A Day Off

“Whenever I watch how a man behaves when he is alone, I always conclude that he is ‘insane’ – I can find no other word for it.” Maxim Gorky

I think Maxim was on to something there because if anyone were to actually follow me around they’d probably come up with the same conclusion. People in New York look like they all have some sort of purpose, a place to be, somewhere to go; from within the tunnels of the subway up the stairs and onto the streets, the go-go-go. I observe the rush-hour crowds racing through Manhattan like they’re on a conveyer belt, and then there’s me, taking my sweet time, walking around aimlessly like I’ve done for countless years, zig-zagging through streets and alleyways looking for not sure what.

When I first started to write about the tunnel, I wasn’t really sure what would come of it. I just feel like I’m exposed to interesting stories down there and would like to share with whoever has an ear. So today, we’re out of the tunnel, just stumbling around New York.

I left the house around one this afternoon with the idea of checking out an Arts Festival that was going on underneath the Manhattan Bridge in DUMBO. But with the steady drizzle falling I changed my mind while transferring at the Atlantic/Pacific subway stop. Then for no reason other than the fact that I’ve never been there, I took the 6 train to East Harlem. I got off at the stop on 125th St. Shortly after I realized I should’ve at least done a little bit of research about the neighborhood, as far as where the historical spots are; maybe the area where Langston Hughes hung out, The Apollo, the Cotton Club, Malcom X’s ‘hood, but I really had no idea where I was. I think most people might find that uncomfortable, the whole not having a sense of order or a plan, but I just go with the flow, let the street take me where it wants to.

I hit Lexington and walked in the direction of Upper East Manhattan, on the way passing vacant lots, dilapidated graffiti-laced bodegas, public housing projects, rickety basketball courts, rims dangling. Stopped into a little Spanish bakery and got a cheese glazed croissant to keep me going. The area seems to make quite a change as you hit the 90’s of Upper East. Fancy high-rise apartments with old door-men dressed to the tee, nanny’s pushing around strollers, little rug-rat dogs you could fit in your wallet nervously walking around. It’s hard to believe you’re even in the same city.

I decided to head on down 2nd and 3rd Avenues and noticed some interesting old Jewish deli’s with knishes and various salmon spreads and matzo ball soup and other foreign culinary items I’ve never heard of. I get out the journal and start to compile a list of New York places I want to visit. Some that make it are Sables on 2nd/78 St., a couple of Hungarian markets on 2nd/ 80th, Jimbo’s Hamurger Place 1st/54th, Clover Delicatessen, Paddy O’Reilley’s (Irish bar with only beer being served Guinness).

It’s Sunday and now I’m filing among the football watching hoards. Every bar seems to cater to a different team and has crowds of those city’s natives screaming and getting drunk. I write down drink and food specials for like-minded folks on a budget: a sushi place that has all-you-can-eat for 20 bucks, a bar that serves 6 beers in a bucket for ten bucks, a BBQ joint that is all-you-can-eat and drink ribs and beer for 2 hours at 20 bucks a head. There’s Indian eateries on 28th and Lexington and a tiny French Bakery/Restaurant a block down, the cook sitting in a chair outside. It’s empty inside. He’s dressed in all white with a big old cook hat. He has an enormous white beard with lamb chops and as I walk by I think what a great picture this would make, but I’m not a photographer so I write it out in my mind.

Somewhere off of 2nd Ave. I went into a convenience store to buy a lottery ticket. Out of work, money going fast, I’m figuring I’m in need of a little luck. Instantly I’m greeted by a very strange man. He grabs my leather-bound, brown paged journal out of my hands and says, “What, you some kind of Kerouac?”

I grabbed the book back and told him I wasn’t no damn Kerouac. I said the journal was from Ghana. It was given to me many years ago and sat idle until recently. He mentioned something about reading a book about two guys that rode bikes around Africa. This guy had an awfully weird look in his eyes, not just drunk, but that psychopath, I’m going to follow you around the corner and cut up your body with a butcher knife, look. All of his comments were followed by an awkward silence.

Stupidly, I asked him what he did.

“I’m an IT guy, programming, my life is boring, I keep a journal too, but it’s boring. But things are different now. They don’t want me around. They’re trying to get rid of me.”

“Who’s they?”

It’s at this point I should get the hell out of here, but I’m curious so I feed the conversation.

“You know who they are.”

“Well, New York’s a crazy city,” I say, trying to lighten the conversation.

“This wasn’t in New York,” he says angrily. “This was Seattle. It’s not crazy. Things have been this way for over 30,000 years. It’s the way the heard works. The creative process has changed!”

The Arab cashier is annoyed. This guy still hasn’t paid for his six-pack and a line is forming.

“Right, right, it’s always about money.”

He whispers to me, “He’s a good guy though. I was going to bring in a purple broom today and sweep the front but it’s already clean. Usually it’s dirty.”

Next in line was an MTA worker. He was buying a bunch of lottery tickets.

The strange guy turns to him and asks what station he works at. He works security for the Long Island rails.

“Ah, you don’t need security. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Actually, you got terrorists to worry about. Bombs, someone dropping cyanide down into the subways.”

“Well, that wouldn’t happen if I was on the train.”

“Oh yeah?” the old man says curiously. “What would you do?”

“I’d be the passenger. That’s what I’d do and I’ll tell you, it wouldn’t happen.”

Dead-pan silence and he’s staring the old man straight in the eyes as if to say, yup, that’s right buddy, I ain’t shitting you.

“Well, I guess New York needs more folks like you.”

I pondered that thought after a moment, raising my eyebrows. Then the MTA worker walked out and the crazy man followed him. I picked my lottery numbers, said a little prayer to Saint Paul, or was it Christopher, well, one of those guys. I gave the cashier a grin, but he was in no mood for it. I suppose he dealt with these people every day for year after year and had grown tired of folks like this. I went to a diner down the street, got a cup of coffee, a slice of apple pie, and wrote it all out.