Oil Spill

I head down to the basement with a gallon of canola oil but no clue how to dispose of it. I can’t throw it out, it’s in a plastic jug which needs to be recycled, and I can’t dump the contents into the sink or risk an oily slick forever lining the plumbing. Luckily, Willie is downstairs and tells me just to leave it on the floor, he’ll take care of it.

I leave the basement through the courtyard out back, taking Broadway instead of Bennett. Just outside, I bump into one of my neighbors, who wishes me a good morning. In front of Key Food, I see Anat C. who also wishes me a good morning.

Dunkin’ Donuts makes terrible coffee, and today the line is so long I really wonder why I didn’t just wait to get to midtown for some java. I suppose that after such a long week and such a short night I just need it now.

On 186th Street, at the corner of Bennett, Malka S. is crouching next to one of her children, while two other kids linger behind. The security guard, who works at the nearby elementary school, says to the child, "Ima [Hebrew for mother] will get mad if you go off the sidewalk.”

Aliza texts me about being late for an interview. Do I recommend waiting for the bus or hopping into a cab. I reach the station and run into Sarah F. “Twice in one week,” I say. She smiles and we both board the train.

Quiet Morning

I drop off my laundry and walk along Broadway, all the way to 184th Street and make a right towards the train station.  It’s not the quickest route from the laundromat to the subway, but it’s a bit different than the norm and the weather has finally started to warm up a bit.  Sarah F. walks inside just ahead of me.

One of the three turnstiles is broken and a second one is occupied by a buffoon that can’t swipe his card correctly.  The resulting jam builds up several feet of traffic before I am finally through to the other side.  I see Sarah again at the bottom of the steps, and this time she sees me too.  She waves and says hello.  I can’t actually hear her because of my headphones, but I wave back and smile.  Benny S. is also on the platform, still bearded, and also waves as I pass him.

Tonka

It must be fun to drive a tractor. At least, that's what I'd be thinking if it were me on the corner of 186th and Bennett, sitting at the helm of a great iron behemoth. But it's not me.  It's a chubby, middle aged man with a severely receded hairline who has probably been working construction scenes for the past decade or two - and guys like that probably don't think about trucks they way I do.

Walking to the station, the scene reminds me about this one time, about 12 years ago, that I rented a moving van from U-Haul (or was it Ryder?).  Upon arriving at the rental agency I was told they were fresh out of vans but would happily rent me a 15' mammoth truck, at the same price, in its stead.  The State of New Jersey does not require a special license to drive anything less than 18' long so I drove it into Manhattan  for a bit of cruising.  Once you get the hang of driving blindly behind you and on both sides, and once you become confident in the knowledge that you are likely to survive unscathed should you collide with anything, it can be quite fun.

I reach the subway station and as I file down the stairs to the platform it occurs to me.  You know what's bigger than a 15' truck and even bigger than a tractor trailer?  The A train.  And I want to drive it.

Paying Attention

There are wet, wilted flowers in the courtyard this morning. I'm not sure what kind they are, but they're white, and small, and they grow every Spring but are gone by the end of April.

186th Street is plagued with a putrid smell of sewage, probably owing to the red septic truck parked around the back of 110 Bennett. On Overlook, an elderly man seems to be having trouble walking and starts leaning against a nearby wall, as if to catch his breath more easily. I ask if he's OK and he says he's fine and thanks me. I'm not the only good Samaritan in town, a moment later I hear someone behind me ask the same question.

Inside the tunnel a tall, lanky man, in his early twenties, drops his newspaper, trips over it and starts shouting four letter expletives at it. He keeps walking but leaves the paper behind.

I can hear the train pulling into the station just as I reach the turnstile, but I don't run for it. Down the stairs, only one person is left on the platform once the train leaves, and we both sit at the same bench. She is young, with dirty blond hair that has been thoughtfully dyed and neatly straightened. She is wearing a skirted suit, high heels, and pearl earrings. From the way she is sitting - with her hands folded on her lap - and the way she is twirling a rubber band between her fingers, I'd guess she is anxious, on the way to an interview or an important meeting. The next train arrives and we both stand up and walk towards it; she looks at me and cracks a small smile.

Monday, Monday

Throwing out the garbage is always a decent way to commence the week (although one must ask: why wasn’t it already thrown out the night before?).  Downstairs in the basement I run into Willie and we chat about Mondays. No one likes going back to work on a Monday, and no matter how much rest one has gotten on Saturday and Sunday, the start of the week is always tiresome.

