A Message From Charleston

Stagnant. Stationary. Sluggish. Standing. Unproductive.

Not a pleasant position to be in. Better said: not a good f**king place to be. Keep things moving. Or at least attempt to do so. It can be hard to sustain the pace when you're moving much faster than the others (almost all of them). But you can't slow it down. Why slow down? Say "nah" to slowing down. Say "ahh hell nah" to stopping. If they can't keep up, eff 'em. 

I feel as if my mother told me this once. Not in these exact words, but a fairly accurate regurgitation of her message. She's smarter than I think she isn't. She knows it too. 

The Train Trials: A Damsel...Distressed.

During this ride, I noticed a fellow fare, a female, and immediately I said to myself: "That girl looks like Shelley Duvall." Shelley Duvall is as unattractive as they come, especially in The Shining. Only kidding. Her most unappealing moments come during the scenes where she is hysterical. Other than that, she is simply divine.

Anyway, this female fare was sitting directly across from me on the G-Train. [As is always the case, the G-Train likes to spilt the service up between two trains on the weekends, and now even during the week (late night/early morning), in order to save the city a few bucks (conspiracy!). I'm used to it so it doesn't bother me as much as it should. Plus, that isn't even much of an interruption. The G-Train's lack of consistency is its malfunction.] She looked confused from the beginning---Metropolitan. The more stops we made, the more her expression transformed. By the time we hit Myrtle-Willoughby, that poor child was almost in tears. This was when I made the Duvall connection.

She was a bit hysterical and maybe scared for her life. I thought maybe she had lost a loved one recently or just really wasn't enjoying how things were going for her. I've been there. I think I might be there as I write. But this isn't bout me. It is about our distressed Duvall look-alike.

What spelled "s.o.s" to me?  Her gazes across the faces of her fellow passengers. She was a stranger in an unknown burrough, I felt, and she just needed a little direction, a little help.

We hit the Bed-Nostrand stop, which is the last stop when service is interrupted. To continue service further South, one must exit the train and walk across the platform. How was she to know this? The conductors apparently have the option to decide whether or not they want to inform the passengers of what's going on.

I didn't have to walk across the platform. I could've just trekked the few blocks. But for her, I chose to walk across the plat. I entered the train and sat down while she stood directly across from me, looking very nervous, still searching desperately for guidance, but too afraid to engage. I took my headphones off and made eye-contact to let her know that I was very interested in knowing what her f**king deal was...

"I just need to get to Fulton." she said.

"Stay here."

She took a seat and came down a bit. I wanted to tell her to breathe, because that is what I do, but I'd already done enough. I gave her everything she needed. As I made my exit I looked at her and informed her that she had only a few stops to go, and that she would then wake up, and her nightmare would be over. She thanked me and then she was gone.

It is a big city. But it isn't that big. And not too intimidating if I may say so. All you have to do is breathe.

The Good The Bad The Money

The good news is that I got home from work about 45 minutes ahead of schedule. I predicted a 5am arrival time but was fortunate enough to, on this night (early, early morning), be wrong with my guesstimate.

The bad news is that I have to be up in less than forty winks to go back to that place where I am currently annoyed. ( He meant to say employed). No harm, no foul. Besides, I wanted it this way. The lesser of two evils---no doubt.

The money. You sure would like to know about this "money" wouldn't you? Well if you were unawares, I currently reside in the lovely, colorful, loud, obscene, and sometimes way too loud area of New York commonly referred to as BED STUY!

...So I casually exit the train station. And don't even ask me how long I had to wait for that G-Train. (SPOILER: TOO DA** LONG!) So anyway, I crawl up the stairs and exit the subway to begin the short trek home. I always make it a habit to look down when I'm walking. (Because people are dumb. And dumb people like to drop things. Like money.) About two blocks into my trek, I stumble upon what I immediately recognize as tender. It was a small wad of bills, and I was staring directly into the face of a ten-spot. I wanted there to be 100s under that ten-spot but I don't know too many people (other than yours truly) that insist on putting their smallest bills on the outside of the stack. So keep dreaming. But that's just it. It was like a dream. (Actually, I still think I might be dreaming) 

We've all had "the dream". You come across an a**load of cash or something just as valuable, to wake up to absolutely nothing. Demoralizing. Debilitating. And not a very pleasant way to start your day. Forgive the digression, but this was not a dream. I stayed the course and vowed not to count the possible "drug money gone missing" until I got home.

How much could be in this stack? I looked at it once more before I arrived home and quickly deduced that a)  there were at least five bills in my possession and b) none of said bills looked to be the equivalent of the sum of four quarters. My pace increased. Not only because of the obvious but also because I felt strongly that whoever lost this cash was probably retracing their footsteps as I trekked. 

