The Averted Riot
Bernadette says I'm being paranoid thinking the full baguette laying on top of my car was put there by a member of the matzo mafia to attract birds for their pooping potential, an act of intimidation as part of the mafia's sinister plot to take over that whole block of parking. Maybe Bernadette, maybe I am being paranoid, or maybe I just have a more personal insight into how petty a man can be at the top of his game. To what McGyver-esque lengths a man will go to achieve total domination of his opponent. How crazy it is inside a man's head when that man is the last defense against the marauding forces and it is left to him to fight for every parking space under every crapping-bird-filled tree. Sure it could be random, the baguette finding its way atop my car in some completely innocent fashion, perhaps dropping from the jaws of a bread loving pterodactyl through a black hole in the sky of a parallel universe, but I don't think so. That I sit in my car trying to recall episodes of McGyver or the A-Team, or even Gilligan's Island, to figure out the best way to fashion out of an everyday object a weapon, to retribute these guys for their dirty game play, I hope is not one day the first shred of evidence used to pack me up and ship me away.
Ok, all joking aside, if indeed I must be joking to pass my sanity hearings, let me say this—those conniving bastards were up to no good this morning.
But I'm not even sure it's worth it, like the hour and a half of time I'm saving each week is being put to such crucially important use that I should be coveting these so-called cherry parking spaces.
And it would appear from my scant research that the factory (and therefore too the worker) is suffering its own hellish existence what with recent inquisition concerning its matzo--is it kosher or is it chametz, are the standards of production what they once were?, or even if everything is fine and dandy regarding quality and purity are they just being unfairly squeezed out of the world matzo market by other players that want their cherry spot. Also, they are trying to sell the building and relocate in an effort to perhaps modernize and improve their standing, but the asking price of 25 million is seen by most as a huge hurdle to that goal. So there is criticism and there is uncertainty in their world. And perhaps this could be part of what is making those workers just a tad more annoying to deal with, as they over-compensate in an effort to control the street, in an outside world (represented by one Lower East Side block) that could on its small scale be considered easier to control as it is not necessarily judged less pure and therefore not kosher by all the variety of excrement, spit, and vomit which coats it.
The factory has been operating at that corner since 1925 and some of these workers with whom I do parking battle look like they could be the aged children of the original workers. So who am I Johnny-Come-Lately to begrudge these men their sense of propriety?
So today, verily, I say unto you my brothers, I relinquish all future implied claim over those bird soiled parking spaces. They are yours to do with as you wish, until that perhaps distant but foreseeable future when the building is repurposed and the faces of our combatants change.
But not this morning, suckers. You can't flank a guy on just one side. You can't do a pincer movement on a guy if he ain't afraid to back illegally onto a one way street. It's not like a one way street is a cliff or a deep river. So that's what they do these guys, during desperate times. The Restauranteur said it happened to her once and Danny W. Dawkins also told me how he had to yell a guy down to get his rightful spot back after pulling to the opposing curb to let the street sweeper pass, and then finding some fresh worker had jumped his spot.
I saw the set up. They had two of their guys sitting in cars parallel and across the street from me, effectively making it impossible for me to just pull out and back in if the sweeper came. If I wanted to make that move I would have to honk and shout at them, while probably the sweeper truck honked and shouted at me, and they were banking on the pretty safe bet that I was not the guy to honk and shout. I was of course hoping the sweeper would not come today, which would make it simpler, and also reaffirm for me the idea of a somewhat benevolent, overseeing God presence in my life. Really, these thirty minute spots are just not worth it. On a good day there is no drama at all but on many other days it is just thirty minutes of pure contemplative aggravation.
But dammit, there it is. The Street Sweeper. The sweeper can come from any direction, its movement is not dictated by one way streets but it always approaches from the rear because it is a right side of the street oriented machine. I knew today it would not come from my right rear because of the sewage sucker trucks on that block. So what remained was straight rear and left rear. And then suddenly there it was, to my left with its blinker on. I looked in my rear view and could see another one of the matzo crew guys across the intersection awaiting a light change to pounce. And then the two guys illegally parked (or standing) to my left and then all of them parked in front of me and their lieutenant standing in the middle of the street ready to direct the movements of his army. So I just backed onto Rivington facing traffic the wrong way but pulled to the curb (opposite the legal metered spaces) and then as soon as I could, mostly oblivious to the honking from at least two directions, I pulled right up on the sweeper's tail and back into my spot. Although I gave a few inches to the queue in front of me, as an act of good sportsmanship, and may in fact be at this moment really close to illegally parked. So that there may be a 65 dollar price tag to this story. But how often can you achieve a major peace accord, if only an internal one and without your combatants knowledge, at such a bargain rate?