Outside, dozens of children are on their way to school.  I walk to the A station and pass Ezra B. at the bottom of the steps.  He is engrossed in the New York Times.

I am still walking towards my spot when Sara C. sneaks up behind me.  As with Willie, we also talk about Mondays and I ask her if she went rafting yesterday with a bunch of our friends.  She doesn’t like rafting anymore, and reminds me of our rafting trip last summer (or was it two summers ago), when I almost tore my rotator cuff and had to spend a few weeks in physical therapy.  We also talk about fantasy novels, which she enjoys reading, though she thinks Lord of the Rings is a bit childish and the poetry far too long for her patience.  I solemnly admit to skipping some of the poetry myself, but remain steadfast that it is my favorite trilogy both in book and in movie form.

As I’m talking to Sara, I notice Moshe L. on the platform, in the distance.  Sara and I board the train together, but we find seats apart and I don’t speak to her again until we get off at 59th.  I transfer promptly to the B train, where one stop later I run into Yaffa Z. just as she gets off.

Mistaken Identity

I’m late for work again. I hate carrying bags, but today I have no choice, although at least the bag is empty. It’s a laptop bag, and I need it to bring home my laptop from the office. How the bag ended up at here, I’m not entirely sure.

I see my friend Tamar’s brother – I’ve met him a few times but his name escapes me - and his wife walking slowly and holding hands. Inside the station is a girl who hair looks like my friend Sara’s from behind, but her behind is much too large for it to actually be Sara.

On the train, I sit near a religious Jew who is studying the Talmud and drinking Vitamin Water (“Focus”). I'm addicted to Vitamin Water and can’t help but notice the flavors people drink. I’m also addicted to The Mentalist, and spend the rest of the ride watching the next episode on my phone.

Sidewalk Skirmish

Sometimes when I leave the apartment I feel like I just don't know what's wrong with me. Why am I consistently leaving for work later than I would like to?

On 186th street, I walk on the right side of the sidewalk, hugging the building next to me. A woman streams past me on the right, squeezing between me and the building and almost knocking into me. I ask why she couldn't pass me on the other side, where there is plenty of room, and she responds that she “always walks on the right.” For a moment I consider informing her that only cars need drive on the right side of the road and that even if she were, in fact, a car, passing is done on the left, but I decide to let it go. She doesn’t, and after a few more steps she turns around and asks “what, are you always going to tell me what to?” No, I’m not your spectacularly insane boss, your abusive boyfriend, or any other reckless person in your life. “Just don’t run me over,” I say in as calm a voice as I can muster.

Zev S. walks by and, having witnessed the prior exchange of some words, asks what was going on. I recount the story and Zev asks if I realize that the woman is but ten feet ahead, staring unkindly upon us.

At the tunnel in the train stations, I see Estie K. for the second time this week. The train is heard screeching onto the platform and everyone makes a run for the turnstiles. I make it on board and squeeze into a middle seat.

At 59th, I run into Sara S. and tell her that last night I went to Café K. and, since Sara and I frequent there so often together, the waitress was shocked to see me with someone else. We laugh.

Collector’s Items

I’m pretty late to work again. In the elevator with me is my neighbor’s son, a high school junior on his way to class. Last night we also rode together, and he had been out of breath after a long jog.

A man, wearing khaki pants, rides up to the station in a fold up bicycle, which he collapses just as he reaches the entrance. I head through the turnstiles and onto the platform, which is particularly crowded today. The train arrives and there is a mad rush for the seats. I find one near a man who might very well be homeless, based on his appearance. He has on board with him: a hand-truck with two dirty boxes, a crate full of old items, an IKEA shopping bag, a chain, and large padlock. He doesn't smell though, so the seat is fine.

People and Opera

Just out front of my building, I spot Meyer B. walking across the street, probably on his way home from synagogue, which seems to have let out a few moments ago. Ken H. walks by too, and into the lobby (he and his wife live one floor below me), as does Mo H. Just as I start to walk down Bennett I run into Shuli B. I haven’t seen her in weeks and we both greet each other warmly. She gets annoyed that I am speaking to her through my sunglasses, so I remove them and, as an aside, comment that I like her rimless specs. She says she wishes she could wear contacts like I do, and we talk about dry eyes for the next couple of minutes.

