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The Angry Birds

I have some friends who fantasize about my life in New York. They say things like “Riding the subway must be amazing,  you can sleep, read, even have a little breakfast while you commute.”  I think they envision the subway as something akin to the Orient Express.   I found the best way to convey the reality of subway commuting is by telling this story.

I frequently share my subway car with a group of ladies I like to call “The Angry Birds.” (Ten middle-aged Caribbean women, who sound like a symphony of birds when they get together.)    I met them one evening, at my usual spot on the subway platform.  When I arrived, there were two women standing very close to the edge, embroiled in an animated discussion.  The short one was nodding her head and saying things like “Uh huh” and  “Oh really,” while the taller one was waving her hands, rolling her eyes and chirping her way through her story.  As I got my headphones out, they stopped their conversation and stared at me.  I smiled at them and turned up my music.  Both of them sort of half smiled, nodded and then returned to their conversation. They were soon joined by more Caribbean women and over the course of four minutes two became ten.  With each arrival I was pushed further and further away from the front of the platform. I would never have thought anything of this, that is until the automated train announcer said, “The express train is one station away.” Their conversation (Bird symphony,) stopped abruptly and they sprung into action.

The Birds started forming a human barrier between what was going to be the door of the subway and everyone else. The taller of the two original Birds was directing the operation. (Let’s call her Captain.)  Captain was forcefully pointing and shoving each member of her flock into position.  I  must have been staring, while this was going down, (Totally staring with my mouth open.)  because Captain looked me directly in the eye and whispered sternly to her flock “Get in front of her.”   Then she grinned from ear to ear and winked at me.   I stood there in amazement as the train pulled up. The doors opened and the Angry Birds pushed through, while the passengers struggled to exit through the Bird formation.  In fact, one poor lady got caught between two of the birds and almost lost her jacket.

By the time I got on the train, Captain was directing the seat formation from the comfort of her perch.  Miraculously, I saw an empty seat and headed towards it.  That’s when I heard Captain scream “Get it, Get it, Get it!” Before I knew what was happening, one of the flock rushed past me and sat in the seat.   I realized I was powerless against the Birds, so I hung on to the pole back to Brooklyn.

About a week later, I ran into Captain at our mutual waiting spot.  I decided I didn’t want to be involved in the migration game, so I walked a little further down the platform.  The train arrived and I got on uneventfully.  There were still no seats, but there was also no drama.   I did however, have a great view of the Angry Birds rushing  and blocking others from seats. As I was watching the flock move around, a guy motioned to me to come over and take his seat.  He told me he was getting off at the next stop, so I thanked him and sat down.  Unfortunately, his seat was facing Captain.  She loudly whispered to the flock member next to her, “She gets off way before us, she doesn’t deserve that seat.”  I just smiled and stared out the window, but I could feel the Captain’s glare.

The subway started to move and I overheard Captain say to the woman to her right “Would you mind switching with my friend over there?”  The young woman said, “No problem!” (Clearly she was not well versed in the migratory patterns of Angry Birds.)  As she got up, the flock member with whom she was to switch, rushed over and sat in the seat.  Unfortunately, a different flock member snatched the other seat, before the young woman could get to it.  The young woman was flustered, but she didn’t say anything.  I don’t think she realized they were  together.  She had been ambushed by the Angry Birds.

I still ride with the Angry Birds, but now they have claimed me as one of their own whether I want to be or not.

Holiday Travel

I woke up early today to prepare for my annual trip to St. Louis (Home.) Because I am a chronic procrastinator, I had not packed a stitch of clothing three hours before my plane was to depart. I am pretty adept at packing quickly, which really means I pack everything I own.  My suitcase is the size of a dresser. Anyway, I called a car and dragged my enormous bag downstairs, along with a hiking backpack and my purse. (Told you, I packed everything.) The car arrived while I was still struggling with my bags and trying to lock the front door. The driver parked, sat in the car and stared.  I said to myself “Well, I guess he’s not getting out, I hope he reminds me to do something nice for him.” When I started down the front steps, the driver’s face turned to panic.  He opened the car door and slowly got out. As he headed for the front steps, I quickly realized he was a stroke victim (I am a jerk.)  He stumbled up the steps to help me, while I said, “Oh no, don’t worry about it,” but his male pride took over and he dragged my bag down the outside steps and threw it into the trunk. (It’s now confirmed, I am a jerk.)  When I got into the car he said, “Uh, where  you, uh going.” And now I realize he doesn’t speak English and my Spanish is rusty at best.  So we found a strange way to communicate through my broken Spanish and his broken English and we got to Laguardia on time. I tipped him really well, to make up for my jerky thoughts.