...more recent posts
Matzo Mafia
Some people from the building came up for dinner the other night. The couple from right below brought their inter-specie loving lesbian rat terrier and while my cat's tail did puff up defensively to three times its normal size for awhile, by the end of the evening it appeared that she might have been softening to the idea of doggie love, coming down from the safety of the dresser and stretched out as she was on the bed, while her long-nosed canine suitor kept attentive watch from a claw-swiping-safe distance. As interested as I'm sure some of you are in the idea of my cat giving in and falling in love with a neighbor's dog I must again disappoint you and further my ever-loving discussion of NYC parking.
The dog's parents I am calling Danny W. Dawkins and Karen Ireland. Danny and I began to discuss parking because you practically have to go to Romania to find anyone around here who will talk football playoffs with you and before I knew it he was offering up his cherry spot from around the corner, one of those that only require 30 minutes of maintenance twice a week instead of 90 minutes twice a week. He had to go out of town on Wednesday and why not give it up to a friend instead of one of those bastards from the matzo mafia. Those guys act like they rule that block and every second or third car is one of theirs. I heard they were moving that matzo factory to Brooklyn and if you ask me, what's taking them so long? Good riddance to those cracker making crackers with their chief cracker lieutenant marching up the block and ordering people to back up a little so they can fit one more of their guys up at the Delancey end of the row. For real, this morning I wanted to roll down my window and tell that crusty headed bastard, what? But I'm in Bernadette's brother's Jeep for another few days and his Jeep is developing the same driver's side power window problem I used to have, so I couldn't roll down my window.
If I could of rolled the window down though I would have said--if you ain't one aggravatin son of a bitch you crusty old matzo making bastard you. I am unemployed, cranky in the morning, and for stretches of time including this one not that interested in fellow human engagement and it has taken all these first peaceful twenty minutes before you showed up to get the inside of this Jeep warm and here you are barking out my window about how much space I have behind me and how other people wanna park on the street besides me and like I said I'm unemployed and it ain't all bad. And if you could read you would read that to mean I don't have some stupid ass self important boss yelling his dumb shit first thing in the morning.
So on the plus side you have maximum convenience, the parking spaces being just around the corner from our building, and you have that 30 minute aspect. On the negative side you have trees overhead from which birds shit on your car, and you do have because of nearby bars the occasional pile of vomit or human excrement and speaking of human excrement you have the chief of the matzo acting like he thinks I give a damn early on a cold morning about fitting one more of his boys in the line. Screw it man, I'm getting a bicycle. Or a flamethrower. Maybe a flamethrower and a bicycle. I'm going to Long Island to watch football this weekend and I'm trading back the Jeep for the Jeep. And I'm hoping my power window still works. You hear me crusty? We need to work on your manners.
Some people from the building came up for dinner the other night. The couple from right below brought their inter-specie loving lesbian rat terrier and while my cat's tail did puff up defensively to three times its normal size for awhile, by the end of the evening it appeared that she might have been softening to the idea of doggie love, coming down from the safety of the dresser and stretched out as she was on the bed, while her long-nosed canine suitor kept attentive watch from a claw-swiping-safe distance. As interested as I'm sure some of you are in the idea of my cat giving in and falling in love with a neighbor's dog I must again disappoint you and further my ever-loving discussion of NYC parking.
The dog's parents I am calling Danny W. Dawkins and Karen Ireland. Danny and I began to discuss parking because you practically have to go to Romania to find anyone around here who will talk football playoffs with you and before I knew it he was offering up his cherry spot from around the corner, one of those that only require 30 minutes of maintenance twice a week instead of 90 minutes twice a week. He had to go out of town on Wednesday and why not give it up to a friend instead of one of those bastards from the matzo mafia. Those guys act like they rule that block and every second or third car is one of theirs. I heard they were moving that matzo factory to Brooklyn and if you ask me, what's taking them so long? Good riddance to those cracker making crackers with their chief cracker lieutenant marching up the block and ordering people to back up a little so they can fit one more of their guys up at the Delancey end of the row. For real, this morning I wanted to roll down my window and tell that crusty headed bastard, what? But I'm in Bernadette's brother's Jeep for another few days and his Jeep is developing the same driver's side power window problem I used to have, so I couldn't roll down my window.
