Disasters Big and Small
September 30, 2006
After several riders complained of nausea and eye irritation, service on my train line was suspended for a few hours while police investigated. I made it to work by walking along the chilly, windswept, garbage-strewn, perpetual-construction-zone of Flushing Avenue and taking the elevated J train across the Williamsburg Bridge.
Riding an elevated train is a completely different experience from riding an underground train. It was a nice change. You get to see the early morning sunlight inch down the building facades and onto the sidewalks, warming the people as they gradually get up to speed. The cars pulse like blood cells through the valves of street lights. Coagulating at the red ones, squirting through the green ones.
Not only is the view outside different, but things are different inside the train car as well. Because you aren't 20 feet underground, the people standing next to you on the crowded train —extra-crowded, yesterday, because of displaced L train riders like me — can use their cell phones.
It's funny how a train car can be packed to the gills and no one makes a sound, but give them cell phone service, and suddenly it's like riding in a pet store bird cage. Squawk, chirp, tweet.
Although service on the L train resumed a few hours later, it was suspended again on my way home. This time, due to the 20-story crane collapse on Third Avenue. I wasn't sure what was going on as I approached Union Square. Police vehicles, fire engines, a Red Cross disaster relief truck, all squealing their way through the thinning traffic of the closed-off streets, while helicopters circled — thwup-thwup-thwup —overhead. When I was turned away from walking down 14th Street, I began to have flashbacks to 911 — minus the machine guns and fighter jets, of course. When I figured out what was going on and realized it had nothing to do with the "suspicious aerosol" from earlier in the day, I tried to get as close to the center of the action as possible, to gawk. But the police had shut down such a broad area that I couldn’t get anywhere near the action. Unless you consider gobs of NYU students having an impromptu ice cream social while displaced from their dorms on an eerily empty 14th street, “action.”
When I’d heard train service was restored, I squeezed my way onto a car for a wordless ride home.
October 1, 2006
The corner across the street, the one I can see from my window, used to be overgrown with weeds. Roots exploding through cement. Trucks used to cut corners and plow over the sidewalk, turning it to dust. People would dump big bags of trash in the middle of the night. Shoes, baby strollers, tires, refrigerators, chairs, all piled into a six-foot-tall tribute to fickle tastes and poor craftsmanship. Feral cats made their home in the mess, darting in and out of the tight recesses. A crooked tree lived in the heart of it all, straining to retain some dignity.
In the past few years, however, the corner has cleaned up considerably. The weeds have been weeded, the tree pruned, the trash cleared away. Even the sidewalk has been repaired with fresh cement. But old habits die hard, and people still throw an awful lot of trash there. Not just the corner, in fact, but the entire block. Currently, there's a green leather couch with arms torn up by cat's claws, just outside my door. It's been there for weeks.
This evening, as Deborah and I returned from the local store, we passed the couch like we always do. I told her about the homeless guy I saw sleeping on it the other night, and she told me about the three twelve-year-olds lounging on it, who taunted her as she passed.
We paused at our front door while I fished through my pocket for the key.
"Oh man," I said, "look at that."
Just outside our door was a tissue and two used condoms.
"Gross," said Deborah. "Who the hell put that there?"
"Who knows?"
"What's their problem?"
"Whatever it is, they have more than one. I mean, look! One of the condoms is green ."
October 7, 2006
The restaurant was crowded, as usual on a Friday night. Deborah and I squeezed up to the bar and took the only two empty seats. Nearly everyone was watching the baseball game on television. The sound was off. The stereo blasted Elvis.
"I was never big on Elvis," said Deborah.
"Elvis was a hero to most, but he never meant shit to me— "
Deborah laughed. "What is that from?"
"Public Enemy, I think. I'm not sure, 'cause, you know, Pubic Enemy is a hero to some, but they never meant shit to me. We'll have to Google it later.”
Anyway, I've never been very big on Elvis, either. I've gone through phases when I think he's okay, and phases when I think he's annoying. But I've never gone through a phase where I thought he was the greatest. I used to like it, though, when I stayed home sick from school and one of his movies would be on television in the afternoon. Of course, with all those crappy game shows and soap operas, anything would look good, but there was something comforting about them.