When I got into the terminal, the security line was so long and dense I couldn’t see the ticket counters. It zig zagged through the entire front ticket area and looked to be at least an hour-long. I get really itchy in lines and this experience was no exception.  I started to pick out people from the line that I hoped were not on my plane.  There was an old lady in a bad wig, dragging a small dog carrier by the shoulder strap. The dog was perched on top of the carrier like he was riding on a sled.  She stopped to ask a question of the Indian American TSA agent managing the line.  As the TSA agent began to answer, the old lady cut her off and said “Well you aren’t from here, you don’t speak English, never mind.  I thought, here’s hoping that “bag” won’t be on my plane. Then there was the French family who spent their time screaming at each other.  Although, screaming in French is prettier than in English, it’s still screaming.  The father was also on his cell phone during most of this.  Sometimes he would pull the phone away from his ear, add his two cents to the argument and then resume his phone conversation.  When he got to the screener, he did the most reasonable thing, I have seen anyone do. He stood, blocked the line and continued his cell phone conversation for about ten minutes. I didn’t want them on my plane either, but because they were French I figured I was pretty safe they wouldn’t be. I finally got out of the security line with time to spare. So, I headed down to my gate, which turned out to be a door to the tarmac. You know the ones, where you board a bus to get to your plane. These are the worst gates, because they are usually boarding eight planes, that are all leaving within five minutes of each other, from one door.

There were hoards of people standing around, frantic, frustrated and confused.  Everyone was crowded around the desk, poised and ready to run as soon as their plane was called.  As I was standing around, I noticed this Yuppy couple with a toddler. The mother was running around with her toddler strapped to her in a Baby Bjorn yelling at her husband to, “Get the toy, get the toy, get the toy!!!” The husband was on the floor digging through the diaper bag frantically trying to follow his wife’s directions with no success. His wife finally rushed over and reached down and snatched the toy out of the bag. The child seemed to be completely unfazed, although the mother was acting like it was the kid causing the drama.  I prayed they wouldn’t be on my plane.

The agents finally called pre-boarding for my flight and I did what I never do. I took the out, used my height and pre-boarded. It was wrong, I fully admit it, but I couldn’t deal any more. Once on the plane, I felt a little more relaxed.  The flight attendants had Christmas carols playing over the speaker and I settled into my seat, but the solace was not to last.  The old lady with the dog appeared and sat across the aisle one row ahead of me. About five minutes later, the Yuppy couple appeared on the plane.  The mother and toddler sat in first class, which was only three rows ahead of me. The father was in coach. (He seemed relieved.) This was going to be a long two hours for the rest of us in the front of the plane.

The drama started early, when this other couple arrived and stood next to the row where the Crazy Dog Lady was sitting. The man said, “Excuse me ma’am but you are in one of our seats.”  Crazy Dog Lady responded with, “No, no this is my seat.” He said, “Well, we don’t really care if you sit there, but we have to have two seats, where is your seat?”  Her response was, “No this is my seat sorry.”  The couple sat down in the row in front of me, I guess deciding that it wasn’t worth the fight. But, then the owners of those seats arrived and they had to get up.  Long story short, the ground crew was called and they asked the “CDL” to get up, which then started an argument.  The crew woman kept asking the Crazy Dog Lady for her boarding pass which she of course didn’t have, so the ticket desk was called and it turns out she was supposed to be in the row in front of where she was.  Everyone sat down in their respective seats and things seemed calm down again.  That is, until we backed away from the gate and Yuppy Mommy stood up and started frantically rocking her baby and pacing up and down the aisle.  The flight attendant got on the loud speaker and said, “Please sit down, we can’t leave until everyone is sitting down.” Yuppy Mommy obliged, but not before rolling her eyes and taking a deep breath. We finally took off twenty minutes late, but at least we were in the air. Things seemed like they were going to be calm. There were no babies crying, the crazy dog lady’s meds seemed to have kicked in and Yuppy Mommy seemed to have mellowed out.

But wait, I spoke too soon. The captain turned the seat belt sign off and as if on cue, Yuppy Mommy jumped up from her seat and started bouncing the baby up and down the aisle. She went into the flight attendant area and stood in their way. Then she started dancing with the baby down the coach aisle, shoving her child’s feet into everyone’s face. (The Baby was not moving. She showed no signs of being awake.) The flight attendants had to walk around her to serve drinks.  A couple of times the attendants said, “Excuse me,” but YM acted perturbed like the attendants were in “Her” way.  I prayed for sleep, but it didn’t come.  It couldn’t, the guy next to me was elbowing me in the side every time he turned the page of his newspaper. This seemed to be the longest two hours of my life. If I wasn’t being assaulted by YM and her Baby Bjorn, I was being elbowed in the gut by the guy next to me. The eleventh time the guy elbowed me, I groaned and he stopped.

Back to Yuppy Mommy. She had to be told several more times to sit down, including during landing.  She spotted Crazy Dog Lady and decided that her child had asked to pet the dog. (The baby had not asked to pet the dog.  She hadn’t even seen it, she was asleep.) The flight attendants had enough and walked up to “YM” and asked her to please sit in her seat, so we could land.  She finally did, but only begrudgingly.  When we finally landed, I jumped out of my seat as soon as I possibly could and ran out of the plane to freedom.  I may have left stuff behind, but my freedom was more important.  I have never been so happy to see an airport terminal.  Freedom Sweet Freedom!!!

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!!

Philadelphia: Misfits and Wiccans pt 2

The first day of the rest of my life, started pretty uneventfully. The dress code was casual at best, so I didn’t have to bother with ironing.   I dressed in fifteen minutes and was out the door within a half an hour. When I got to the “office,” everyone was already there.  The Misfits were a lot mellower this morning. (Hung Over) Tracy was lying across the top of the sofa.  She opened her eyes and waved when I walked in.  Rich and Dan were both sleeping, sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. Toothless was sitting at the receptionist desk, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I was fine with that, because she was still cursing under her breath.  I didn’t see Tara, so I sat down on the couch in front of Tracy and waited.

