My broken arm continues to improve, hurting less and less each day, however, I still feel vulnerable when I venture on the busses and subways, or tackle the crowds of Christmas crazed shoppers on the street. Nevertheless, for the sake of my sanity, I need to get out from time to time.
Yesterday, after getting dressed and having breakfast and coffee, I asked Deborah what her plans were for the day. “I have a lot to do,” she said. “Christmas related errands.”
“When are you leaving?” I said, thinking I would tag along since I had nothing better to do (and was sick of having nothing better to do.)
“In a little while,” she said. She had a few morning rituals to perform first.
I barely slept the night before and when I stretched out on the bed to wait, I crashed in an instant. I woke up an hour later and Deborah was gone. I hadn’t told her I was planning to go with her, and she slipped out quietly, intentionally trying not to wake me.
I panicked. There was no way I was going to stay inside all day again so I threw on my coat — or rather, carefully slid my good arm into its sleeve and gently draped the other side over my shoulder — and ran out the door. Where to? I had no idea.
I rode the B61 to the F Train and headed into Manhattan, getting out on Broadway-Lafayette for no discernible reason. Broadway is always an exuberant, pulsing mass of plasma but at Christmastime it becomes a combustible balls-out mosh-pit, a million free radicals body-surfing a solvent cage of city streets. I led with my good shoulder and chose a line through the prevailing tide, holding my breath most of the way.
I didn’t have any shopping to do, and wouldn’t do it on lower Broadway even if I did, but I’d been spending so much time inside, alone, that I guess I just needed to go for it — get into the thick of it and absorb the vast array of human energy the melting pot is so famous for. Then again, I didn’t go to midtown, so I guess I didn’t need it that badly. Regardless, it didn’t take long before I needed a break from the crowds and the cold and so I stopped into a diner and had myself a grilled cheese and a cup of soup.
It’s been a month since I broke my arm and I’ve gotten pretty good at using utensils with my left hand, but I’m not perfect and I proceeded to make a mess with my soup spoon. The spoon was too big for the tiny cup, anyway. When I finished eating, I sat in the booth trying to figure out where to go from there. Trying to think of where to go for the day quickly evolved into the big-picture “Where do I go?”
I need a direction. An idea. A project at least. A single-handed something to do.
In the meantime, the rest of the day was as aimless as the rest of my life.
I secured an end seat on the subway where my arm would be sheltered and was relieved when a XXXL man decided to sit across from me rather than next to me. He was huge, carried a big plastic bag filled with who knows what, and wore a puffy poly-fill coat that easily doubled his size. He squeezed in-between two other riders who each reflected their discomfort with subtle shimmies and sidelong scowls.
“Dis train go to T’oid Avenue?”
“Huh? Third Avenue? Yes, three stops,” said the guy next to him.
“Tanks.”
As the train approached Third Avenue, the guy got up and stood near the door, putting his crotch at my eye level, fly wide open. Commando. His gargantuan horse cock barely contained.
“Whoa, I don’t need to see that,” I said to myself, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed. No one seemed to. “Do I tell him? Is he flashing on purpose?”
Must.
Not.
Look.
The doors opened and he exited.
There’s no real end to this story. No clever way to tie it up or make it sound like it reflects some larger truth — though if it did, it would have to be a very large truth. I just wanted to share, that’s all.
People avoid eye contact on the subways and buses as a general rule, but if you want to see people really concentrate on their newspapers, their cellphones, their ipods, or the floor, try walking onto a crowded train with a cast and a cane. You can actually see the strain on the faces as they struggle not to see you. I’m talking about the people sitting down, that is — If they pretend they don’t see you, they won’t have to give up their seat — the people standing up, on the other hand, have no trouble staring.
I guess I was optimistic about commuting to work with a broken foot, thinking people might actually be helpful, or at least accommodating. I thought someone might even give up a handicapped seat — the ones supposedly reserved for the elderly and disabled but which are generally occupied by guys in XXXL black T-shirts with airbrushed portraits of Al Pacino as Scarface, crisp new oversized jeans hanging from their asses like drapes, and impossibly white sneakers spread as far apart as humanly possible, as if they are suffering from elephantiasis of the balls. (I dare you to do an image search on that.)
No such luck.
And when I tried to get on or off the subway or the bus, people saw my cane and saw my cast and knew I would be slow so, not wanting to get stuck behind me, cut me off at every turn. Waiting for the subway car doors to open, people elbowed their way into pole position. And as I limped toward the various stairways, people fell all over themselves to beat me to the first step. Not that people don’t do that anyway, of course.
After a few stops on the subway home, a woman got off and I made a bee-line for her abandoned seat. A large woman dressed in a beige polyester pantsuit, with rock hard plasticized curls straining out of an industrial strength rubber band that pulled her hair so tight she had a facelift, saw me coming and blocked my way. She probably thought I couldn’t see through her brown, rhinestone-framed oversize sunglasses, but I looked her right in the eye just before she turned her back to me and allowed her similarly styled friend to take the seat.
A guy witnessed the scene offered me his seat as a consolation prize.
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
He seemed disappointed.
Next time I see an ornery old man with a cane muttering obscenities at the world, I’ll know why.
The doctor says another month in the cast and I’ll be good to go. Can’t wait.
Things haven’t been going so well since I returned from Hong Kong. This is going to sound absurd, but the night I arrived home and was looking out the window at the incident on the street, trying to figure out if someone got shot or stabbed outside the club down below, I leaned hard into the edge of the window sill for a better view and bruised my ribs. A sharp pop and I keeled over in pain. It’s been killing me ever since and makes it hard to sleep — which I haven’t been able to do anyway due to residual jet lag.
I’m still trying to find the best option for commuting into Manhattan from our new apartment. I have several options, but they all suck.
Yesterday it took me two hours to get home. The A train to Brooklyn stopped at the last stop in Manhattan due to “train traffic ahead.” Train traffic ahead is a catch all for when the trains are fucked up. “Please be patient” the train operator says. He said it several times over the course of a half hour. I was standing in the middle of the car, which made it difficult to get off, but I couldn’t stand there any longer with my bruised rib, exhausted from lack of sleep.
Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me…” I eased my way through the packed car towards the door.
“Dis is when da bullshit starts,” said one woman as I squeezed past her.
“No, the bullshit started a half hour ago,” I mumbled in response.
When I got to the top of the stairs and onto the street, I realized I was in the middle of Wall Street and wasn’t anywhere near another useful subway train. I decided to head back to the A train and wait it out, but soon realized I didn’t have any money left on my Metrocard. I’ve been living on a shoestring since losing my wallet and only had thirteen dollars on me. The Metrocard vending machine would only accept my ten dollar bill. By the time I got through the turnstile and down to the platform, the train was out of service and I found myself fighting a sea of people.
Back on the street, I started walking to the nearest F train — a good twenty minutes away, including a trip through Chinatown which, after just returning from Hong Kong, felt a little surreal. I’m sure if I took time to think about it, I might’ve found another option, but at the time it’s all I could come up with. In any case, with only three dollars in my pocket, the most desirable option — a taxicab — was out of the question.
Twenty minute walk to the F, fifteen minute wait for the train, transfer to the G and another 15 minute wait, then a fifteen minute ride and a ten minute walk home from my stop, it adds up.
I made it home and collapsed on the bed.
As soon as I get my new bank card and can take some cash out of the bank, I’m going to buy a new inner tube for my bicycle and give that a whirl.
Everyone I emailed this link to yesterday emailed back to say they’d already seen it, so maybe this is old news, but yesterday’s New York Times had an article about the Hong Kong show featuring a photo of the Stephen Sprouse installation.
Nice.