“This era is particularly bad for his music," I said, pointing to the air as Elvis crooned a song over the belching and farting of a tuba.
The service at the restaurant is always slow, but it's especially bad on a Friday night. The last time we'd gone there, it took an hour for us to get a hamburger and a salad. My hamburger was overdone. Dried out and flavorless. Deborah's salad was warm. "That's the way they come," said the waiter when Deborah asked him about it.
"Oh. It's different than the last time I ordered it."
The waiter shrugged and walked away.
"Cucumbers shouldn't be cooked," said Deborah.
"I dunno," I said, trying to be a diplomat, "They're kind of like zucchinis, and zucchinis get cooked."
Then Deborah lifted a limp slice of cucumber on her fork.
"Hmm. Maybe you're right."
We both ordered something different this time, but we were prepared for an equally long wait. Since neither of us was interested in the baseball game, I steered through the crowd and found a free music magazine for us to look at. The type was too small to read in the dim light, and the restaurant was too loud to concentrate, so we just looked at the pictures.
"There are so many bands around these days," said Deborah as we flipped through page after page of clever haircuts and cute names. "I've never even heard of any of them."
"These guys look like they should live in our neighborhood," I said, pointing to a picture of four twenty-year-olds dressed in New Wave-Rockabilly-Lesbian-Chic.
"You've seen them?" Deborah asked.
"No. I said they look like they live around here. I don't know. Maybe they do."
One of the girls had particularly angled bangs that obscured one eye. Her head was cocked. She wore a striped knit shirt, a studded belt, and a red bandana rolled up and tied around her neck.
"What do you think about that?" said Deborah, jabbing her finger on the page.
"What?"
"The bandana around the neck thing. I've been seeing it a lot lately."
"I dunno," I shrugged. "I like it better on people than dogs. I never liked that whole bandana dog collar thing."
"I agree."
We talked about people's clothes and dog clothes, and how never the twain should meet.
"I might be crazy about my cats," said Deborah, "but I'm not crazy enough to dress them in clothes."
"No kidding. Isn't that the beauty of being a cat, anyway? The luxury of being naked all day?"
These posts never go anywhere, do they?
October 8, 2006
Today is my birthday. All gifts should be given in small, unmarked bills placed in a brown grocery bag and left under the mailbox on the corner of Flushing Avenue within the next 24 hours, or you'll never see this blog again.
Speaking of this blog, it's the blog's birthday, too. Only four years old, and already starting to have little grown-up conversations. Aww.
October 11, 2006
What happened to the World Trade Center on September 11th made today's plane crash a much bigger story around the office than it might've been otherwise, but at the same time, it made it a much smaller story too. When news reports of a plane crashing into a high-rise began to crackle through the office, there was a sense of apprehension. "Wait, what? What happened? A plane crash? Where?"
A plane -- of any size -- crashing into the side of a building -- of any size -- is pretty spectacular, no doubt about it, but when word spread that it was a small private plane crashing into a non-descript 20 year old 50-story condo building, rather than a commercial jet exploding into the side of a internationally recognized icon, it triggered relieved shrugs.
"Oh."
Back to work.
I admit that was my reaction, as well.
I remember when I first got word that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, I thought it was probably a similar scenario to what happened today. Operator error of a small plane. Then I saw the caustic black smoke billowing out of the hole punched into Tower Two. "Whoa. Uh oh."
I drove to the East River, where a crowd was growing along the Brooklyn waterfront, and watched another plane punch another hole. I felt claustrophobic and drove home. Traffic was gooey. I climbed to my roof and, with a pair of binoculars, could see people falling, but not clearly enough to know what I was seeing. "What is that stuff?" I remember asking.
The television was on earlier tonight. I wasn't watching it, but I could hear it. A teaser came on promoting an upcoming news program. "High-rise crash! A small plane crashes into a 50-story high-rise on the Upper East Side, claiming the life of a Yankee pitcher. Channel 2 was first on the scene! First to report—"
I tuned out. I had no interest. Wasn't the least bit curious to learn the details. Didn't care what it looked like.