Tara appeared at one of the back doors about five minutes later.  She waved me over and I followed her through to the poster storeroom.  The towers of posters were so tall, I couldn’t see over them.  Tara walked me through the entire selection of posters. She said “Every morning we take at least twelve and sometimes up to twenty with us.” Tara sold two the day before, which apparently is a great day. I helped her pick out replacements and then we loaded her car.  John came into the room and screamed “Morning Meeting.” I followed Tara into yet another garage, which turned out to be the old dude’s office.  The room was pretty bare except for a desk in the corner and the only light came from the top windows of the garage door. The rest of the windows were covered in brown butcher paper.

I had never been to a business meeting so I wondered if we were going to talk about sales projections, territory and competitors. (I had no idea what any of that meant, but I heard it on TV.)  Turns out, the morning meeting was more of a pep rally.  We stood in a circle holding hands and John started the meeting by leading us in a prayer of sales.  After a moment of silence, he started clapping vigorously. Everyone else followed suit. The clapping was followed by yelling; Hey, Hey, Ho, Ho and then a weird sales chant.  Suddenly, everyone (including me) started running in a circle yelling and waving their hands about.  I bet you’re wondering, why I didn’t run for the nearest exit.  The problem is I went to theatre school, where improv games are a rule not an exception.  I just assumed they borrowed the techniques to better their salesmanship. (I had never been to a sales meeting, anything seemed plausible.)

Once everyone was properly pumped, we disbanded and headed to our cars.  Tara and I got into hers and drove away from the city.  We smoked and rode around for ages, traveling deeper and deeper into the Pennsylvania countryside.  Def Leppard and Fleetwood Mac was the soundtrack of the day.  Tara and I sang at the top of our lungs with the windows open and our hair blowing in the wind.  I felt like I was on a road trip. Finally, Tara said she knew of a spot that hadn’t been tapped yet. She made a U-turn on a police turnaround and drove back two exits. Once off the highway, we drove down an industrial road for a couple of minutes until we came to an office building.  Tara pulled into the garage, we got out and she grabbed two posters from her trunk.  We walked into the building and suddenly Tara seemed nervous and a little lost at what to do next. (At this point, it finally clicked that something was off.) She studied the building directory for a few minutes and then pointed at the name of an accounting company.  We took the stairs to the second floor and walked directly into the office without knocking.  The whole room was filled with white, middle-aged, grey haired women, who turned in unison and stared at us.  My face started to burn with shame and embarrassment. It felt like we had walked into someone’s home uninvited.  Tara nervously said “Would anyone like to buy some art?” The oldest of the women came to the door and asked us to leave.  Tara said “Sure” and we walked out of the room and then ran out of the building.  As we were running,  I started to question my participation with the company. Tara didn’t seem all that comfortable with her participation either, but neither of us expressed it, we just ran.

As we were loading the posters back into the trunk, two women from the office appeared across the garage with wallets in hand.  They called to us and asked to see our selection. In the end, Tara sold two posters.   She turned to me after the ladies left and said  “See, that was a great sale.” (I think she was trying to convince herself.) We drove around the rest of the day singing and talking.  We both really liked Tusk by Fleetwood Mac, so we played it at least twenty times that day.

At 3:30, we went back to the “office.”  Toothless was still at the front desk when we arrived.  Tara and I sat down on the couch and Toothless struck up a conversation about a lingerie catalog, she was thumbing through.   Then she started regaling us with her and John’s sexual escapades from the night before.  Apparently, she had dressed in a french maid’s uniform and you can fill in the blanks, but I will say there was a lot of laughing and grunting noises made during the telling of the story.  I sat quietly with a strange smile pasted on my face, hoping they wouldn’t notice how uncomfortable I was. John came out and asked Tara to come to his office.  She whispered to me, that she was going to give me a glowing report.   About five minutes later, John called me in.  I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to him.  He asked if I would like to continue and I said “Yes.” (Still can’t explain why I didn’t take the out.)  I have a problem with follow thru, sometimes I follow thru to a fault.  John said “Great, come back tomorrow same time and you’ll go out on your own.”  I knew I wasn’t ready for that, but my pride would not allow me to say so.  I drove back to Sarina’s with a pit in my stomach knowing I would have to go back there tomorrow.

When I got home, Sarina quizzed me about how it was.  I said “Great,” leaving out all of the details.  I spent the whole night tossing and turning in bed.  I just kept asking myself “How in the world am I going to sell posters out of my car?”

I was exhausted the next morning, but I got up early and drove back to the “office.” Tara greeted me with a big smile and Rich came over and said “I’m going to help you set up your car. Can you pull it around to the back?”  Rich turns out was a really nice guy. He got in my car and put my back seats down and then lined my trunk with a box.  We walked around the storeroom together and picked out some posters.  He told me which ones sell the best and then he loaded them up, just in time for the morning meeting.   The meeting was the same as the morning before, lots of yelling and clapping. (I was hoping the meeting would never end, but it did.)  The moment finally came for me to go out on my own and sell posters to unsuspecting normal people.  I was so scared.