If I could of rolled the window down though I would have said--if you ain't one aggravatin son of a bitch you crusty old matzo making bastard you. I am unemployed, cranky in the morning, and for stretches of time including this one not that interested in fellow human engagement and it has taken all these first peaceful twenty minutes before you showed up to get the inside of this Jeep warm and here you are barking out my window about how much space I have behind me and how other people wanna park on the street besides me and like I said I'm unemployed and it ain't all bad. And if you could read you would read that to mean I don't have some stupid ass self important boss yelling his dumb shit first thing in the morning.
So on the plus side you have maximum convenience, the parking spaces being just around the corner from our building, and you have that 30 minute aspect. On the negative side you have trees overhead from which birds shit on your car, and you do have because of nearby bars the occasional pile of vomit or human excrement and speaking of human excrement you have the chief of the matzo acting like he thinks I give a damn early on a cold morning about fitting one more of his boys in the line. Screw it man, I'm getting a bicycle. Or a flamethrower. Maybe a flamethrower and a bicycle. I'm going to Long Island to watch football this weekend and I'm trading back the Jeep for the Jeep. And I'm hoping my power window still works. You hear me crusty? We need to work on your manners.
Is It One Copper Penny Or Three?
There are pennies all over the floor of the apartment. I said Bill Macy do it over the carpet there so that them down below don't suffer your failure. He didn't fail on the first try, with the ten pennies pointed towards the ceiling stacked on the forearm side of his elbow, followed by the downward swooping of his hand to catch them all in his palm. But on the second try, with 20 pennies, he did fail, and try as he might to collect them all he missed a few. Really, all I see this morning is the one shiny copper but I'm trying to christen a new writing spot and have to come up with something. And if one copper penny is all there is, one copper penny is all there is. And when in doubt just use Bill Macy. The amazing imaginary world of Macy.
I had walked across the street and through the doors of my hiding spot, at that middle dark table in a place that somehow will not co-exist in time with anything around it, and looking out through the glass front I watched all of the current world go by and felt cozy and secure and like I owned a secret, to be so near the present and far away at the same time. What happens in the hiding spot stays in the hiding spot but the real beauty is, nothing ever happens. It was so simple inside of there, until the day Bill Macy looked in and somehow--possibly the x-ray vision glasses he wore really worked--saw through the warp and nodding, walked right in.
What are you doing in here?
I told him I was having a taco and a daydream.
Let's go get a drink, he suggested. I don't know how you can daydream in this gloomy place.
You mean out there? I said.
Sure, what's wrong with it?
Nothing really.
Well then let's go.
I said I was waiting for Bernadette to call so we could go to the grocery store, but I should have said market, because Bill Macy retorted vehemently and wanted to know what grocery store I meant and all but said there are no such things as grocery stores in New York and why don't we just go to the moon while we're at it.
He said we had plenty of time for a drink as if he knew the exact time Bernadette would call. I said ok because this going for drinks was, clearly, central to city existence, and, not being particularly intolerant of drinking myself, although relatively speaking a tee-totaler, I could come up with no real substantive argument against us going somewhere for drinks. I did however find myself wondering just how long it would be before I just gave in completely and walked around with a flask in my pocket, or in my boot (though the boots I had would not do at all, I would need new boots if I meant to carry a flask.)
At that moment my phone rang. Instinctively I walked to the glass door, and then through it to the other side before answering. It was Bernadette. I told her about Bill Macy and drinks and she said that was fine, she would meet us there. I said ok and hung up. I hadn't said where we were going though and felt momentarily disoriented. Had we misunderstood each other? A group of teenagers just out of school brushed by me then and I stumbled and bumped into an elderly Chinese woman pushing a laundry cart up the sidewalk. She ignored my "excuse me" and hurried on by, head down. There was I realized a paper cup in my hand. A short stocky woman with meaty jowls dropped change into it and I said God bless you and she said God bless you right back. But no wait, I said, I think there's been some mistake. And then I yelled at the top of my lungs, Bern-ah-dehhttte!--and the sidewalk parted, all citizens moving at safe distance to my left and right, not a one of them actually looking at me. Goddammit, this isn't even original, I cried, this is some derivative piece of crap cobbled together from Dickens, or the Twilight Zone! You tell 'em pops said a girl dressed in black, heavily pierced along lip and eyebrow and ear cartilage. I am not who you think I am, I whimpered. Don't fight it pops, she said, we are all exactly who other people think we are. It comes down to that then? I said, and she just shook her head and walked away. There was, I noticed, a urine stain on the front of my pants. And on the sidewalk at my feet three pennies. I stooped down and picked them up carefully and placed them one at a time in my pocket.