As soon as I got home I counted. No time to even blink. 10, 20, 30 (if you could've seen my face at this moment, you would've tawt that I was a mere child being introduced to real money), 40, 50 (absolutely no way there's more than fif...), 60 Dollars!

Can you believe that? On a Saturday night (early, early, early, Sunday morning)? I can't believe it was there for me. Thanks to the dummy that lost his/her money. And to all the other dummies that failed to look down.

I'm expecting in the next few hours for my doorbell to ring. After spending a few seconds trying to figure out how they even got into my building, and then not answering the door, the money's true owner will then decide to stand outside the building, and just yell:

"Hey, you find some money on the ground not too long ago n*gga?"

Every Single (Dang) Day

Random Interaction with a very random acquaintance:

Hi.

How have you been?

Oh things aren't going too well for you?

STOP THERE. HALT!

DON'T SAY "WHAT'S THE MATTER?" or anything similar to said response.

This is the part where you interrupt with the ol' "oh sorry, somebody needs me somewhere else, I think", or the very up front, "Sorry. But we're out of time"...

But are you really out of time?

Well....?

Lately I have been dealing with some absurd situations that I shouldn't really categorize as "dramatic", but these certain scenarios do hold some overly-dramatic undertones. You follow me? New identities and ideals being formed, mysteriously---things like that. Very odd city, this New York City. And who better to inhabit an odd city than a bunch of nutters? (DO NOT exclude me from this group.) New York is full of em"...

Reality television has spread some untruth and now the world seems to be obsessed with dramatics. The world needs drama. Because drama is "real". Is that right? Can't be wrong, right?

I don't mind a lil' bit of "d" in my life...but please, I'll have mine like I have my high-fructose corn syrup---in moderation, please.  It has become synonymous with doping in my mind. Some of these fiends just gotta have "d" in order to function. I don't understand the people that intentionally seek out to make things difficult for themselves and others. These are not your friends. These are the fiends. Avoid em'. You see them comin', you do what I do: Say "Oh sh*t! Trouble's comin'...", then scurry away. Works every time.

Satisfaction through evasion.

The One With The Old Guy and The Maps

This is a  throwback map of Western Europe.

This is the New York City MTA Subway map.

Look at the throwback map of Western Europe and only pay attention to France and everything southwest of France. 

Can you see what I see?

BROOKLYN represents Spain. There is something disturbingly special (and spunky) about Brooklyn that makes me feel more than spirited. I have never been to Spain, I've never even been abroad, but I feel as though I would get the "Brooklyn" sensation in Espana, especially in Barcelona.


"That's in Harlem, right? I traveled to Espana via the A-Train express."

THE BRONX and QUEENS represent West and East France, respectively. I heard somewhere that these two have more issues than PLAYGIRL.


"I don't recommend you swimmin' 'tween them two. Legend says any man that dares swim 'tween them two will come out wearin' red and white loafers, denim dazydukes, and his hair will have turned blue on 'em. ( Leaning forward, in an effort to keep it on the low-low, Old E. whispers...) Did I mention he would become a f*g?"

MANHATTAN represents Portugal. Like Portugal, you're only liked by those that dwell within your boundaries. 


"Manhattan is shhhit. I tell you somethun' bout them Hattanites, they don't give a good god-damn about nouthin but them damn check books and them crebit cards. (CREDIT + DEBIT =CREBIT) And that's just a bunch-a-junk..."

STATEN ISLAND would have to be an African nation. The only option (by comparison) is Morocco. 


"Staten Island? Some strange folk 'round Staten Island. Best not to even mess wit it...."

"Ignacio"

The apartment that was, or could "still be" has been claimed. The man who hath claimed said domicile goes by the moniker, Ignacio.

Ignacio looks to be in his late 30's, very intelligent, and most observantly, part Asian. He was rather flustered when he came to see the apartment, and I knew, from that observation, that this was going to be the guy. He was by himself, hurried, anxious, and ready to put pen to paper. He barely even looked at the place.

He had me at "hello". He really did. Ignacio, like me, is a man who isn't really interested in shopping around. Standards are foreign to Ignacio and he knows all too well how to pull a trigger. He is me.

After Ignacio saw the apartment for the first time, he informed me that he would be leaving the city around the time of his move-in date. Long story short, he was asking permission to move not some, but all of his things in before I even move out. This did not make me happy and would be the only time I ever felt as though I didn't like Ignacio.

Dave, you remember Dave, right? Hank's Hasidic realtor friend? Well Dave is the man who brought Ig into my life. Still very intimidated by Hank ("Is the cat away?"), Dave crept slowly into my apartment, avoided the back of the apartment (where Hank was, mind you), blitzkrieged the showing ("There is bathroom there, bedroom is here, and another bedroom back there. Are you okay with cat? There's a cat back there. Don't let him out!") and scurried out, unknowingly setting up two potential roommates.