I got in my car and drove around for about an hour, until I worked up enough courage to get out and try.  I stopped at a dentist’s office, walked in with my samples and the receptionist gave me a puzzled look.  I asked her if the office had any interest in new art work.  She said “I don’t handle that.”  Then the dentist appeared behind her and said “Sorry, I collect art and spend a lot of time and money investing in original art work. I wouldn’t put cheap reproductions in here.”  I said, “Sure, your art is really nice, thanks.”   I slunked out of the office completely embarrassed.  I drove around for another hour, until I made the decision to go back to Sarina’s.  I just couldn’t do it. So, I parked the car in the garage, sat on the couch and watched TV for the rest of the day.  I called Reuben at work. (We didn’t have cell phones yet, so it was a dead giveaway I wasn’t selling.) He said “Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”  I said “Oh, I’m quitting, I couldn’t do it.”  He response was “It’s only Noon.”  I said “Uh-huh, that’s all I could handle.”  He laughed and said “Why don’t you come over for dinner after work.”  I said “Ok.”

I drove back to the office and everyone was so excited to see me.  Rich asked “How did you do?” I said “Oh, I didn’t sell anything.”  Tara said “That’s ok, it’s only your first day.”  John said “We should keep the posters in your car, so you don’t have to load up tomorrow.”  I knew I wasn’t coming back the next day, so I said “I’m not sure they will be safe because I park my car on the street in Center City. Can I leave them here?”  John said “Sure, we’ll leave them in a pile, out-of-the-way.”  I left the office, but not before I told everybody that I would see them tomorrow. (I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.)

Around midnight, I called the office and quit via the answering machine, citing a family emergency.  That call ended all contact with the poster cult, but I still wonder what happened to everybody, especially Tara.  I sort of felt like I abandoned her, but it’s every man for themselves.   To this day every time I hear Tusk by Fleetwood Mac, I think of my time with the Poster cult.

Philadelphia: Misfits and Wiccans

I leapt out of bed early the next morning, ready for the day. (Definitely, not normal behavior.) My morning routine is usually a long and painful drama that sometimes ends in tears, but always includes snarling. But not this day, I had an interview in my field and was on the path to success. I was so sure this was my job; I treated myself to the garage. Parking excursions were not something I could handle, while preparing for the most important interview of my life.

I watched morning television in my suit until it was time to go. (I needed to get used to wearing it, I was going to be a business person.) Two hours before the interview, I left home armed with hand written directions, my poor ability to follow said directions and a full tank of gas.  (The previous weekend I got lost in Reuben’s neighborhood for two hours.  I just kept going up and down the same street looking for my turn, FOR TWO HOURS!!!) Given my track record, I had to prepare for the worst. But, I knew in my heart this day was different. (I only got lost twice and arrived forty-five minutes early!)

As I pulled into the parking lot, I got a little nervous. The location didn’t seem very arty. Maybe I had written the address down wrong. Maybe I was lost again, because I seemed to be in an office park for body shops. I stopped at the first garage and asked the mechanic if I was in the right place. He said “Yes” and pointed to the end of the parking lot.  I drove down and parked next to the “office door.” (It had a sign on it that said office; otherwise it looked like a body shop.) There were old tires stacked by the door and other miscellaneous body shop debris lying around. This should have caused me more pause than it did. Instead, I decided they were a company of underground artists who spray painted building murals. In their free time, they did work on canvas.  Presumably, they were Philly’s answer to Warhol’s Factory.  I sat in my car and imagined myself running with the artistic elite.

At 3:45, I decided it was time to go in.  When I opened the door, an unsettling feeling came over me. It felt like I was peering into another world (One where the sun was not welcome.)    Everything went dark, as the door shut behind me.  The room’s only light came from a couple of half dead fluorescent bulbs. The receptionist was sitting at a desk off to the side of the room.  I walked over and said “My name is Cara, I am here for my 4:00 interview.”  She looked up from her romance novel briefly and said “Ok”, then pointed across the room at the seating area.  It was furnished in “Early American Parents Hand Me Downs.” (Brown nubby plaid sofa, an old ratty coffee table and a puce shag rug.)  I perched on the very edge of the sofa, because it looked like it had been through a flood. The walls were covered in framed reproductions of the masters most recognized work (Monet’s Water Lilies, Dali’s Melting Clocks and Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.) It wasn’t as underground chic as I thought it would be.

The receptionist walked to one of the doors at the back and screamed through, saying something to the effect of your four is here. I recognized her voice from my phone interview the day before.  She walked back to the desk, grabbed her purse and started packing up to leave.  As she was doing this, a toothless woman with horrible bleach blonde hair came out of the office and sat at the desk.  Toothless slammed drawers and mumbled curse words under her breath while a cigarette hung precariously from her sunken, red lips. (Her drags were so long and deep she finished half the cigarette in one.)  She pulled a giant pile of cash out of a drawer and started counting, never removing the cigarette from her mouth.  I wondered if they were running a back to work program for homeless people.

The receptionist left and then one by one the strangest band of misfits arrived. First came Tracy, she was a skinny, jumpy, teenage girl, who laughed loudly, often and at inappropriate times.  Then came Rich, he looked a little like Anthony Kiedes during the drug years, (but not as clean.)  Then Dan, he was a football player type who liked to say f*ck a lot. (Also missing a few teeth.) Finally, came Tara, the most normal of the group. (She kind of looked like Stevie Nicks and was the only one who seemed to have bathed recently.)  They could have been in the cast of Trainspotting except for the Philly accents.

