either she had very little self respect or a whole damn lot of it. I couldn't decide. And my reaction had nothing to do with her age, which I guessed to be in the ballpark of 50. A younger woman would have looked no better.

I have a ratty old pair of shoes that I can't seem to get rid of. They cost $4.50 at Payless, where I found them in the women's section. (Women get such deals at that place! And all the men's shoes are ugly and fall apart in a month.) These babies have lasted me three years. I keep them on principle. Plus, they're super cute. Of course, they have holes through the soles. I can't walk on a wet sidewalk without drenching my socks. And sometimes I keep underpants well past the sell-by date. But these things are covert and unknown to everyone but the drop-off laundry service lady. And she can judge me all she wants.

One of the assistants made some crack to the guy who was torturing my foot. He laughed quietly. I felt bad that she was being talked about, albeit quietly, just five yards away. But they weren't being malicious. Just surprised and sort of startled. We all hoped she would just put some damn pants on. Or a skirt. Or a towel. I could have been a gentleman and offered my warm-up pants.

Nah.

Could you imagine accepting someone else's pants at the gym?

Hmm... on second thought, that could be quite a pleasant thing.