Bill Macy was prone to using character voices and he was using one now, it clanged discordant like a rusty bell. It was the voice of the rabbi dressed in drag imitating a Jewish mother. What are you doing you? Get your fingers off those dirty pennies, those are for beggars and you are no beggar, are you? Well, are you? And then in his normal voice--come on man, seriously, you don't need those pennies, I'll buy you a drink.
There are pennies all over the floor of the apartment. I said Bill Macy do it over the carpet there so that them down below don't suffer your failure. He didn't fail on the first try, with the ten pennies pointed towards the ceiling stacked on the forearm side of his elbow, followed by the downward swooping of his hand to catch them all in his palm. But on the second try, with 20 pennies, he did fail, and try as he might to collect them all he missed a few. Really, all I see this morning is the one shiny copper but I'm trying to christen a new writing spot and have to come up with something. And if one copper penny is all there is, one copper penny is all there is. And when in doubt just use Bill Macy. The amazing imaginary world of Macy.
I had walked across the street and through the doors of my hiding spot, at that middle dark table in a place that somehow will not co-exist in time with anything around it, and looking out through the glass front I watched all of the current world go by and felt cozy and secure and like I owned a secret, to be so near the present and far away at the same time. What happens in the hiding spot stays in the hiding spot but the real beauty is, nothing ever happens. It was so simple inside of there, until the day Bill Macy looked in and somehow--possibly the x-ray vision glasses he wore really worked--saw through the warp and nodding, walked right in.
What are you doing in here?
I told him I was having a taco and a daydream.
Let's go get a drink, he suggested. I don't know how you can daydream in this gloomy place.
You mean out there? I said.
Sure, what's wrong with it?
Nothing really.
Well then let's go.
I said I was waiting for Bernadette to call so we could go to the grocery store, but I should have said market, because Bill Macy retorted vehemently and wanted to know what grocery store I meant and all but said there are no such things as grocery stores in New York and why don't we just go to the moon while we're at it.
He said we had plenty of time for a drink as if he knew the exact time Bernadette would call. I said ok because this going for drinks was, clearly, central to city existence, and, not being particularly intolerant of drinking myself, although relatively speaking a tee-totaler, I could come up with no real substantive argument against us going somewhere for drinks. I did however find myself wondering just how long it would be before I just gave in completely and walked around with a flask in my pocket, or in my boot (though the boots I had would not do at all, I would need new boots if I meant to carry a flask.)
At that moment my phone rang. Instinctively I walked to the glass door, and then through it to the other side before answering. It was Bernadette. I told her about Bill Macy and drinks and she said that was fine, she would meet us there. I said ok and hung up. I hadn't said where we were going though and felt momentarily disoriented. Had we misunderstood each other? A group of teenagers just out of school brushed by me then and I stumbled and bumped into an elderly Chinese woman pushing a laundry cart up the sidewalk. She ignored my "excuse me" and hurried on by, head down. There was I realized a paper cup in my hand. A short stocky woman with meaty jowls dropped change into it and I said God bless you and she said God bless you right back. But no wait, I said, I think there's been some mistake. And then I yelled at the top of my lungs, Bern-ah-dehhttte!--and the sidewalk parted, all citizens moving at safe distance to my left and right, not a one of them actually looking at me. Goddammit, this isn't even original, I cried, this is some derivative piece of crap cobbled together from Dickens, or the Twilight Zone! You tell 'em pops said a girl dressed in black, heavily pierced along lip and eyebrow and ear cartilage. I am not who you think I am, I whimpered. Don't fight it pops, she said, we are all exactly who other people think we are. It comes down to that then? I said, and she just shook her head and walked away. There was, I noticed, a urine stain on the front of my pants. And on the sidewalk at my feet three pennies. I stooped down and picked them up carefully and placed them one at a time in my pocket.
Bill Macy was prone to using character voices and he was using one now, it clanged discordant like a rusty bell. It was the voice of the rabbi dressed in drag imitating a Jewish mother. What are you doing you? Get your fingers off those dirty pennies, those are for beggars and you are no beggar, are you? Well, are you? And then in his normal voice--come on man, seriously, you don't need those pennies, I'll buy you a drink.