I was so mesmerized by the Misfits, I found myself unable to stop staring. Dan and Rich play wrestled while Tracy was giggling in weird spastic spurts. They were making so much noise, the room was vibrating. Toothless started screaming unintelligibly at them. In unison, the Misfits screamed back. It seemed like a hostile exchange, but then everyone broke into laughter.   I turned my head for a second to watch this old dude (he was 30) walk through the room. When I turned back, the misfits were focused on me.  Rich (Anthony Kiedes) asked me all the obvious questions like “Are you applying? (What else would I have been doing in a garage/office in a suit?) “What’s your name?”  “Your accent is weird, where are you from?”  The others sort of chattered behind him with comments like. “Oh that’s cool.” “Her accent is weird.”  Then, as quickly as they had focused on me, they went back to screaming at each other.

Tara turned to me and quietly started coaching me on what to say during my interview. She also gave me the social structure of the clan.  Apparently, toothless was soon to be the wife of the boss.  The whole band of misfits was in the wedding, which was going to be a Wiccan ceremony in the woods.  (I had no idea what that was, but I smiled and nodded.)  Then she told me that  John (The Boss) was a Druid and Toothless was a high priestess (It was hard to believe she was anything but just plain high.)  The men were to wear robes and the women, corseted wench outfits. Toothless chimed in and started describing her bridal wear. She was going to wear an outfit made entirely of white sheer lace, possibly with her crotch out. She wasn’t really sure yet, but it would have a hood. I was now actively stamping down a little voice in my head that was telling me to run.

John finally came out to get me.  He was a tall guy about my age with long greasy red hair and a big red bushy beard.  He was dressed like a burnout, in cargo shorts and a Grateful Dead t-shirt.  John took me back to his office.  It was a horrible mess of paper, old filing cabinets and the back wall was a windowed garage door. (The windows had been blacked out with construction paper.) We both sat down on either side of an enormous metal desk covered in mounds of paper and an ash tray that had apparently, never been emptied. I handed over my resume.  He took a quick look and then started asking me about my personality.  You know the questions, i.e. (“Are you a go getter?”  “Do you like people?”)  I said, “Yes” enthusiastically to everything.  John told me that he had started six months earlier selling reproductions and now he had his own crew. He also said “Your success in this business is completely dependent on how much effort you put in.” I told him about my aspirations in photography and my time working in retail. He said, “Boy you sound like a great fit. I would like for you to come back tomorrow at 8am for training with Tara.” (Thank G*d it was Tara.)  Then he said, “You’ll shadow her on sales calls,” (I wondered where we would be calling.)  “Then you can decide if this is really something you want to do.” I said “Thank you so much for the opportunity.” (I still wasn’t sure what the “opportunity” was.  I knew it involved selling art posters, but to whom and where?) The lack of information didn’t seem to have any effect on my excitement. We shook hands and I walked out of his office and Tara gave me a look and I gave her a thumbs up.  She smiled, nodded and said congratulations.  I left the garage/office on cloud nine. (A job was a job.)

I decided to find Reuben and tell him the good news. So, I drove out to his parent’s house and relayed the day’s excitement to him and his mother.  Both of them “looked” excited, even though I was giving them a very vague description of a job. Naturally, I left out detailed descriptions of the people, office and the Wiccan stuff.

Reuben and I went out for a celebratory dinner and then I drove back to Sarina’s to prepare myself for my first day of work.  For the first time since I moved to Philadelphia, I went to bed excited.  If this worked out, I could start school! Things could only get better……  Tune in for the next installment.

Philadelphia: The Beginning

I moved to Philadelphia at twenty-three without a plan. Well, no real plan.  The general idea was to go to photography school, but I hadn’t spent much time figuring out how I would pay for it. (No concept of money) I already had bachelor’s degrees in Political Science and Theatre which qualified me for, well, not much.  My work experience at the time consisted of seasonal retail work, food service, an internship with the London Labour Party and one year as an office manager. I figured I could find a job doing “something” and then go to school at night.  How hard could it be?

Philadelphia has some of the best art schools in the country.  Also, my best friend (Sarina) and my college roommates (Bob and Reuben) were there.  If I am being honest, the art schools were a secondary draw.  Anyway, Bob, Reuben and I were planning to move in together and relive old times. (Party)  They went apartment hunting in my absence and found a great townhouse in Center City Philadelphia. Things were perfect.

Enter Bob’s girlfriend, whom he left in Ohio. She decided at the eleventh hour to move to Philadelphia too. Luckily, the townhouse was big enough for all of us.  Everything seemed great. (More Roommates=Cheaper Rent=Beer Money) Bob’s girlfriend and I decided to coordinate housewares and get to know each other over the phone. From my perspective, the conversation went well. As it turns out, she didn’t feel the same way. Bob called me two nights before I was to leave home and said we couldn’t live together. (Wonderful birthday present) “Moose” didn’t think it was a good idea (After this, I never called her by her given name.)  Since we were no longer going to live together, Bob suggested I stay in St. Louis. I told him that living together was not critical to my move or my life. I probably was not that articulate. (Lots of four letter words) Reuben was living with his parents, so it wasn’t essential for him to find an apartment. (Bob, as it so happens, was also living with Reuben’s parents.)  I was angry and scared. “She’s leaving home” by the Beatles was on repeat for twenty-four hours, while I cried and packed. (My brother tried to hide the cd six hours in.) Two days later, without a home, a job or a plan, my Dad and I packed my car and headed towards Philadelphia and my new (uncertain) life.