Further on towards the subway station, I run into David M. who is curiously clad in a dark suit. He tells me that he occasionally meet with clients for whom he must dress up. I let him know he looks sharp, and head into the station. At the far end of the platform, where I can later exit one block closer to the bagel store, I chance upon a freelancing opera singer. Not much of an opera fan myself, I can still appreciate how well her voice projects, and consider an illicit cell phone recording for later post onto my blog. The train arrives too quickly.

Fun and New

It's never fun going back to work after the weekend, but every new Monday can usher in a week full of new opportunity.

I drop off my laundry and take a different route to the train station, walking down Broadway instead of turning on 187th and then onto Bennett.  Miriam L. pops out of key food just as I pass the entrance, wearing a dark hoodie and blue sweat pants underneath her skirt.  A naturally born spiffy dresser and a usual early bird, she seems out of place. "Aren't you a bit late for work?" I ask.  She is working from home today, and has already been to the gym and completed some paperwork. For a moment I contemplate turning around and doing same (the working from home part), but once I'm dressed and out of the apartment there's little purpose to it.   We chat for a few more minutes and I continue on my merry way, ready for adventure.

Perspective

I head to the basement to throw out the garbage and I run into Antonio, who is talking to a woman. He sees that I’m carrying quite a bit and kindle helps me carry it the rest of the way and sort out the recycling.

I was up cooking late last night, which has been a recipe for exhaustion today. It makes me consider a stop at Dunkin’ Donuts, though I’ve managed to be entirely caffeine free for almost three weeks.

On platform I see Estie K. When the train arrives it’s half empty, and I realize that trains are the opposite of cups. Half empty is the optimistic viewpoint.

Funk 54

Sometimes I get funny ideas, like wondering if it would be feasible to commute on a hot air balloon (perhaps it would make for a more interesting blog). Turning from Bennett onto 186th, I hear someone calling my name. Its Gershon S. Known to most people simply as "Stats," Gershon is a star guitar player that once played with a very popular garage band based out of Washington Heights.

Up ahead I see Benny S. and walking behind me is Ezra F. When I reach the platform, I see Lisa K. who waves to me and eventually I pass Benny, who also waves.

I take a seat on a bench near my spot, and a young man sitting next to me gets up to say hi to a woman in a stingy straw fedora. I notice he has a blue, "Spark" flavored Vitamin Water, one that I've never seen before.  Adina, whose last name I can’t quite remember, says hello just as I'm boarding the train. We get on the same car, along with Benny, but I sit alone and finish reading my New Yorker.

Hunger Strikes

Last night, on the way home from work, I stopped off at Bagels and Co, on 79th street.  I bought a garlic bagel to have for breakfast, but then I got hungry and ate it, which this morning has left me scrounging the kitchen for food.  I find the last roll in a package that was purchased on Friday, smear on a bit of cream cheese, and devour it.

Heading downstairs a neighbor joins me in the elevator, on the fourth floor, and on the second floor the doors open again but no one gets in.

Walking on Overlook, I see my reflection in a car window and realize I need a haircut.  A bright yellow SUV drives by.

On the platform, I see David M. and we both wave hello.  Shella, whose last name I don't know, is also here but she either doesn't see me or pretends not to.  Irrelevant - she never says hello anyways.  Chani E. is on the train when I board, all the way on the other side of the car.

The roll wasn't enough; I'm still hungry with no time to purchase a proper breakfast. Is it sad to be thinking about lunch before even getting to work?

Burp

It's another day in the neighborhood: cloudy skies, mild temperatures, and I'm late for work again.  Avi N. is getting into the elevator of my building just as I'm getting out, and wishes me a hearty good morning.

Outside, I accidentally let out a tiny burp and look around to see if anyone might have noticed.  A heavy set lady in a checkered coat is the only person within earshot, but I don't think she heard.

Sara C.  waves to me from the corner of 186th and Overlook.  I mail some letters out and walk to the station, two young men trailing behind me.  One of them, unapologetically, lets out a belch.

Neighbors

It feels good to be back, especially on a warm spring day. Overseas, I stayed awake till roughly 4 A.M. every night, and slept till noon. That didn't leave much room for jetlag, but I'm still off pretty early today.

Downstairs, at the entrance to the building, one of my neighbors - a tall, young girl of high school age - holds the door open for me. It quickly becomes obvious, however, that with her backpack and two shopping bags in hand, I should be the one holding the door for her.

On the corner of Bennett I run into my next door neighbor, Avraham S. and, when I arrive at the platform, I see yet another neighbor from the building. He is a single guy who's name I can't remember. Avi S. walks by and we say hello. He's not a neighbor, but his cousin (through marriage) used to be.