About 15 minutes after they left I received a text message from Ig, inquiring about gas/heat usage during the explicitly cold winter months. Another 15 minutes went by and the door bell rang. It was he who is me. I wanted to get irritated by this unannounced visit, but something about the innocent character of this man made it impossible for me to do so.

We sat and talked about the hood, the amenities, life, and literature, until we were interrupted by the villainous Diego. Diego is one of the many brokers vying for the much sought after "fee". He is the only one who just shows up. The rest of the brokers at least have the courtesy of giving me very little notice.

A very uncool and slightly uncouth Johnny Depp, but of latin decent, is Diego. He walks...excuse me...he slugs around arrogantly, rhythmically shifting his hips from side to side. He respects only himself and comes off as being quite lazy. One of his appointments showed up once, sans Diego, and vented his frustrations to me on the absence of Diego. He had been stood up once before by this latin loser and was being stood up as we spoke.

"I just want to schedule an appointment with him and when he shows up, just punch him in his [explicit material] face," uttered the appointment.

I opened the door and as soon as I saw Diego's stupid, smug (and silly) face, I let it be known that Ignacio, who was standing right behind me---fists possibly clinched---had just claimed the apartment that Diego was about to show. I told him that he could still look at the apartment, but it would be all for naught. Visibly angered by the news of the apartment's overtaking, he chose to enter anyway. 

Diego:"Who rented the apartment to you? The owner?'

Me and Ignacio (in unison): "Dave."

Diego: "I don't know Dave. I just know the owner, Abe."

Me: "Well, he (pointing to Ignacio) just signed and paid the fee. Don't you guys communicate with each other?"

Diego: "I only talk to the owner. What does this Dave look like? Is he a Hasid?"

Ignacio: "Yes."

Diego: "Grayer?" (meaning: older)

Ignacio: "No, he's young."

Me: "Why don't you just call Dave and figure out what's going on? Ignacio will give you his number."

Diego: "I only talk to the owner, I will call him."

After Diego and his appointment departed, I suggested to Ignacio that a phone call mos' definitely needed to be made, post haste. Ig informed Dave of his run-in with El Diablo and demanded a little clarification on the situation. Dave convinced Ig that there wasn't an issue and that the place was as good as claimed.

After Dave and Ignacio rang off, Ig and I exchanged numbers and vaguely discussed the possibility of living together. I told him that I was still waiting to receive word on my future residence and once that happened, if it is a "go", we can get him in here before the 1st of the month. To which he replied: "I will be looking for a roommate too."

I will keep that in mind, Ignacio.

The One With the Hasidic (Jew) Realtor and the Cat

I can't even ask the question, "what's the deal with Hasidic Jews and cats?" until it has been established that there is indeed a "deal"?

So, is there?

If so, what is it?...

What's the deal with Hasidic Jews and cats?

Many people of different sizes, colors, creeds, etc., have issues with the unappreciated feline, but this particular Hasid has a serious dilemma when it comes to precious lil' kitties.

This Hasid, Dave is his name, or that's his American name, is one of the way-too-many realtors showing my current apartment to potential inhabitants. HE DOES NOT LIKE HANK...or anything like Hank. He scurried like a little kitty evading a sniveling dog when he saw Hank for the first time. Don't let me neglect to mention the overdramatizations? This shell of a man was running around my apartment like his cute little braids were on fire.

Dave made a number of visits to my apartment and every time, after the first encounter, he wouldn't step inside unless it was certain that Hank was put away.

"Is the cat in there?" (Dave pointing to the door of the front room.)

"Yes."

"Good." (Dave then steps into the apartment)

I had Hank locked up (only temporarily, for Dave) in the bedroom (rear of the apartment) during one of his visits, and the woman seeing the apartment accidentally let Hank out. Hank ran towards the front of the apartment where I was standing with Scaredy Cat the Hasidic Jew Realtor, who was trying to stay as far away from the rear as possible. As soon as Hank made his way to where we were, Dave somersaulted his way up and out of harm's way with a "whoah" and a "AHH", while I heroically escorted Hank into the room. Assured that the coast was clear, Dave jumped down from the ceiling. Landing safely on his feet, he wiped his forehead, gave a sigh of relief, and said to me: 

"Thank you. Sorry."

The Train Trials: Heroes and Zeros

Wearily, I began the journey homeward after work on Sunday morning. As I positioned myself for a comfortable lean against a subway door that I am not supposed to lean on, I let the music play and began to drift.