I moved in with Sarina and her roommate Alix, until I could find a job and an apartment.  But, finding a job proved more difficult than I thought.  I called several temp agencies I worked with in St. Louis. Over the phone they were confident they could find work for me. However, once I turned up at the agencies, the work miraculously disappeared. (a common theme in my life and job searches) I had an interview with a student travel agency and again nothing. Alix taught me how to sneak into a U of Penn computer lab to look for jobs on the internet. (The internet was still fairly new in 1998 and Sarina and Alix didn’t have a connection at home.)  I responded to hundreds of want ads, but for all the effort, I still wasn’t able to find work.

My car also turned out to be a major obstacle in finding a job.  Sarina’s apartment was in Center City Philadelphia, which meant I spent most of my days moving my car every two hours. (The show “Parking Wars” isn’t actually dramatizing.) Competition for spots was so fierce, it sometimes took an hour to find a new space. There were frequent screaming matches among the car mover set and in some cases arguments turned physical.  Fresh from the midwest, I hadn’t cultivated my aggression yet. Philadelphia requires aggression to perform the most basic of tasks. (i.e. grocery shopping, drive thrus, post office, pumping gas and most importantly driving.) During my first month, I lost many a parking spot, by being polite.  Sometimes I would pull up to a spot, turn on my blinkers and then before I could even turn my steering wheel, someone would come behind me and throw their car in the spot. (Parking blinkers in Philadelphian translates to, here’s a spot, take it.) The use of blinkers in Philadelphia is always ill-advised. It’s literally asking people to take advantage of you. During my early days, I was taken advantage of a lot. But, by the time I moved four years later, I was the fiercest, most aggressive, volatile driver of all my friends.

One day on one of my parking excursions ( I had five daily), I picked up the Philadelphia weekly, (the free newspaper.)  I also got lucky and found a spot in only 30 minutes. I ran home quickly and started looking through the classifieds. (With 1 hour and 45 minutes, until my next excursion, I had to run.)  My eye caught this bright yellow ad that said “Do you like Art?”, “Do you like people?” Come work in a relaxed environment around art. We are currently hiring sales people.”  This was exactly what I was looking for. I knew this was it.  I called immediately and a young woman answered.  I told her that I saw the ad and was interested in the position.  She asked me some rather basic questions like “Are you good with people?”  “Do you like art?”  “How much experience have you had with sales?”  I told her about my love of art and my time working in a department store and how I much I just love people (I was a theatre major, I laid it on.)  She said great, “Please come in at four tomorrow for an interview.”  I couldn’t believe my luck! Finally, an interview.  I  was so excited, I couldn’t wait for Sarina and Alix to come home.

When they got home a couple of hours later, I met them at the door with my news. I described the job as working for an art gallery (The ad never mentioned gallery and neither did the woman who interviewed me, but what else could it be?)   I laid out my interview suit that night and double checked my directions. I was so hopeful.

This is the first installment in my Philadelphia series. Please come back for the The Interview. You won’t be disappointed…

Stopping Traffic

When I was a kid washing the car was a treat.  My brother Chris and I went crazy when dad let us help. To be honest, we were never much help. Washing the car was really an excuse to have a water fight. (Translation: Express all of our pent-up sibling aggression.)

Chris’ car washing duties were far-reaching (He was and is as tall as I am short), he got to scrub the sides of the car, the windows and most importantly, he got to use the hose.  I was so small, I was relegated to washing the white walls.  Most kids graduate from white walls by the time they are eight.  Not me, I was eight, the size of a four year old and still on white walls. Everyone knows it’s the least glamorous duty, as there is no access to the hose.  This also made me defenseless during water fights. (My brother was not charitable and I always ended up soaked.)

Our car was an enormous 1970s station wagon with faux wood metal paneling (The Brown Bomber).  You know the ones with their own zip code. By the time I started Catholic school the next year, it had become a great source of embarrassment.  My dad drove me to school and every morning the bomber shot off a disgusting, smokey exhaust bomb in the schoolyard.  Kids used to see it approaching and scatter like buckshot.  But that was later, at age eight I still wanted the responsibility of washing it.

One summer afternoon, while my brother was at sleep-away camp,  I asked my dad if we could wash the car. (I was an opportunist. I also got the toy out of the cereal that week.)  Dad surprisingly said yes and got the bucket ready for me.  I spent some time negotiating my release from white wall duty, but dad just wanted to get the car washed. He started rambling on about how “He had other things to do, like work blah, blah,” and to “Just wait, I’ll be back.”  My dad went in the house and I begrudgingly started on the white walls.  I finished them quite quickly and since my father wasn’t back, I seized the “opportunity” and started washing the “fine wood grain paneling,” (what I could reach of it at least).  Having completed the paneling and still no sign of my dad, I figured I’d start on the hood.  I couldn’t reach it from the ground, so I climbed up, scrubbed, climbed back down and rinsed. Then genius set in and I decided to do the roof. So, I climbed on the massive roof and started scrubbing. I had to work quickly, because there was no telling when my dad would reappear. Needless to say, I would have been in deep trouble, if he caught me wandering around the roof of the bomber.

I was scrubbing hard, when suddenly, I felt like I was being watched.  I looked up and cars were slowing down in front of the house, some of the them actually stopped.  One lady called out, “Are you ok?”  I said yes and continued with my scrubbing.  Then she asked “What are you doing?”  I said, “Washing the car.” (uh duh)  Then she said, “Do your parents know where you are?”  (I didn’t really have time for this lady’s questions, I was on a deadline.)  Then she asked if my parents knew what I was doing.  I looked her straight in the eye and answered yes. She believed me, because little kids are bad liars, I wasn’t really little and had long since mastered the art of lying. So, she drove off, probably very puzzled.   More cars stopped and stared (It was like a parade.)  The attention didn’t faze me.  I was used to a lot of attention (All little people are), but I kept on with the business of washing the car.  At this point I needed the hose.  I climbed back down, grabbed the hose, climbed back up and stood on the roof rinsing.  I was having so much fun!  I didn’t have to share with my brother and my dad was too pre-occupied to tell me to stick to the white walls. As I was hosing down the roof, my neighbor, Mr. Giovanni stopped his car and said, “Cara, what are you doing?”  I said, “I am washing the car.” (In my head I was like uh duh, what does it look like I am doing? What is wrong with these people?)  Mr. Giovanni shook his head, laughed and drove to his house. This should have been my warning to get off the roof, but I was having too much fun spraying the water.

Mr. Giovanni reappeared on foot, just as my father was coming out the front door.  The jig was up, I was surrounded and caught red-handed. I was standing on the roof of the car with a hose. (There was no way explain that.)  My dad said, “Cara what are you doing?”  (Again, In my head, I said uh duh what does it look like?)  I answered, “Washing the car, you were taking too long.”  Mr. Giovanni was in hysterics at this point. All my father could say through his laughter was “Well I wondered why traffic was stopping in front of the house.”  I didn’t get in trouble that day. My dad couldn’t stop laughing long enough to reprimand me.

P.S. I also got out of white wall duty!!!

Dirty Bums

My very first concert was a New Kids on the Block concert at Six Flags.  I begged and pleaded with my mother to let me go un-chaperoned with my friends. My mother bottom lined it and said “Go with me or don’t go at all.”  The surly teenager in me didn’t want to be seen with her, but my love of the New Kids overrode the horror and embarrassment of attending with my mom.

Concert day arrived and I drove my mother crazy all day.  I wanted to go when the park opened at 8am (The concert didn’t start until 8pm.)  My mother threatened to call the whole thing off, if I didn’t cool it. So I cooled it long enough to get in the car.  We finally left at Noon and I forced my mother to listen to a NKOTB retrospective, during our 45 minute drive. (45 minutes was all it took to go through the entire New Kids catalogue.) When we arrived, one of the workers told us that we needed to head towards the amphitheatre right away, because the line had already started.  This set my teenage angst into hyper drive. I was relentless with the complaints. Some examples of my grievances: “I told ya so, I told you we weren’t going to get good seats, we’re going to miss it, you ruined this for me.” (I’m annoying myself now.)

We reached the line and my hopes of actually seeing the concert were dashed. The line was two blocks long and the amphitheatre was tiny. We joined the line anyway.  I quickly made friends with the people on the other side of the fence. (The other side of the fence was the front of the line, I’m no fool.)   My new friends eventually said “Hey you want to cut with us?”   I gave my mom the “I Love You Mommy Look” and she said “ok.”  Keep in mind, cutting the line would require my mother to crawl on her hands and knees in amusement park dirt (Eww).  The vision of my mother’s rear end crawling underneath the fence is still imbedded in my brain.  (That’s LOVE people!)  I just knew this was going to be the best day of my life.  I was going to see the New Kids up close and personal.  What more could a thirteen year old girl ask for in 1988?

The gates finally opened and everyone rushed in.  My mom and I got 8th row seats.  I was so close I thought I might get hit with Jordan ‘s sweat.  (Oh the joy!!!) The lights went down and Tiffany (the opening act) came out. I could have cared less about her, but a major problem revealed itself when she started singing.  Everyone stood up and I couldn’t see the stage. (Actually, I couldn’t see anything but the rears of the people in front of me.)  My hopes were dashed again.  I had worked hard and come so far, just to be stuck watching asses.  To add insult to injury, my personal space was being invaded by the foulest of smells.  I was gagging, it stank so badly.  I realized the smell was coming from the rears of the people around me.  I pouted and held my nose through most of the concert.  The only bright light of the whole evening was when a security guard rescued me and let me hang out in the orchestra pit for ten minutes.  That totally made up for the rest of the concert.  I could almost touch Jordan . (Cue 13-year-old swoon.)  It was all I wanted out of life.  I left the amusement park on a complete high.  My mother and I drove home to the sounds of NKOTB, until she lost her mind and pulled the tape out of the stereo. She also put the mother’s curse on me, you know the one.  “I hope you have a child just like you, yada yada.” (I don’t have any kids yet, so only time will tell if the curse worked.)

I went to two more concerts in high school with the same results. As soon as the concert started, I got the wrong end of the ass. I don’t go to concerts any more.  If I want to stare at random people’s asses, I’ll just ride the subway.