I was on the L, at 8th Avenue, on my way to Lorimer. This was gonna be memorable...

Randomly, I will check the faces of my fellow late-night riders, just to form and then later on, pass, judgment(s). I noticed one guy, let's call him DeJean*, (African-American male, late 30's, potential pervert) gawking, with a repulsive gaze, at this haggard looking young couple that were passed the f*** out.

As they sat there, sound asleep, their mouths were gaped open, the side of her head rested on his shoulder and the back of her dome was pressed against the wall of the train. He was sitting straight up---his head supported by the train's interior wall. At this point, I just figured they'd been to hell and back, and when they wake up, things won't be any better for them, so just ignore 'em. I wanted to iterate this to DeJean as well.

It was later that I spotted (thanks to more impolite stares from my black friend) a laptop in the guy's lap. It was spitting out some very bad heavy metal grunge vomit, and made DeJean's stares more acceptable. I failed to notice the music earlier, due to the volume of my iPod.

I didn't mention one thing about this could-be homeless, but definitely helpless couple---they had a carriage with them. In this carriage was an infant, and this child looked to be somewhat fresh out of the hospital.

Shortly after I noticed DeJean noticing the distasteful music from the slumbering mucks, their baby began to weep.

To this I exclaimed, "Oh f**k."

DeJean had already let it be known how offended he was. DeJean disliked their appearance, their taste in music, and pretty soon, the bad parenting of these two possibly drugged-up subway-sleepers would send DeJean into orbit.

The baby was crying, a lot. Unfortunately, the parents of the child were so overworked and deep in sleep, (which is why I believe they were on something heavy because even with all of the noisy elements surrounding them, not to mention the uncomfortableness of the train seating and the fracas from the train itself, they were and remained, as I stated earlier, passed the f*** out.)  it was hard for them to hear the cries---didn't even stir them a little.

DeJean got up from his seat.

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" He'd walked at least eight feet to get to where they were sitting. "Excuse me, your baby is crying! Excuse me!" He started nudging the female after the second "excuse me". All for naught. They didn't move. DeJean sat back down.

At this point, the whole train (about 15 people) was aware of what was going on, and began to stare remorsefully at the baby while leering venomously at its horrible guardians/parents. I too was a bit overwhelmed.

After DeJean sat down, another late-night rider, an Afro-American female (we'll call her Harriet), decided it was her turn. Harriet pursed her lips, took off her earrings, removed her extensions, and basically prepared herself for war. She wasn't going to sit down until those two were awake. This, I knew.

"Excuse me, ma'am! Excuse me, ma'am! Your baby is crying. Ma'am?!" She started nudging from the beginning, and there was a bit more elbow grease put into her nudges. As a woman, it had to pain her to witness such negligence with this infant.

They awoke.

"Your baby is crying!" Harriet exclaimed. Then she sat back down, a hero.

The female whose slumber had just been disturbed looked at she who had aroused her not in thanks, but in absolute contempt. She was angry with the woman for waking her up. She began to see to the baby. I was watching her as she did this. Looked to me as if she had no parenting skills whatsoever. I suppose that was to be expected.








*DeJean was wearing denim jean shorts. Hence the name, DeJean.

Oh REALLY?

I thought this was "my kind" of funny... 

I was musing (once again) today and stumbled upon a very old query, that query being:
"do you, Marvis (that's me), really want to be able to know what others (people around you) are thinking?"

There are numerous ways to poke and theorize aboot this one.

One poke being: If you had no dam to control the flow of what's coming in, you wouldn't stay sane for too long. You'd be confined to solitude for the rest of your life. Being around more than a hand full of people (imagine going to the movies having to hear all of the analytical jargon coming from the minds of these idiots/tards) would be too raucous to bare. 

Being afforded an "on/off" switch and a "filter" would be much appreciated. Still poking here. I find myself glaring (discretely, mind you) at random who-dats and thinking to me-self, "I wonder what that idiot/tard is thinking about?" This happens often. The "switch" would allow us to read when we want, and a filter would give us the opportunity to select precisely who is going to be read. I like the sound of this.

For most of the citizens of New York, I must say, you will want to approach their minds with extreme caution. By the look on a face, one should be able to decipher whether or not it is advisable to "enter". There are many things, many people, that are just better left unread.

I do see a bit of humor in all of this. I would start reacting to their thoughts. For example, if someone made a libelous gesture, not necessarily directed at me, he/she just thought something to themselves that mos' definitely lacked taste, I would approach them, stopping them dead in their tracks, and say, (like a young Afro-American female who just found out that her man has been knockin' tha boots with some ol' triphlin' hepher): OH REALLY!?

Eventually, I would get tired of doing this, but it would provide for quite a bit of entertainment while it lasted.