PSA: Little People are subject to YOUR ASS- Wash your nether regions. Little People come very close to your derrieres. We don’t choose it, it just happens to us.  Take a shower; wipe your ass- save a little person.

Bed Stuy Indian

Bed Stuy, Brooklyn has been my home for the past two years.  It’s no longer the place that people fear.  The old neighbors that remain are amazing and the new neighbors are trying to keep the feeling of the neighborhood.  There are still drug dealers and a couple of crack whores, but by and large, it’s really a great neighborhood. The violence of before is on the decline, but some of the amazing characters have remained.

The first morning I walked to the subway, I met my friend Indian. (The neighbors call him Indian. I have no idea what his given name is.)  He’s approximately 6 foot 3 and ethnically east Indian with a Caribbean accent.  I think he’s Jamaican, but I can’t be too sure.  He’s always intoxicated, no matter what time of day.  So most of the time I can’t tell what he’s saying.  He wears hip hop clothes and is probably in his 50’s or 60’s.  I don’t know where he lives, but I know where to find him or rather he knows where to find me.  That first morning, he came running out from one of the covered porches and gave me a huge hug and kiss and said “Respect mon.”  Then he said some other stuff that was unintelligible.

At night he used to hang out with the drug dealers and was usually so drunk he could barely stand up.  The dealers tried to get him to stop hugging me.  One time, one of the dealers put himself between the two of us and said “Man, she doesn’t want you to touch her.”  He didn’t listen and went right back to hugging me the next day.  Indian has changed sides of the street and currently hangs out with the old men who drink and play cards. He still runs over to greet me with a hug.

Over the past two years Indian has danced at me, sung to me and given me advice (I’m still working on translating the advice. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.)  Once he led me into the new neighborhood restaurant and then walked out.  I was standing in the restaurant by myself with the staff staring at me like, “What do you want?”  I told them that Indian just grabbed me off the street and led me in.  They gave a knowing look and laughed.   Sometimes he waves me over to tell me something important. I have never understood anything he has said, but I have grown to really like Indian. I know I’m home when he greets me.   It’s become a thing.

The Top Ten

Most Ridiculous Reactions to My Height

1. Patting me on the head (You don’t ever touch a black woman’s hair – EVER. There are men married to black women who have never touched their wives hair.)

2. Stopping, staring and then saying out loud “There’s a midget!.” Then smiling and saying “Hello”- (At that point I know you have been talking about me – I’m not deaf and you aren’t whispering.)

3. Starting a fake conversation by calling me someone else’s name, just so you can hear me speak.  (Sometimes I go along with it and ask some random question like “Wasn’t that a fantastic reunion last week?”)

4. Getting angry if I don’t want to stop and talk (I would suggest yoga, it calms the mind and you seem to have an anger management problem.)

5. Asking me how old I am? (Really, I shouldn’t even have to comment on this one.)

6. Asking me how tall I am (Anyone who has passed the second grade should be able to guess.)

7. Asking me if I can get you free tickets to the circus (Am I wearing a clown costume?)

8. Asking me if I am capable of having children. (No, apparently they ‘ve left that up to stupid people.)

9. Asking me how I have sex, “Is it regular?”  (If you have to ask  “Don Juan” then you don’t know what you are doing and I am not interested.)

10. Asking me to take a picture with you. (Unless I am commanding a 7 figure salary, I don’t do that.)

Bonus

11. Wow, you are really short! (WHAT?!!! I’d always wondered why I couldn’t reach the top shelves.)

Lifting the lid on a family tradition

CNN, New York, NY.

I grew up in St. Louis, MO which is considered the Midwest, but has some clear southern leanings. Barbecue and fried chicken were always around. One of my favorite meals as a child was a one-pot meal consisting of potatoes, green beans, carrots and cabbage boiled with a ham hock. My parents served it with a fresh batch of corn bread to soak up the juices – often called pot liquor or potlikker.

I never really thought anything about this meal other than I liked it. When you’re a kid, you generally don’t analyze your food that deeply. It’s either like or can’t stand. Flash forward to adulthood, when I started doing some personal research on the African American slave diet. I suddenly realized that what my parents were serving was the original soul food.

Most people think of soul food as heavy, greasy and fattening and plenty of it is. My family reunion wouldn’t be the same without BBQ, fried chicken and macaroni and cheese.

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Attack of the 4’2″ chef

CNN, New York, NY.

Living in New York City has its challenges, not the least of which is apartment size. With these tiny apartments come teeny tiny kitchens – which are manageable if all the “cooking” you are going to do is make a bowl of cereal or an occasional pasta dish.

Every New York home cook has their own way of dealing with the space issue. Most kitchens are built using all the available vertical space. Mine is no exception. What seems high to most people is actually towering for me. I’m only 4’2″.

To put it into perspective, the counters in my current apartment come to my shoulders. I have always had to use a stool, but this kitchen is sort of ridiculous. The bottoms of my top cabinets are at least five feet off the ground. My average height friends have difficulty in my kitchen.

Cooking has become an acrobatic exercise. To fix one meal you might see me climbing up on counters, leaning across the kitchen from my stool, so I don’t have to climb up and down the stool every time I need to get to the sink. I use kitchen tongs to grab things off the top shelves all the while standing on a stool or kneeling on the counter. It sounds strange and it probably looks strange but at least I am burning off a few calories before I eat.

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